Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Enjolras is tense.

Everyone’s telling him so, and they joke about how he hasn’t gotten laid since first year of university and how he usually stays up too late but doesn’t do anything worthwhile, either planning for their activist group or doing homework.

See, it’s mostly Courfeyrac’s fault, because he’s the one to suggest sex with someone without there being any feelings involved. Combeferre does take some of the blame, though, because he knows Enjolras is the best and understands how he doesn’t do feelings.

And what better person is there than Grantaire? The only person they know that doesn’t give a single fuck about anything? Who drinks himself to sleep most of the time, who smokes himself high on occasion?

So that’s how they get here, outside of the Musain, faces red with anger and confusion, Enjolras clueless as to why Eponine was yelling at him only moments ago, because he really was not aware of Grantaire’s feelings, or he wouldn’t have been walking on eggshells around that topic for so long.

“You haven’t noticed?” Grantaire’s question comes out in a strangled and frustrated gasp, his hand adjusting the green beanie that rests on his head, the other one clenching into a fist while his eyes dart around the dark front of the Musain. “But really, Enjolras, did you not realize--did you think that no one would fall in love with you after some time, let alone I wouldn’t?”

Grantaire had thought before that he’d be okay with having only a little bit of Enjolras. He thought he could manage being hated by him and then fucking when they got home.

But, as it turns out, that only made it so much worse. The pining was better than this, because he could mope around and then drink with Eponine later. Now, he feels that he has no right to mope anymore, because at least he gets some attention from Enjolras.

Weeks before that ever happened.

The Musain is theirs, they claimed it when they first came to university. They go there to study, catch a quick breakfast, and hold their meetings. It’s got the perfect atmosphere--a cute shop that sells coffee and sandwiches by day, alcohol and the like by night. The comfortable armchairs that are placed in the corners are almost always occupied by a friend and their significant other.

“God, Enjolras. I don’t think you’ve ever looked more stressed than you do right now,” Courfeyrac jokes, taking a sip from his beer.

“Finals,” Enjolras explains, his mind somewhere else.

“Finals and the activist group,” Combeferre corrects, pushing up his glasses and leaning over to read Enjolras’ notes. “There’s a protest coming up,” he murmurs, reading with Enjolras.

“The answer is sex,” Courfeyrac slurs to Enjolras. “It’s always sex, dude.” The group of guys laugh a ‘yeah’ and Jehan’s cheeks take on a red color while he ducks his face over his notebook. “Casual sex, relationship sex, it doesn’t matter.”

Grantaire is unusually quiet, sitting in the corner hunched over his sketchbook, the pencil in his hands sliding over the page.

Enjolras just groans, rubs his neck, and cranes his head back over the textbook in front of him. “Finals stress everyone out,” he mumbles. “It’s not anything new.”

Joly shrugs, because this isn’t anything new, Enjolras going slightly insane every time finals roll around. And Combeferre’s right, the activist group does add a lot on to the stress, too.

“Or the answer could be a massage,” Courfeyrac continues, “but only from that one place. You know, with the girls.” He smirks, though it’s not like he wouldn’t go to ‘the one with the guys’.

“Yes, the one place with the girls. Good description, Courf,” Musichetta jokes from her armchair with Joly and Bossuet, and Jehan blushes even more furiously.

Enjolras murmurs something about grades, hunching over once again to continue studying. It’s not as if the loud Musain alone distracts him, and his friends pestering in his ear is only adding to it.

“You’re no fun,” Courfeyrac whines, standing up to stretch. “C’mon, I’m going over to Eponine’s.”

“Why?” Cosette pipes up.

“Montparnasse is there, which means free booze,” Courf explains, which makes Cosette’s face fall and half of the group rise. “Grantaire? You coming?”

Instead of looking up at Courfeyrac, Grantaire glances at Enjolras, whose eyes are still trained on the book in front of him. He only shakes his head, looking back down at his pencil gliding across his sketchbook. “Working,” he says, adding, “I’ll come home later.”

