Chapter Text
"Here." A bottle came into Javert's vision just as the words found their way to his ears. "You look like you might need a drink."
It was one of the stupid school boys. Of course it was. Because Javert's mortification wasn't great enough already. They had to tease him too. The young man in question had been amongst those who had restrained him, Javert was sure of it. He remembered his dark hair and the huge blue eyes that made him appear more like a kitten from the streets than an aspiring revolutionist. Not that he went around comparing people to kittens or anything, mind you.
He ignored the urge to tell him what he thought of that insightful offer and pretended to be deaf instead. It didn't quite work out.
The young man squatted down in front of him, eyeing him curiously: "Has anyone ever told you that you are pretty rude?"
Javert considered this for a second: "No."
His opponent shrugged: "Oh well, people are sort of daft these days."
This wasn't something Javert could argue with, so he kept quiet. Not that his obvious unwillingness to engage in conversation with those who had captured him put a damper on the student's eagerness to talk.
"Let's play a game, shall we?" He raised the half-empty bottle in his hand and shook it in front of Javert's eyes so that the content gurgled promisingly. "For every time we tell the truth we get a sip. I start." He nodded in the direction of the barricade, visible through the tavern's opened door, where most of the others had gathered, their heads bent, and talking in low voices. They were not paying attention to their prisoner and his self-appointed guard. "Do you see him over there? Blond? Beautiful? The one who looks like he's hiding a pair of wings under that red jacket?"
Javert saw him. He had punched him in the face earlier that night. He didn't regret it.
The young man before him uttered a sigh: "There is nothing on this earth that I love more than him."
How had he thought this night couldn't get any worse?
"I've got an even better game." Javert said slowly. "You get the whole bottle to yourself if you go over there and tell him. Right now. How about that?"
A smile spread on the face in the shadows before him. It made him look a lot prettier and Javert looked away.
"I'm glad to see you can talk, but that is not how the game works." He took a long pull before he pointed the bottle at Javert. "So what's your deal? Anybody who's going to miss you this time tomorrow?"
He seemed to realise quickly that he had hit a sore spot when Javert glared at him mutely.
"Oh come on! It doesn't work that way, when you're all gloomy and mysterious!" He nudged him in the ribs and ignored the next glare that course of action got him. "It's your turn."
"I didn't know there was more than one rule to this." Javert replied flatly. "You ought to tell people that beforehand."
"You're quite right."
"Had I known there were more rules I could have reacted accordingly."
"I'm ever so sorry."
"No harm done. And now get lost."
It elicited a laugh which didn't help to brighten Javert's mood a whole lot.
"You don't have to be that unpleasant all the time, you know? Maybe if you weren't you'd have better stories to share."
Javert took a deep breath: "Neither do I intend to share anything with you nor is this the truth." He paused for a moment, staring ahead sourly. "And I never denied the existence of a story as you call it."
"Aha!" The look of victory on the young man's face was entirely uncalled for. "Well? Don't make me beg for it. Spit it out!"
"No." Javert wrinkled his brow. "Besides, it is really rather ––"
The man groaned: "Dear lord, don't tell me it's 'complicated' or 'impossible'. That is just how love's supposed to be. We are all fools in the face of love."
Javert flinched like his guard had pulled out a knife instead of uttering a sentence: "I've never said a word about love." It sounded as if it tasted rotten in his mouth.
The smile grew sadder as he responded: "You don't have to. It's all in the eyes, in every gaze. You're loving alright, Monsieur."
"If you know so much about love, you should go and tell him." Javert came back to his initial proposal.
"But I do." The young man inched closer, leaning in like he was sharing a secret. "I tell him every day. I wake up and he is the song of the birds, I go to bed and he's the light of the stars. All I do in between is for him, yet he doesn't feel the same. But I am happy I get to be this way." His eyes pierced into Javert's as he looked at him hard. "Can you say the same for yourself?"
"I won't be happy until I know he is put behind iron bars." Javert growled and realised his mistake when a gleam appeared in those blue eyes.
"For that confession you earned your drink." The bottle was lifted to his lips and before Javert could utter a protest he felt surprisingly sweet wine on his dry tongue. He swallowed down more than he intended to and the man laughed when he pulled back. "I also think we were never properly introduced, Inspector. The name is Grantaire."
Javert licked the last drops from the corner of his lips and contemplated the face before him: "Shouldn't you be more secretive about your identity?"
There was the sad smile again and his words were like a punch to the stomach: "Do you really think any of this will matter in a few hours' time?"
While Javert was still struggling to find a response, Grantaire got more comfortable on the ground next to him, stretching out on his side and twisting the bottle between his hands: "So... a criminal, huh? How fancy. Have you ever thought about writing a book?"
Javert shot him a glance: "Hate them. Also, I believe it's your turn."
The sadness vanished from Grantaire's eyes and he grinned at him: "All of a sudden so eager to play?"
"I'm merely accepting my fate to be chattered to death by you lot."
