granxaire:

        Oh and punching him has always been so tempting. But no,
Grantaire didn’t raise a hand or a knife to him, just grinned and took
it like he always did.

        “My aim is fine.” They’d taught him to use a gun, to use a rifle,
once he’d earned their trust. The pistol he carried was the only gun
he felt truly comfortable with, but the cold metal was familiar enough
in his hands these days. But still, he wasn’t a sniper and they both
knew it. Enjolras would take this one. They shared a look ( if Jehan
were here he’d laugh about psychic communication or something, but
that was close enough to the truth by now ) and that was that.

        Grantaire waved him off towards the shower and tugged the laptop
towards him as Enjolras left and the water started running. He had his
own sure, a shitty little thing left up in the room that was his so long as
he was in Paris ( he had his own place still, but he hadn’t been there in
months ), but Enjolras’s was right here. He keyed in Apollo’s password
( he was so fucking predictable sometimes it was a wonder they weren’t 
all caught ), and flicked through the usual sites: email, blogs, news.

         He stopped on one particular site with a snort when the front page
image was the mural, the leader in red. It’d been over a week since their
last kill and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why it was big news
today so he scrolled down a bit further and froze.

                  Shit. He ran a hand through his hair. Had it really be a year
since Grantaire had put up his first mural beyond the city limits of Paris?
A year since Grantaire’s game of cat and tiger had come to a head? A year
since Grantaire had given utterly in to his worst addiction yet?

                                                        ”Do you have a death wish?”

                  Grantaire was hardly aware of the way his hand was clutching at 
his shoulder, the way his fingers dug into the skin of his back hidden beneath
a thin layer of cotton, the way his breath caught at just the memory.

                  One year. Jesus.

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

           ”Mine is better.“ It should be so infuriating,
         knowing that Enjolras had planned everything
         from start to finish– that he’s micromanaged
         the entire operation in the wee hours of the
         morning only to hand it over with expectations
         of perfection and by God, if he met someone
         like himself– well. That would require him to
         be someone else because Enjolras thinks he
         would rather LIKE another him running around–

           But Grantaire is Grantaire and he is himself
         which means their modus operandi doesn’t
         change, not even a little bit. The water’s cold,
         sharp icicles that pierce his skin but he endures
         under the spray and uses it to wash the grime
         of inactivity, the need for sleep that clings with
         desperate hooks on his shoulders. It’s not an
         indulgence if he tells himself it’s necessary 
         but the guilt festers anyway. Not to mention 
         his excitement, the familiar thrum of energy in
         the face of accomplishment. He believes, he
         believes so strongly and it’s almost as though
         time cannot move forward fast enough.

            He’s out in a little less than twenty minutes,
         clothes a muted color but well tailored, aimed
         at getting attention but not holding onto it. He
         has the familiar pair of red nikes on, his satchel
         of equipment on one shoulder and he sees–

           ”Reading about yourself again? Narcissist.“
         Blue eyes flicker from Grantaire’s hand to his
         eyes, a little too calculating but not suspicious,
         evident in the curl of his smile as he heads to
         the coffee pot again ( fairtrade or bust ).

            ”We’re going!“ He calls out and it’s entirely
         Grantaire’s fault for dallying on the laptop
         whilst Enjolras was in the shower because he is
         definitely not waiting on him– they’re on the clock.