Courfeyrac chuckles, because when does Grantaire pass up alcohol for working? But then realizes Enjolras is also staying, and even though Enjolras may be blind, Courfeyrac, however, is not.

Grantaire, though, is actually working. His pencil drawing only the beginnings of his final piece for the art class that he paid too much money for, lightly outlining the curve of the Apollo incarnate.

“Tell ‘Ponine I said hi and that I still don’t approve,” Grantaire mumbles, not looking up. They know he’s talking about the Montparnasse thing, because he treats her like shit and everyone can see the purple bruises she wears.

“Will do,” Cosette replies in a sing-song voice before shutting the Musain door.

Well after midnight, Enjolras yawns before flipping the page again, his eyes following the highlighted words.

Grantaire mumbles something about going out for a smoke while rising from his chair, stretching his arms up over his head. Enjolras tries really hard not to pay attention to the strip of bare skin that shows when he does that, or the soft line of hair trailing down to his groin.

Instead, he focuses even more on the politics textbook in front of him, and the notes he has scribbled on the side in his neat handwriting.

Fuck it, Enjolras thinks. “I’m coming.” He can use a break anyways. Grantaire looks shocked, but still continues out to the backdoor.

The alley is dark and the pavement is wet from the rain that poured down earlier, and the dark clouds hide the moon that should be hanging in the sky.

Grantaire lights up the cigarette and takes a long drag from it before handing it off to the blond, who’s more inexperienced and coughs at the first inhale. Enjolras doesn’t like to smoke, but tonight he makes an exception.

Enjolras quickly gets better at it, he’s able to keep the smoke in his lungs for a little while longer. Smirking and pleased with himself, he hands over the cigarette and Grantaire breathes in, his eyes locked with Enjolras’. They smoke like that for some time, until Enjolras breaks the silence.

“I’m too stressed?” Enjolras asks after some time, his thoughts and filter going fuzzy from the smoke

Grantaire laughs and takes another drag. “You’re always too stressed,” he says with his lips around the cigarette. They can barely see each other’s eye through the smoke now, but Grantaire thinks it’s for the better. The artist’s eyes are full of lust, mind clouded with the thought of I am putting my lips where Enjolras’ lips have been oh god.

Enjolras shrugs and mumbles, “Maybe it is the sex,” more to himself than to Grantaire, before turning and going back into the Musain.

Grantaire finishes the cigarette; he doesn’t let his mind wander, and then goes back inside, confused to find that Enjolras is still here but now on the last few pages of his textbook.

The dark haired man sighs and sits down, and then tries to finish his drawing.

He takes a riskful glance at Enjolras time to time, to check the curve of the jawline or the curl of the hair, quickly tearing his eyes away before Enjolras can look up.

Grantaire stumbles home an hour or so later, with the sketch almost finished and a pounding headache. Instead of treating it, he sits himself down on the couch and takes out his sketchbook and a pencil.

He never uses his best supplies to draw the Apollo incarnate. Grantaire usually scribbles on napkins in pen, or sketches on scrap paper with a dull pencil. He never uses good supplies because those are things that can’t be destroyed--he doesn’t have the heart.

But, it’s finals season, which means he’ll have to turn in a professional piece, and the only thing he can even think about is painting the deity.

Which means it has to be perfect, and that there has to be rough drafts, and he can’t bring himself to do this formally, because he only draws this god-like man in hurried corners of the Musain.

Grantaire draws Apollo laughing, Apollo furious with the eyes he uses for protests, Apollo smiling like he doesn’t think anyone can see, and Apollo miserable shadowing dark circles.

That’s why when Eponine stumbles around their apartment tonight, the floor is littered in paper torn out from his leather sketchbook she bought him one year for Christmas.

Eponine picks one of the papers up and studies it. There’s a man, curled inward and around himself, with sheets twisted around his waist. He has blond hair, and it curls down past neck; she can’t see what color the eyes are, because they’re closed, but he’s breathing smoke through his lips.

