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It had started innocently enough. Just another Friday night gathering of friends, consuming truly impressive amounts of takeout and watching (and offering insightful and often fairly biting political commentary on) all seven episodes of the 2008 HBO John Adams miniseries.
When they started, Enjolras and Combeferre’s living room had been packed full of Amis, but as the evening wore on, they began to peel off by ones and twos.
Feuilly had an early shift the next morning, and departed after episode two.
Joly flat-out refuses to sleep on anything but sheets he has washed himself (something about bed bugs and dust mites and allergies), and so he and Bossuet made their farewells as the credits were rolling after episode seven.
Bahorel, that bastard, has claimed the blow-up mattress, and the others have learned through trial and error that he’s a restless sleeper and quite likely to roll over and crush anyone foolish enough to try to sleep alongside.
Courfeyrac is snoring, sprawled across the couch, and Jehan has settled into the pull-out bed in the big comfy chair, his breath steady, managing to do something that sounds like whistling Tchaikovsky, even while sleeping.
Combeferre, without so much as a word, retreats to his room and shuts the door behind him, but the sliver of light at the bottom of the door, casting long shadows down the hallway, says that he’s probably still up reading.
Grantaire regards his friends, traitorous in their slumber, and turns to Enjolras. “No worries, Apollo, I’ll be fine with a pillow and a blanket on the floor.”
“Nonsense. There’s plenty of room.”
“Where?”
“In my bed, where do you think?”
Enjolras is already halfway down the hall and if he hears the sudden choking noise coming from Grantaire, he doesn’t show it.
Grantaire forces himself to take a deep breath, and gives himself a silent pep talk as he follows Enjolras to his room.
You can do this. You can spend the night in Enjolras’ bed—with Enjolras—without the world falling apart. It’s one night. Just try to get some rest and enjoy being permitted to be in his presence. But don’t enjoy it too much, you fucking creeper.
It must have taken Grantaire longer than he thought it did to walk down the hall, because Enjolras has already changed into sweatpants and an old Model UN t-shirt.
Either that, or Enjolras is really, really efficient at getting out of clothes.
No, no, stop, this train of thought it not helpful when you have to get into bed with him.
Grantaire smacks himself in the forehead, and when Enjolras turns to face him in the middle of it and his eyebrows crease in confusion, he tries to play it off as fixing his hair.
Oh, you are so fucking smooth.
Enjolras climbs in and settles down on one side of the bed, pulling back the covers and looking up at Grantaire.
“Well?”
Oh God I can’t do this. I really can’t do this. How is he being so fucking casual about this I’m going to die.
Grantaire manages to nod, and begins to move towards the unoccupied side of the bed.
“You’re going to wear jeans to bed? Really? I’m all about efficiency, but that cannot possibly be comfortable.”
He’s telling me to take my clothes off. Sweet breakdancing baby Jesus, Enjolras is telling me to take off my pants and get in bed with him this is simultaneously the best and worst moment of my life. I’ll be a better person—I won’t drink as much, I’ll help old ladies carry their groceries across the street while saving the whales and the pandas, just never torture me like this again.
Without a word, he unbuttons his jeans and slides them off, draping them over the footboard.
Enjoy the sight of your clothes hanging off of Enjolras’ bedroom furniture because this will never happen again.
He slides into the bed and lies stiffly on his back, folding both hands over his stomach. The sheets are cool and soft, and he can feel the tension in the blankets as they dip between his body and Enjolras’.
“G’night,” Enjolras says. “Ready to turn the lamp out?”
“Yeah.” He sincerely hopes his voice doesn’t sound nearly as choked up as he fears it does.
And then the room goes dark and his other senses overload.
There’s a shift in the mattress as Enjolras lies back down again after sitting up to turn off the lamp, and his breath is slow and steady, a gentle whoosh coming from his nostrils every few seconds.
Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut, willing for sleep to come and take him.
It doesn’t.
