It was a moment of clarity and respite against the sea of agony and despair.
The migraines would do that. Half the time, Enjolras could shake off the thought that they were murdering him by degrees, bury himself in his work, and release his frustrations onto fierce writings and passionate speech-writing.
But then migraines like this would happen, and there was no way of shifting that pain towards anything productive.
Laudanum wasn’t the answer, even though a small voice within Enjolras pleaded with him to just take it. To release that pain and agony and just sleep.
No. No, I can’t. I mustn’t, he had thought, …Grantaire is here somewhere. If he found out that I took this…saw me this weak, of no more help than him…
But then the drunkard did appear. Popped his head up. Offered some sort of help.
It’s not as though Enjolras was angry at Grantaire as much as he was utterly humiliated to be seen by Grantaire in such a state.
But two episodes of illness later and Enjolras can find it in him to remain angry at Grantaire’s presence. He just wants to be unconscious. He’s almost about to go back on his word about the laudanum…when he suddenly feels Grantaire sliding up behind him.
And suddenly those hands are on his head.
The first thing Enjolras notices…or thinks to notice…is that those hands are incredibly steady. Even though Enjolras can smell the scent of wine on that male, he’s aware of the fact that Grantaire is moving at a much more deliberate and careful pace than probably Enjolras could manage.
Oh gods, does that feel amazing…
Those fingers push at his left temple, and he can’t help but moan a little.
It’s gone—or at least, half of it is. A sudden drop in that horrible, nauseating pain.
I could kiss you. If I could move, I’d kiss you.
He can’t help but think those thoughts. He can’t help but let the gratitude at the sudden lift of pain utterly overwhelm his boundaries and his senses.
Then…he feels a hand sliding up the back of his neck…he feels Grantaire pinching…pushing, caressing..
And suddenly Enjolras is completely and utterly vulnerable and loose. The pain melts into a tolerable throbbing, and the revolutionary leader melts into the couch.
How can you be so incredible with your hands? Why is this the first time I’ve ever known about this? Have you always been this good? I wish I could thank you…I wish I could do anything for you…
His mind runs away with him, runs away with thoughts of gratitude and utter relief.
He feels Grantaire’s left hand lift a little, and the pain strikes him again—enough for a bit of nausea to seep in. Enjolras instinctively—and instantly—tenses, a low whine echoing in the back of his throat.
But Grantaire reads him well and applies the pressure right away.
"Is it helping, Enjolras?"
Enjolras wants to answer. He feels the answer burning in his chest. He tries to nod—no luck there. He wants to speak, but all he can manage is a small whimper.
I want to tell you how much this means to me…he thinks, …Grantaire, I’m so harsh with you. Yet even in a drunken stupor, you’re helping me…
He lifts a hand, carefully, to rest on Grantaire’s thigh, letting his fingers lightly stroke the fabric in gratitude.
What do you think of, when you think of me?
He moans into the smooth rub as Grantaire deepens the already deep massage. He finds he has the freedom to arch his back a little, and he takes advantage of that.
Grantaire has quickly turned into an anchor of sorts, and Enjolras clings to him as if there were no one else in the world.
Part 4 maybe in a bit? Grantaire’s or Enjolras pov?