“Grantaire? What are these?” The drawings look slightly familiar, like she’s seen the man before, but she can’t pin it to an exact face.

“Stuff for school,” Grantaire groans in the midst of a pile of papers on the couch. He turns over, which causes some of the papers to fall, and presses his face against the back of their dark green monstrosity that they bought from a guy down the road for very cheap.

Eponine picks up another sketch, this one of the same man, but he’s hunched over a book with a hand through his hair. She notices none of these drawings have his signature ‘R’ in the corner, but thinks nothing of it, even though if they were actually for school they’d have his signature.

She yawns and carries on to the bedroom, stopping only for the bottle of whiskey Grantaire left out.

Chapter Text

Some would think it’s unusual that Grantaire shows up to this protest, but, really, he wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s supposedly the biggest protest they’ll pull off this year, which means it’s important to Enjolras.

He stands up there, confident, screaming to the crowd he’s gathered. Police linger near the back of the audience, glaring at the activists with the attention.

Of course, they can’t leave each other alone, they’re never able to. The police grow closer to their leader, and then the punches are thrown. They’re target is Enjolras, but they search for other members of the group, too.

“Fuck, guys,” Bahorel says, dragging Feuilly behind him. “We need to leave.” Combeferre nods, looking frantically for the rest of his friends.

“No shit,” Eponine shouts with Cosette on her heels, both of them fleeing to the cars.

“We’ll meet at the Musain tomorrow,” Combeferre says, trailing behind Jehan and Courfeyrac.

Somewhere, Grantaire is lost in the chaos, his eyes searching for blond.

“Shit, shit,” he says when he can’t find Enjolras, and the police are coming towards him and Grantaire thinks everyone’s left so he should too.

Grantaire runs down the sidewalk towards his apartment, trying to lose the cops in the crowd. Even at the door to his apartment he doesn’t stop worrying, but he leaves the door unlocked, in case Eponine decides to come home instead of staying with Cosette.

He pulls out his phone, sitting down on his couch, typing out a text to Combeferre.

[Grantaire: have you seen enj anywhere]

[Combeferre: No, we lost him when the fighting started. I’m sure he’s alright, though. I can call you when he comes home?]

Grantaire’s about to reply an affirmative but jumps slightly when there’s a knock at the door. It’s late, and Eponine would let herself in, so he thinks it must be the cops that were following him.

“Um--” Grantaire clears his throat, not opening the door but speaking to the person on the other side. “Who is it?” There’s a mumbled sound and a curse, and Grantaire opens the door just to see Enjolras walking away. “Hey--Enj?” He asks, because as Enjolras turns around he can see the damage.

“I, uh--Your place was the closest,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire pulls him inside. “I can go home if you want--?”

Grantaire hushes him, because the talking is only making the bleeding worse. After leading him to sit down on the couch, he lightly touches Enjolras jaw, bringing his chin up to see it better in the light.

“Damn, Enjolras, what happened?” Grantaire asks, already knowing the answer. The fight that broke out was brutal, though Enjolras probably got the worst of it.

“Believe me, the other guys are worse,” Enjolras laughs softly, a wince spreading across his face.

“They must be dead then,” says Grantaire, before pausing with his finger lightly on Enjolras’ cheekbones. “Did you say--There were more? They ganged up on you?” Enjolras only nods, his eyes flicking to the ground. “Fuck, Enjolras, you could have died.”

“It was a protest, Grantaire, that soon became a riot. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again.” He’s suddenly fierce, anger coming back from earlier, locked eyes on Grantaire.

“How many?” Grantaire demands, tugging at the shirt on Enjolras. He reluctantly pulls it off, showing more injuries. Before Enjolras has time to answer, Grantaire is saying, “Fucking hell, Enjolras, did they break your ribs?” Enjolras shrugs and then winces again.

Grantaire leaves his place on the couch, going into the bathroom and coming out with a first aid kit. He sits back down, this time closer, and pulls out some liquid.