He feels more awake now than he has all day.
Enjolras is so close. They can’t be more than eight inches apart.
Is Enjolras as uncomfortable as you are right now? I don’t mean physically—oh my God this mattress is perfect and these sheets are so soft and the pillows oh my God—but this is just so awkward. But of course he’s not uncomfortable. He has no feelings other than righteous anger. Okay, that’s not true. He expresses annoyance as well. And disgust. And unfounded hope, the optimistic bastard. And he’s just lying there next to me, probably dreaming about fighting injustice with the Statue of Liberty, who has of course come to life.
How can he be so calm and how can his breath be so even when I’m flipping out over here?
Grantaire’s palms are sweaty, and he wipes his hands on the quilt. He settles deeper into the bed. Not that he ever dedicated thought to what Enjolras’ bed would be like (oh, he’s spent plenty of time imagining himself in bed with Enjolras, but not like this and he’s never really spared a thought for how the bed itself would look and feel), but this is far softer than he would have ever guessed.
Hell, he’s surprised Enjolras has a bed at all, instead of just sleeping at his desk when he physically cannot keep his eyes open any longer.
Enjolras isn’t really one for material comforts. The fact that Enjolras’ pillows are—these have to be goose down or something—and the threadcount on these sheets is probably ridiculous, and the quilt is heavy but not too heavy, and the blankets are so cozy—they’re fuzzy, and so many fuzzy blankets are scratchy and itchy, but these are soft…
And, fuck, now he’s picturing Enjolras all curled up in a pile of coziness, and it’s disgusting in the best possible way, and Grantaire can imagine that Enjolras’ cheeks get all flushed when he sleeps, and meanwhile the real thing—the real person—is lying less than a foot away from him, oblivious to his panicky inner monologue.
But oh my God it’s all so cozy….
As he pads into the kitchen a little after eight, rubbing his eyes, Combeferre is surprised that Enjolras hasn’t beaten him to the coffee machine. So surprised, in fact, that once he has turned it on, he goes to make sure that Enjolras is still breathing.
He gently pushes open the door to Enjolras’ room and has to consciously stop himself from cooing. They are adorable.
Grantaire is on his back, his head turned slightly to one side, where his nose is nestled in Enjolras’ curls.
Enjolras is practically wrapped around Grantaire.
They just look so peaceful. It’s not a word Combeferre has ever associated with either of them, and especially not with the relationship between them, but wonder of wonders, here they are.
He contemplates taking a picture, weighing the pros and cons in his head, knowing that, despite Enjolras’ threats, nothing short of proclaiming fascist beliefs will end their friendship.
And it’s not like he would put it on Facebook or anything. He’s not Courfeyrac.
He would just blow it up to poster size, choose a lovely frame, and possibly give it to Enjolras for Capitalistic Holiday That Coincides With Winter Solstice.
He’s reaching for his phone when Grantaire shifts and rubs his eyes. He has to get out of there.
Grantaire’s eyes blink open, and he absorbs his surroundings slowly.
So. He’s in Enjolras’ bed. And there’s something soft and fluffy making his nose tingle and oh God it’s Enjolras’ hair, and it smells vaguely like pine. It’s delicious.
And that’s not all. Enjolras is curled up against him—around is more like it. Enjolras’ arm is wrapped around him, and his head is gently tucked in the space between his shoulder and neck.
Enjolras even has one leg casually tossed over Grantaire.
Grantaire is torn.
This is as close as he will ever get to heaven. He wants to stay like this all day—even if he’s holding so still, so tense, that he’s definitely going to have cramped muscles later—but he’s also terrified of what Enjolras’ reaction will be when he inevitably wakes up.
