It’s time to fight the boss and if I don’t tell you now, I might not live to tell you
It’s not all that hard for Enjolras to find him. Grantaire may be the world’s most powerful bender, and he may have managed to fool the world into thinking that the Avatar abandoned them, but after spending more than a year by his side, eating and fighting and living, Enjolras knows him well.
Enough to know that when Grantaire disappears, he’ll eventually resurface in an area where there’s an abundance of alcohol.
Sure enough, when Enjolras walks in the nearest tavern, he finds Grantaire sitting at the bar. He’s not drunk yet–months of living with him has taught Enjolras that you can discern an incredibly drunk Grantaire by the looseness of his shoulders, the cocky expression on his face, and the stillness of his hands.
Grantaire’s hands are shaking as he lifts up the cup. Enjolras can see it from where he’s standing next to the door.
He slides into the empty seat next to Grantaire, taps his fingers against the wooden bar top. Grantaire turns to him, an eyebrow raised.
“Come to scold me, your highness?”
It’s not the first time Grantaire has called him that, but Enjolras still bristles at the nickname. It’s a reminder of what he was, of who he was–a fire nation prince who could be considered complicit in the war destroying their world today.
He isn’t, anymore. The burn mark on his arm is testament to that.
“You’re not supposed to be drinking,” is what he says instead.
Grantaire, because he always lives to be contrary, smirks at him and downs the entire glass in front of him. “I can do whatever it is I damn well please.”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “We need you at your best tomorrow.”
“You mean you need me to be your weapon,” Grantaire answers cheerfully. “What was it? Kill the Fire Lord, and bring peace to all four nations?”
He slams his glass down on the bar in front of him, so hard that it startles Enjolras. “Well, tough shit,” he snaps, his green eyes blazing in a way Enjolras has very rarely seen. “The four nations will never be at peace. There will always be something, no, someone to fuck it all up, to lust for power and kill people. Defeat the Fire Lord and four more will take his place.”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says evenly. He can feel his temper rising; he takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down.
But for as long as Enjolras has known him, Grantaire has always had a death wish. “People,” he says deliberately, “are terrible. You believe in their capability for good, but everyday we wake up and someone always attacks someone, someone always tries to kill us. They’re greedy for power, for money, for all these fucking superficial things. They’re not worth being saved.”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says again, sharper.
“You must’ve realized it too,” Grantaire continues, “I mean, in our years of travel, you must’ve seen it too. People fighting, stealing, killing–they’re no different than the Fire Lord.”
“Grantaire.”
“So why don’t you just come clean and admit what this really is,” Grantaire taunts, his voice vicious. “Just a way to get back at your father for banishing you into the streets.” His lip curls up sardonically. “Because if you ask me, every single one of them should just be burned to the ground–”
“That’s enough!”
There’s a sudden influx of heat and light, and it takes Enjolras a minute to realize what he’s done. It’s been a while since he’s lost control of his bending like that, and his skin prickles with a little embarrassment, a little shame. He doesn’t let it get to him though, just holds his head high and addresses the people in the tavern.
“I apologize,” he says as sincerely as he can. He bows his head. “I’ll be leaving.”
And with that, he hops off the stool and makes his way to the door, ignoring the glares and mutters directed at him. He’s a firebender, after all, and because of the war, many people would rather die than trust a firebender.
Many would rather kill them, too.
It’s actually miraculous that he makes it out of the tavern unscathed, and Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, shakes his head. Makes his way back to where they set up camp, somewhere deep in the forest so that the smoke from their campfire is shielded by the foliage of the trees.
***
It’s about an hour later when Grantaire finds him, plops himself down beside Enjolras. Enjolras doesn’t look at him, focuses on his meditation.
“I’m not drunk,” Grantaire says, and he makes his declaration sound wry.
Enjolras ignores him.
“I’m in optimal shape for some Fire Lord killing,” Grantaire says, completely ignoring Enjolras ignoring him. He puts his hand to the ground and Enjolras feels it shake slightly, pebbles hovering in mid-air. “Aren’t you going to give me some Fire Lord tips? Like what his weaknesses are and where I should hit him so it hurts?