“This might sting,” he says, pouring it on a cloth and bringing it up to Enjolras’ face. He dabs at the blood, and Enjolras snaps his neck back, looking at Grantaire. “A lot?”

“More than a lot,” Enjolras snaps, his face still far away.

“Sorry.” Grantaire tries to grab at Enjolras’ chin. “We still need to clean it.” Enjolras hesitates before reluctantly bringing himself forward, rolling his eyes.

Enjolras stays quiet, only breaking his silence with little groans while Grantaire is patching him up. He places the last band-aid on Enjolras’ arm and looks expectantly at him.

“Four,” Enjolras whispers after a while, and Grantaire stiffens.“Two cops,” Enjolras says, his voice raspy. And then he continues, ignoring Grantaire’s eyebrows that shoot up. “Two other men. I don’t know where they came from or why they were--Ah,” he winces in pain from his fast breathing. “Why they were against us.”

Grantaire sighs, his eyebrows furrowing. He hesitates before saying, “I’m no doctor, but your ribs looked bruised. And you have a black eye, split lip, swollen jaw. Did they hit you with a rock? Because your head was bleeding.”

“No, there was no rock,” Enjolras says, glaring.

They’re quiet for some time, Enjolras’ eyes locked on the ground and Grantaire glancing at the broken marble before him. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing again.

“You should go to the hospital,” Grantaire suggests, picking up his phone.

Enjolras protests loudly, breaking the calmness. “No--”

Grantaire sighs. “At least let me call Joly to have a look at you, Enjolras, I’m not certain about your ribs. Those guys fucked you up,” he says, closing his eyes and putting a hand over his mouth. Enjolras shakes his head, refusing any help other than what Grantaire’s given. “I could have lost you,” Grantaire whispers, so quiet Enjolras almost misses it. Louder, he says, “At least stay here tonight. I can take the couch,” and Grantaire’s getting up to get blankets for himself.

Enjolras swallows hard and nods, lifting himself slowly from the couch and walking even slower down the hallway, to Grantaire’s bedroom.

“Um--Say if you need anything, I guess,” Grantaire says awkwardly, shutting of the bathroom light and flopping onto the couch. They both fall asleep quickly, exhaustion taking over.

It seems like they only get five minutes of sleep. The night is gone and the sun takes its place, shining through the window, lighting up the dim apartment. Grantaire gets himself together and stands up, making his way to the coffee pot and starting it, filling the air with ground coffee. He lights up a cigarette, breathing in the smoke and blowing it out lazily.

As soon as Enjolras wanders into the kitchen, Grantaire is up from his spot on the couch, tugging at the chin once more. Even though there’s more light now, the injuries don’t look as bad as they did last night.

“Morning,” Enjolras murmurs, his eyebrows furrowing. “‘S’it bad?” He slurs, the puffy lip not helping with his grogginess.

“Not too bad,” he says, offering Enjolras the cigarette. “You just look stressed,” Grantaire adds, his sleepy smile threatening to break out into a wicked grin.

Enjolras accepts, taking a long drag and coughing the smoke back out. Grantaire finds his phone vibrating with new text messages, ones that were sent out to the group.

[Courfeyrac: did anyone find enjolras last night??]

[Bossuet: I thought he was with you and 'Ferre?]

[Combeferre: No, he never came home last night.]

[Joly: I didn’t see him]

Grantaire groans, reading the rest of the conversation and ignoring Enjolras’ eyebrows that have arched in confusion.

[Cosette: maybe he went with Feuilly?]

[Bahorel: i was with feuilly, enjolras wasn’t here]

[Eponine: take me out of this goddamn group your messages are waking me up]

Grantaire smiles at Eponine’s as he looks up at Enjolras.

“Everyone’s worried about your whereabouts,” he says, his voice teasing. “What do you want me to tell them?” Grantaire asks, looking down at his phone.

“Tell them I’m here?” Enjolras says, his voice questioning. Grantaire shrugs and types out the text.

[Grantaire: don’t worry guys, he’s with me]

[Combeferre: That would have been nice to know yesterday, since I spent all night worrying.]