"Ouch," Grantaire screwed up his face dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "You're kicking a wounded man, Monsieur."
Javert felt the rope rough against his skin and uttered a sigh: "Let's get this over with."
"I offered to blacken his boots and he refused."
"What kind of truth is that? It just adds to your former confession."
"It is the truth nevertheless." And Grantaire drank, his throat moving with every gulp of wine, the skin white and seemingly soft, drawing Javert's eyes there without him being conscious of it.
He searched his mind for something to say.
"He asked me for three days time to save some brat and I laughed."
Grantaire grimaced: "You can't be serious. That is terrible."
"I thought he was joking."
"You, Monsieur," Grantaire set the bottle to Javert's lips and helped him drink. "You know nothing about jokes, do you?" He took advantage of the fact that the inspector was temporarily unable to answer and continued. "Or about love, but both defects could be cured in little time." There was a small, wet noise when he wrung the bottle from Javert's mouth and their eyes met. "If only we weren't to die tonight." Grantaire added quietly.
They stared at each other, not moving, the wine hot in their throats and warm in their bellies. The night air was filled with whispers and cool on their flushed skin.
Grantaire was the first to avert his eyes, sinking back to the ground and tapping his fingers against the bottle's glass: "The only thing he feels for me is disappointment."
Javert, not used to drinking as much wine in a considerably short amount of time, found his head spinning ever so slightly: "I am certain that is not true."
"It is and that is why I get the next sip."
He drank and they were silent for a while.
Then Javert felt words dripping from his mouth and he didn't seem to be able to stop them: "He could have killed me but he didn't."
"That doesn't sound like a bad thing. Maybe there is hope after all?"
"Maybe it just means he cares so little that it doesn't matter whether I'm dead or alive."
"Aren't you simply delightful company?"
"I told the truth, though."
Grantaire sighed, moving on his knees to press the bottle to Javert's lips once again.
"This would be so much easier if my hands were free."
"Nice try. I have to say, the wine takes away some of your wit."
Javert rolled his eyes, lips closing around the bottleneck, feeling the warmth against his tongue already. And then he looked up at Grantaire again, noticing the soft blush on his cheeks as he stared at Javert's lips around the glass, the drop that spilled from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw. The young man was so absorbed that he almost forgot to pull back the bottle in time, and when he did Javert coughed and gasped for air.
They were quiet for a second, embarrassed and confused, and then Grantaire cleared his throat: "I apologise for that."
"I'm still alive, am I not? Apparently you're horrible at this job."
"There we are with the insults again. I must say I've missed them."
"Aren't you supposed to tell the truth?"
"What if that is the truth? I kind of like this."
Javert squinted at him: "This? You'll have to be more precise. The dirt? The revolution? Waiting for death?"
"No, this." He made a vague gesture that enclosed himself and Javert. "This is nice."
"You," Javert said, not entirely unfriendly. "Are out of your mind."
"Maybe you're right." Grantaire shrugged, biting down on his lip and thinking for a second before he spoke up again. "I may have exaggerated when I said I've told him how I feel." He took a small sip only to interrupt it in favour of adding: "I try to show him, though. It's not my fault he doesn't notice."
Javert shifted on the ground: "And I may have lied about only being happy once he's back in prison and no longer on the run. In fact, I believe that would make me considerably unhappy. I like the way things are."
He had a faint feeling that the words wouldn't find their way on his lips if it weren't for the wine. But he actually started to be at ease for the first time today (or quite possibly in his entire life) and how could he not enjoy it?
"If you lied... if you lied it is only fair you give back the wine." Grantaire muttered.
The wrinkle on Javert's forehead reappeared: "Pardon me?"
Cool fingertips pressed to the side of his neck and his eyes opened wide as Grantaire leaned in, his breath sweet with wine and his voice merely a bit shaky: "So little you know, Monsieur."
And then his lips brushed against Javert's, warm and wetted by his tongue and red wine, tasting like grapes and salt, first so soft and then the hint of hardness when his teeth grazed Javert's bottom lip. His other hand came up against Javert's side, pulling him towards his body and their mouths closer together. It was ridiculous and it was madness, and yet Javert found himself responding, kissing back with closed eyes and parted lips, letting himself be guided until their bodies were lined up and Grantaire moaned softly into his mouth, his fingers digging into Javert's ribs.
It was then that the silence around them became too distracting to be ignored any longer and they broke apart gasping, wide-eyed and faces flushed.
Even a pin that dropped would have been as loud as cannon fire in the quietness surrounding them while every single pair of eyes rested on their figures. Everyone seemed to be outside the tavern, gaping at them like they had burst from the ground riding the fires of hell.
The student's leader had a thunderstruck expression on his face and he came only back to life when the elderly man beside him leaned closer with a frown, his voice causing a familiar tingle down Javert's spine: "I don't mean to tell you how to run your revolution, but if that is how you're treating a prisoner you're doing it wrong."