Enjolras never sleeps when there are wrongs to be righted, meaning he’s perpetually sleep-deprived and his friends have an elaborate system of hand signals to communicate to each other and the baristas at their local, worker-owned, organic, fair trade-only coffee shop of choice when his coffee should be swapped for decaf. And there was that one time when he had only gotten three hours of sleep that week that they resorted to drastic measures—decaf with two melatonin pills. Joly had been seriously conflicted about the ethics of drugging his friend versus complicity in his incredibly unhealthy sleeping habits, but had decided that slipping him the sleeping pills was the lesser of two evils, long term.
Grantaire eyes the brightening sky warily. Enjolras is going to wake up soon, and he’s going to flip out.
Either that, or he’s going to completely ignore the fact that he spent the night wrapped around someone he can’t stand, and Grantaire isn’t sure which option would be worse.
He closes his eyes and exhales, slowly.
A few more seconds—maybe a minute—to enjoy this while he can, and then he’ll slip out. He’s had plenty of practice of removing himself from other people’s bedrooms early in the morning—why does this time have to be any different?
If Enjolras hadn’t been pinning down one of his legs, he would kick himself.
Of course this is different. It’s Enjolras.
Enjolras, of all people, is almost aggressively cuddling him. (Is there anything Enjolras does that doesn’t have an undercurrent of aggression?) It may have happened when he was unconscious, but it still happened.
He’s in Enjolras’ bed, with as much affection as he will ever get from the marble statue, and for one fucking moment, he’s going to allow himself to be happy.
With a sigh, he makes his move, sliding to the side to get out of the bed, but oh no, this is going to be harder than he thought, and not just emotionally. No, it’s going to be difficult because Enjolras isn’t letting go.
As soon as Grantaire has shifted enough for the movement to be noticeable, Enjolras lets out a disapproving noise and tightens his grip.
He’s surprisingly strong and Grantaire just wants to die.
All Grantaire has accomplished in his attempt to slink away before things get worse is to make things worse. Enjolras rests more of his weight on Grantaire, making it even harder for him to get away, because the universe hates him and he can never do anything right, even when he’s actually trying.
He sighs, and if he didn’t know any better he would think Enjolras was snuggling even closer but that’s not possible because Enjolras can’t stand him.
And now Enjolras is making noises that sound like a sleeping puppy and he’s stretching and oh God his eyes are open and he’s still not letting go.
“Uh… good morning.” Grantaire manages to say. Any second now, he knows, Enjolras is going is going to make clear that he regrets whatever it is that this is.
“Are we going to talk about this?” Enjolras asks, his voice and face neutral—or as close to neutral as Enjolras can manage.
Grantaire’s heart feels like it’s going to drop out of his body. “What’s there to talk about?”
Enjolras props himself up on an elbow. “Oh, I’m sorry, was this too subtle for you?”
For once in his life, Grantaire is close to speechless. “I… what… explain, please.”
Enjolras’ expression falls, and it’s like the sun has gone behind a cloud. “I’m sorry. I know I should have asked for your consent before, you know… But I couldn’t sleep, and you looked so—I don’t want to say cute because that seems infantilizing somehow—but I can’t think of a better word right now—and then I realized how warm you are—and I’m always so freaking cold when I sleep, and you’re so cuddly. And things just kind of…escalated. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
No no no don’t say that. That’s the opposite of what I want. I want this every day and every night for the rest of my life oh God I’m fucked.
“Grantaire? Are you alright?”
No. Definitely not. I’m dying and it’s your fault.
“Just give me a second here.” Grantaire wrestles one of the pillows out from behind him and pulls it over his face, making a stream of nonsensical gurgling noises. He lies there for a moment, breathing harder than anyone who has just woken up from seven hours of sleep has any right to.
“Grantaire? Seriously? Are you okay?”
I’m never okay when you’re around. Or whenever I think about you. Which is often. I’m kind of not okay in general. You don’t want to know the details.
Grantaire removes the pillow from his face and very carefully looks anywhere but at Enjolras. Wow. Whoever painted this ceiling did a really bad job—it’s all patchy and it’s starting to peel, over there by the window.