[Grantaire: sorry, sorry. is anyone hurt?]

[Cosette: me and Eponine are fine]

[Courfeyrac: the same with me, combeferre, jehan, and marius]

[Bahorel: i’m uninjured]

[Bahorel: feuilly, too]

[Combeferre: So none of us, then.]

[Grantaire: wow. really? enj came home with more bruises than i could count]

[Enjolras: I did not.]

Grantaire tries to stifle his laugh.

[Combeferre: Will you be able to come to the meeting?]

[Enjolras: Yes, I’ll be there.]

They pass the cigarette back and forth for some time. While trying to blow smoke rings, Enjolras laughs, and it’s musical and charming and everything Grantaire really didn’t want to hear. They both get better, Enjolras with holding in the smoke and Grantaire with his glances.

Enjolras takes a final drag, a long and slow one. Instead of handing the cigarette over to Grantaire, he does something unexpected.

He leans over, close enough to count Grantaire’s eyelashes, and breathes smoke into Grantaire’s mouth, which has opened in confusion. Grantaire does the only thing he knows how to do, which is breathe the smoke back in and hold it in his lungs.

Enjolras’ lips linger for a few moments before he pulls away, and there’s a smirk visible on his face. He taps the ashes off and hands the cigarette to Grantaire.

“We have a meeting to go to,” Enjolras says, walking slowly to the door. He throws a smile over his shoulder before saying, “Try not to be too late.”

“Holy shit, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac starts to say, getting up from his table to examine Enjolras’ face. “What, did they beat you to a pulp?”

“Pretty much,” Grantaire murmurs walking in after Enjolras. Almost everyone’s here, and as Grantaire goes in the back to sit, Enjolras stays at the front.

“Okay, so,” says Combeferre, who’s joining Courf and looking at Enjolras’ face. “Have you surveyed the wounds?” Enjolras nods and starts listing them off.

Meanwhile, Grantaire sits down at his place next to Jehan, who apparently had ordered coffee for him.

“He stayed with you last night?” Jehan asks, taking a sip of his drink, most likely tea.

“Yeah, he--My apartment’s closest, I guess.” Grantaire doesn’t even pretend to pay attention when Enjolras starts talking, he just stares and appreciates the view.

“Where was Eponine?” At least Jehan looks like he’s listening to the things Enjolras is saying.

“She stayed with Cosette.” Grantaire turns so his body is facing the front, finally tuning in on the conversation.

“--anyways, people came. There was a big turnout, people listened. They’re angry,” Combeferre says, not only to Enjolras but the whole cafe. “And now’s our time to fight back.”

Enjolras hesitates. “We had a turning point. It was yesterday, we might have missed our chance. If we hadn’t left, we might have made more of an impact. Made more progress.”

Grantaire snorts. “If we didn’t leave, you’d be dead,” he interjects, setting his mug back on the table. Enjolras stares at him, unamused.

“But we left, and now the people aren’t riled up anymore,” Enjolras snaps back. “The anger has died down.”

“Obviously not for the two guys who did that to your face.” Enjolras flinches, his mind going back to last night. Quickly, he’s snapped out of his stupor by Grantaire’s rambling. “We have enemies now, Enjolras. We can’t just parade around anymore.”

“We never paraded around in the first place,” he says, only gathering now how much tension is in the room, people’s heads turning to watch their argument.

“Then please, tell me why I had to find you bloody on my doorstep yesterday, Enjolras. I thought they stabbed you. Do you know what it’s like to see someone like that?” There’s a lot more he could add, but he doesn’t. Grantaire sighs, sitting back in his chair. “It’s not just the cops who are after us now. You said so yourself, there was those two men. What if there’s more? What if they’re just waiting for an opportunity to kill you?” Enjolras just stares and Grantaire gets up, intending to leave. “Be careful,” he snaps before closing the Musain door.

Enjolras doesn’t follow him out, only stands for a few seconds in silence before returning to his speech.