Enjolras means to ignore him. He really does. Instead, what comes out is, “Combeferre and Courfeyrac are back at the campsite if you want some tips.”
“Goddammit, Enjolras,” Grantaire mutters. “Please. I’m an idiot, you know that.”
Enjolras lets that declaration hang in the air for a few moments. “You can’t possibly believe everything you said in the tavern.”
“I know, I–”
“People are inherently good, Grantaire,” he says, and it’s an argument they’ve had countless times, but somehow, this one feels a little more charged, a little more intense. “We’ve seen a lot of shit travelling around the world, and yeah, it sucks, but we’ve also seen some really good things. Or did you forget Eponine?”
Eponine had sacrificed herself to become the moon spirit. Enjolras could never forget the look on her face–the horrified shock, the choking terror, then finally, acceptance. Resolve.
“No, I–”
“Or Lamarque? Or Gavroche?”
Grantaire looks like he’s been punched in the stomach at the mention of his name. Poor Gavroche was twelve years old when Enjolras met him, but Grantaire had practically raised the street urchin, feeding him and clothing him. He’d died a child, jumping in front of a lightning bolt headed straight for Grantaire’s heart. Grantaire was drunk for weeks after that.
“People have died in this war,” Enjolras says evenly. “Have died for you, in the hopes that you’ll bring peace to this world, and you have the audacity to say that they should all just be burned to the ground?”
“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, and his voice breaks as he says it. “I’m so–I didn’t. I didn’t mean it.”
“Please,” Enjolras scoffs. “Of course you meant it. You don’t believe in anything.”
“I believe in you,” Grantaire answers almost immediately. “I do, Enjolras, I really do but it’s just–”
He takes a deep breath, his hands shaking. “I can’t be the hero this world needs,” he says, his shoulders slumping. “I’m–I’m just an Earth Kingdom drunkard, I can’t be the Avatar.”
“And yet,” Enjolras points out, “you are.”
“But I can’t be, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. “The world needs someone who can inspire, someone who shines. Someone who–” he breaks off, looks away. “Someone like you.”
“And yet,” Enjolras points out again, “I’m not the Avatar.” He shakes his head. “Look, Grantaire, you are a hundred percent not the Avatar I imagined when I set out looking for you,” he says. “You’re a coward and a drunkard, but right now, I don’t think we have a choice. I don’t think you have a choice.”
Grantaire sighs, curling into himself. “I could die tomorrow,” he says, mostly to himself.
“So could I,” Enjolras says. “So could Courfeyrac and Combeferre. That doesn’t mean we won’t march into battle. We’ll give up our lives for the people, if we have to.”
There’s a pause where Grantaire looks at him, his blue eyes disconcerting. His expression is open, more vulnerable than Enjolras has ever seen it, and he can’t help but feel that the air around them has changed, somehow.
And then all of a sudden, Grantaire kisses him.
It’s quick–it doesn’t last more than a few seconds, but it sends lightning travelling down Enjolras’ chest, all the way down to his toes. His lips tingle with the sensation long after Grantaire has pulled away, and his heart seems to have sped up, running a mile a minute.
“I could die tomorrow,” is all the explanation Grantaire gives him, before pushing himself into a standing position and leaving.
***
(The next day is chaos. Everything’s on fire–houses, trees, buildings, people. Everyone is screaming, elements clashing in every single direction.
Enjolras is injured–one of the fire nation soldiers got his leg, and now he’s got a brand new burn mark to match the one on his arm–but he holds his head high, stands tall. Beside him, Grantaire is a force to be reckoned with, bending all the elements left and right.
In the distance, Enjolras can see the Fire Lord accelerating towards them. He takes a deep breath.
Grantaire turns to him. “Do you permit it?” He asks, and his words contain multitudes.
Enjolras presses their palms together and smiles.
They wait.)