The Golden Locks of Revolution
downtheroadandupthehill
Summary:
Enjolras was a prince and a leader and a symbol of better days to come, but he was a man, too—(even as Grantaire whispered my beautiful boy to him in his ear.)When they awoke in the morning, Enjolras laughed for the first time in days and days when Grantaire ended up tangled wild in his curls, and it took an hour to get him loose.
Work Text:
There was a tower, and imprisoned in the tower was a beautiful boy with hair as fine as spun gold, if he’d let you call it that—which he wouldn’t.
Gold is the instrument of the rich used to oppress the poor, he would say in disdain.
The beautiful boy read far too many books, it was the opinion of the king and queen, and likely why they had locked their only son in a tower to begin with. But the boy was resourceful, and he let his hair grow long long long, until he could lean out of the tower’s only window and the very tips of his golden locks would touch the grass.
(And oh how he missed the grass.)
But escaping takes time—saving bits and pieces of food that servants brought him, until he could be sure he would not starve in the vastness of the forest, and someone else found him first.
He heard the young man struggling at the base of the tower, fingers clutching and slipping and bleeding against rough stone. But Enjolras was fearless, and unafraid of strangers. Even strangers with swords at their belts, and Enjolras was certain he spotted the glint of a hilt in the sunlight, as he peered down out of his window.
The man seemed hopeless, and Enjolras believed in helping the downtrodden, but he couldn’t help but scoff as he lowered his hair down to the young man.
…..
The man’s name was Combeferre, and he was not deserving of scoff and scorn, Enjolras soon learned. He was intelligent, and had read far more books than the ones on Enjolras’s neat shelf. He promised to bring Enjolras some of them, in due time, and at that Enjolras found himself faltering. Enjolras did not weep, but at that he nearly did.
Combeferre had smiled kindly at him, then, and placed a hand over Enjolras’s own.
“I came to steal away a few crown jewels, but perhaps kidnapping the king’s heir would make an even better prize?”
Enjolras smiled back at him.
…..
A fortnight later, Enjolras met the rest of Combeferre’s group of insurrectionists—after a long trek across the countryside, enjoying dewy grass between his toes, until Combeferre insisted that they purchase him some proper shoes.
They were friendly and eager to make his acquaintance, the rebel prince. The one named Courfeyrac joked about ravishing him like any fair maiden until Enjolras flushed red, and the one named Joly pressed a hand against his forehead, to ensure he hadn’t picked up any illness on the road. Jehan set about braiding his hair into a more manageable load.
“Bossuet will trip over it, otherwise,” he said knowingly, and Enjolras did not protest.
A dark-haired man sat in the corner, mouth reddened by wine that he raised now again to his lips. Enjolras heard him mumble something about impracticality of hair like that, how it would get them all into trouble.
“But that’s just Grantaire’s way,” Combeferre said, to soften the scowl that formed on Enjolras’s face.
…..
A rebellion was hatched, a proper one, with Enjolras at its helm. He provided the leadership that Courfeyrac could not and the charisma that Combeferre lacked.
To be recognizable was dangerous—and who could not recognize him, with that head of hair? But it was also powerful, a rallying point for the people who could learn to love their mysterious prince.
“We want to build a republic,” he hissed, whenever anyone suggested that he might take the throne from his father himself.
Enjolras led and the rest followed, Combeferre and Courfeyrac at his elbows, and Grantaire trailing far behind.
When Grantaire gazed at him with something like rapture, Enjolras stopped pretending not to notice.
…..
Grantaire was not beautiful, and his muttered words and curses were downright ugly, but those things belied the gentleness of his fingers through Enjolras’s hair, and the sweet warmth of his breath against his neck.
Enjolras was a prince and a leader and a symbol of better days to come, but he was a man, too—(even as Grantaire whispered my beautiful boy to him in his ear.)
When they awoke in the morning, Enjolras laughed for the first time in days and days when Grantaire ended up tangled wild in his curls, and it took an hour to get him loose.
(The second time it happened, they even had to ask Jehan for help.)
…..
But sometimes wickedness wins out.
The revolution failed before it began, in a bloodless plot of the king and queen’s design that restored their son to his skyward prison. His hair was shorn at the scalp, and still he did not speak to them, make any amends. Magic was employed, to further hinder any chance at escape. At the base of the tower grew beds of thorns and unblooming roses, vicious and lush and dark.
And Enjolras learned again how to wait.
…..
Grantaire was a drunk, and a foolish one at that. Foolish and drunk and in love—intoxicated on wine and despair. He ignored Combeferre’s emerging plans for rescue, stumbled away on his own. There was a tugging in his veins that he swore was real, and that would lead him there
(And what’s a story without a touch of magic, too?)
He could not keep track of days without the sun to aid him, but he came across the tower in the dead of night. Extensive travel had sobered him, and among the thorns he was dexterous. His sleeves were torn but little else.
The tower was high and nearly unclimbable. Nearly, Grantaire insisted to himself, because although Combeferre had not managed it once upon a time, he was certain that his love would bear him through the ordeal unscathed.
He believed in little, but he believed in that, what Enjolras had given him and he clutched reverently to his chest.
But there is some safety in cynicism, too, and Grantaire ought to have perhaps considered that. Because fingers slip and people fall, with only thorns to catch them.
…..
With the eventual aid of his lieutenants, Enjolras escaped. They gasped at the cut of his hair and Jehan even wept for him, though Enjolras shrugged and declared it no matter.
“And where is Grantaire?”
He missed the familiar searching of his eyes and hands.
…..
Grantaire could not see. He did not know he could not see—he thought he might be dead and the light must have merely flickered out. His hands had grasped at thorns and he could imagine the crimson bleeding into his waistcoat and he cried out his lover’s name. Upon the weaving of thorns and unfolded petals, he could swear that he also clung to tendrils of Enjolras’s hair, long and smooth and very unattached to Enjolras. Grantaire circled these around his wrists and kept them for safekeeping, and when he emerged from the thorns and continued wandering, he touched them every now and then, to ascertain that what he was searching for was real.
…..
They found Grantaire in the forest, broken and insensate. Enjolras clung to his hands while Grantaire cried—dry, wracking sobs that left trails of blood down his cheeks—he did not know it was Enjolras who held him, did not believe him as he insisted otherwise. He plucked at the strands of hair wrapped over and over again around his wrists and ran his fingers through the shortness of Enjolras’s hair and shook and shook.
Only Combeferre soothed him with soft words and gently moved Enjolras back, so that he and Joly might tend to Grantaire’s wounds without disruption.
…..
Days later, Combeferre led a nervous Enjolras to Grantaire’s bedside. Grantaire had been bandaged and calmed—though he woke from nightmares every time he tried to sleep.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras breathed, because even though he had a revolution to plan and to lead, he knew that this was vital too.
Grantaire’s lips parted in recognition, but he did not reach for Enjolras’s hair again. They were content to twine their hand together for now, and to wait.
