Chapter Text
Grantaire didn’t like him from the moment he first saw him.
His name was de Malain, but like Courfeyrac, he had dropped the participle in defiance of his bourgeoisie upbringing. Courfeyrac had practically dragged him into the Musain one Wednesday evening, just before the meeting was to begin, blathering on and on to Enjolras.
“Oh, he’s absolutely charming, Enjolras, you’ll adore him!”
Enjolras had glanced at Courfeyrac skeptically, but none-the-less, reached a hand out to the newcomer. “Welcome, Malain.”
Grantaire had watched the exchange from his usual seat, instinct telling him to be wary. Malain was young, no older than Jehan, attractive, with wavy black hair stopping at his shoulders and vibrant green eyes, full lips and cheekbones rivaling Enjolras’; and very well dressed, obviously a man from wealth. Just by looking at him, though, Grantaire knew he was not a man to be trusted; there was something evil in his eyes.
Grantaire gripped the bottle in front of him when Malain took a seat and the meeting began. He stared at the young man, and when Malain looked back at him, Grantaire tried his hardest to suppress the chill that wriggled down his spine.
The devil had joined them.
---
The first time happened a week after Malain’s arrival.
He had come to every meeting, the one on Friday, and on Monday, and on Wednesday, and always punctual. He had a wide array of interests, something in common with each member of their group. He enjoyed poetry, leading to many eloquent conversations with Jehan; he understood science and medicine, providing for endless discussions with Joly and Combeferre; he was good with his hands, so he and Feuilly created small masterpieces together; he was an experienced lover, so Courfeyrac and Bahorel had a new friend with which to trade stories of debauchery. He read Rousseau and Voltaire, studied Saint-Just and Robespierre almost religiously, so naturally, Enjolras was –as much as marble could be- impressed. Malain even offered his apartment to Bossuet as lodgings, should the unlucky man ever need it.
Grantaire, however, was still cautious. Malain had a disturbing habit of staring at the cynic during the meetings, though they never spoke, Grantaire had no interest in conversing with him and if it weren’t for the uncomfortable glares, it would seem Malain also had no interest.
However, on this evening, Malain had not once looked in Grantaire’s direction.
‘Quite the enigma,’ Grantaire thought as the meeting drew to a close. It was midweek, so Courfeyrac and Bahorel would be going to the Corinth for drinks.
“Well, Malain,” Bahorel said as he pulled his coat over his shoulders. “Will you be joining us this evening?”
Malain smiled and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, friends. I’ve already made plans.”
“Oh, shame,” Courfeyrac called from where he was standing near the exit. “Can’t you bless us with your company just for one drink?”
Malain laughed and stood, walking towards the door, Bahorel following him. “Sadly no, I believe I’m running late as it is.”
The three men took their leave, their laughs and yells becoming dimmer and dimmer. Grantaire stood, draining the last sips of wine from the bottle in his hands. Enjolras and Combeferre stood hunched over a collection of papers and maps. Jehan sat with Joly and Bossuet, the three chattering excitedly. Grantaire turned and began walking to the door, sensing it was his time to leave.
“Good night, R!”
Grantaire stopped in his tracks and turned to face the voice. Jehan smiled widely at him, and Grantaire found himself returning the smile.
“Good night, little poet.”
He exited and the night air hit him like cold water. He inhaled deeply, his lungs enjoying the smell of the evening. He started walking in the direction of his apartment, not noticing the shadow following him.
It wasn’t until he was climbing up the stairs to his room that he realized he wasn’t alone. By then, it was too late.
His hand had only just started to open the door when Malain’s arm wrapped around his throat, effectively closing his airway and stopping him from crying out. Malain forcefully pushed them into Grantaire’s apartment, knocking over easels and books. Within moments, they were on Grantaire’s bed. Grantaire raised his arms in an attempt to block Malain, but the younger man was far stronger than he looked. His fist connected with Grantaire’s jaw, stunning the drunken man. Taking advantage of this, Malain grabbed Grantaire’s wrists, pinioned them at the small of his back and pushed him onto his stomach.
“Please, stop,” Grantaire gasped, fighting the dull ache in his jaw as pain shot down his arms. “Please, please, stop!”
Malain huffed out a laugh in response and with his free hand, ripped Grantaire’s trousers and started pulling them down.
Grantaire bit his lip to stifle the sob coming up his throat. “No, please, don’t do this,” He begged. “Please, no…”
There was something soft being tied around his wrists, locking them in place at his back and the sound of trousers being opened.
“No,” Grantaire choked out, tears falling steadily from his eyes. “No, no, no, please, stop, no…”
Hands roughly pulled his cheeks apart and Grantaire gagged when he felt Malain spit on his hole and roughly push two fingers into him. A minute later, the fingers were removed and the head of Malain’s cock pressed against his hole. Grantaire whimpered and sobbed, still begging for Malain to stop. A hand threaded through Grantaire’s disheveled curls and buried his face into the mattress, preventing his neighbors from hearing the agonized scream that followed.
It seemed to last for hours, perhaps it did. The pain never lessened, not when his left shoulder popped out of its socket, not when he felt blood running down the inside of his thighs, not when Malain pulled Grantaire’s head so far back his neck made a sick cracking sound as he licked away the tears on Grantaire’s face. Not when he pulled out, cut the fabric restraining the drunken man’s wrists and grabbed Grantaire’s shirt collar to turn him onto his back. Not when Malain leaned forward to suck a huge bruise on Grantaire’s neck and most certainly not when Malain stood, readjusted his clothing, threw a handful of coins at Grantaire’s trembling body and laughed.
---
When Grantaire finally found the strength to move, he regretted it immediately. Pain flooded every nerve in his body and it took all of what little strength he had left to not scream. Slowly, shakily, he pulled himself upright, whimpering the entire time. He forced his eyes to stay up and not look down at the bed, knowing he wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. He turned his head to look at his left shoulder. Even through his shirt, he could see the bone grotesquely out of place under his skin. He blinked back tears at the pain and realization that he would have to get help for his injuries.
He didn’t want any of his friends to know what had happened, but he had no money for a doctor. Joly or Combeferre were his only options. Grantaire bit his lip and sighed. He’d figure that out later.
Eventually, he gathered the courage to look down.
There was less blood than he thought there would be, but it was still shocking, bright crimson against dingy white. His trousers, still around his knees, were torn and ruined and stained with blood and other things Grantaire didn’t want to think about.
He pressed his right hand to his mouth and breathed deeply through his nose, fighting the tears and nausea and pain, why was he still in so much pain?
It took an embarrassingly long amount of time to get his clothing off. His left arm was basically useless, all feeling in the limb was gone and he couldn’t move it at all. Slowly, carefully, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and laid them on the bed next to him and watched as blood seeped into the fabric. He was still bleeding, he realized with a stifled sob. Trembling, Grantaire tugged his trousers off his legs and pushed them, along with his shirt and waistcoat, under his thighs in a futile attempt to save his bedding.
He swallowed hard, nausea creeping up his throat. He quickly reached for the chamber pot next to his bed, and promptly emptied his stomach. When he finished, he managed to lie down in a position that didn’t aggravate his injured shoulder.
He lay there, bleeding, shaking, crying, waiting for sleep, preferably death.
Morning came instead.