“Grantaire?”
“You’re a horrible person and I hate you.”
You are the only truly good thing in the world and I will always love you.
From the corner of his eye, Grantaire can see Enjolras’ face fall.
“R—I’m sorry. I really am. I know I should have asked. I totally violated your personal space and your trust, and you are totally within your rights to not forgive me.”
You are seriously the most impossible person in the world.
“Ask me.”
“What?”
“How the hell am I supposed to give consent if you don’t ask?”
Grantaire has seen Enjolras in a lot of moods, many of them involving anger. In a lot of those moments, Enjolras has taken a few seconds to plan what he would say before actually saying it. But Grantaire has never seen Enjolras truly speechless—slack-jawed and gaping and dumbstruck.
Oh man. Now you’ve fucked up. He was using the consent issue to let you down nicely and now you’ve put him on the spot and he’s trying to figure out how to tell you to get lost but when has Enjolras ever bothered to say anything nicely? You thought he couldn’t get anymore confusing and he’s proven you wrong yet again. Fuck everything.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, twiddling his thumbs and staring at the wall, “I would like to kiss you.”
“You—I—what?”
“And before you answer, the fact that you are currently in my bed should not be construed as me pressuring you. If you say no—or if you say nothing, which seems unlikely because this is you we’re talking about here—I will respect that. You know I believe in enthusiastic consent—the absence of a no isn’t a yes, coercion isn’t a yes, and a hesitant yes because of pressure to say yes isn’t a yes—“
“Since when have I ever been enthusiastic about anything?”
“That’s not true—you’re totally enthusiastic about things!”
“Name one.”
Enjolras’ face begins to open up into that smile that appears when he knows he’s won. “You’re enthusiastic about me.”
Grantaire puts his hands over his face and groans dramatically. “Ugh, you found my Achilles heel.”
There’s a gentle pressure on his wrist, and when he dares to peek through his fingers, he sees that Enjolras has placed his hand on his wrist, and is gently stroking the back of his hand with his thumb.
“Hey. Again, this isn’t to pressure you—take as much time to decide as you want—but if I don’t get an answer soon, I’m going to get up and leave.”
“Did you really think that there was even a remote possibility that I’d say no?”
Enjolras winks and Christ in a wheelbarrow that should not be legal. “I like start by assuming that everyone disagrees with me and that I’m going to have to persuade them.”
“Doesn’t that make the whole consent thing kind of dubious, though?”
“The only person whose consent I’m interested in acquiring is yours, and you yourself said mere seconds ago that no was never even a serious possibility.”
“That is not what I said.”
“Well then maybe you should state your official answer for the record.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Combeferre goes to check on them. There hasn’t been any noise, but he can’t rule out one of them smothering the other with a pillow. That would be fairly quiet, wouldn’t it?
He pushes the door open, and oh my God.
They’re awake.
Grantaire doesn’t seem to have moved much, if at all, but Enjolras definitely has.
He’s basically lying on top of Grantaire, with Grantaire’s arms firmly around him, one hand on the bare skin of his lower back where his shirt has ridden up, the other clutching at the fabric of the shirt between his shoulder blades.
Combeferre can’t see their faces because Enjolras is in the way, but he’s got pretty decent deductive reasoning skills, and yeah, they’re definitely making out.
“Yes! Finally!” A jovial voice pipes up from behind Combeferre, and, wow, good morning to you, too, Courfeyrac.
Upon the realization that they have an audience, Enjolras and Grantaire break apart with sheepish grins. Enjolras drops down onto the mattress, and instead of moving back to what should be his half of the bed, curls up against Grantaire, pressing his forehead against the other man’s neck.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Combeferre says, not sounding sorry at all. “We’ll leave you to it. Jehan is making crepes, so, um, come have breakfast whenever you’re ready?”
Combeferre turns around to make his exit, pushing a protesting Courfeyrac back towards the kitchen.