Grantaire, however, runs into just the two people he wanted to see. They’re whispering outside of the Musain, looking through the window.

“I don’t know when the next protest is, we might miss our chance now.”

“Why does he need to be dead today?”

“He’s inciting rebellion and it needs to be stopped.” Grantaire pauses, turning slowly around to the two men standing by the door “Hello?” He says, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Grantaire does not hesitate to throw the first punch, knocking the first guy backwards as he turns to the other one, grabbing him by his shirt.

“If you touch him,” Grantaire spits, articulating his words slowly. “I will find you, and I will kill you.” He releases the man’s shirt and starts to back up, walking away.

Two days since the protest, and they're gathered at the Musain again, with Enjolras studying and Grantaire sketching on opposite sides of the open room. Eponine isn’t there because she and Montparnasse had a fight which resulted in blue and purple flowering across her face, Cosette’s being silent in the corner, occasionally whispering over coffee with Marius, and Courfeyrac and Jehan are trying to brush hands without anyone noticing.

[Eponine: all of my aochohl is gonne]

[Eponine: brign more]

Grantaire receives the texts, and he knows she's drinking herself numb so she doesn't get angry at Montparnasse or get sad because he's gone.

"Eponine wants me home," Grantaire mumbles, checking the time before he puts his phone away, seeing it’s well past midnight.

"I can come with you," Cosette offers immediately, looking up from her conversation with Marius, but Grantaire only shakes his head and puts his drawings in a bag.

Enjolras shuts his book and stands up. His bruises are looking better, they’re almost fully healed. "I'm going home, too," he announces, picking up his things.

Grantaire looks confused, but he continues to the front door of the Musain. The night chill hits him, and Enjolras can see Grantaire's breath. He grabs the dark haired man's arm, lips parting to speak.

Grantaire’s hands are shaking from the lack of alcohol in his veins, and the air smells like nighttime and rain.

“Can I--?” Enjolras starts to ask Grantaire, who gives a quick nod, with his eyes wide in fear. Grantaire, who rarely shows his emotion, has his pupils dilated and his breath coming fast. Enjolras hadn’t anticipated before that he could affect Grantaire so much.

Before Enjolras can really process what he's doing, he closes the gap between them. Grantaire’s breath hitches from the surprise of Enjolras’ lips on his, and now he realizes the difference between dreaming and doing. There's lips and tongue and teeth, but in Grantaire's opinion, it was the best kiss he's ever had-- touching his own rough, thin lips to Enjolras' red ones.

Enjolras pushes Grantaire up against the brick wall of the Musain before breaking the kiss, and he watches Grantaire's adam's apple bob.

"Let's make a habit out of this," he says in a low voice. Grantaire lets out a strangled sound of affirmation in response, and with a pleased face Enjolras walks to his car, opening the door and driving away.

Grantaire continues down the sidewalk to his apartment, only a few blocks to the Musain, but doesn't let himself actually think about what just happened.

Eponine is sitting on the steps waiting for him, her makeup slightly smeared, her hair tangled and a bottle propped up next to her. Grantaire envelopes her in a hug, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead, whispering meaningless things into her neck. He brushes his thumbs lightly over the bruised skin on her cheekbones, and her eyes dart to the ground.

He carries her into the apartment and sets her down on the couch, joining her after grabbing a blanket and pulling it around them.

"I don't want to do this anymore," she whispers, her face sad and fallen.

"I know, Ep." That's all he can say right now, that he knows and understand and he's sorry and it'll get better soon even if it won't.

She falls asleep with her head in the crook of his neck, mumbling someone’s name that Grantaire can’t distinguish from her slurred words.

Instead of moving her to her bed, Grantaire lets her sleep on his shoulder.

“What the fuck,” Grantaire says out loud, because now that Eponine’s okay and sleeping and he’s gotten past the shock of kissing Enjolras, he’s pretty sure what Enj meant by having that be a habit, but doesn’t want to jump to conclusions.

So Grantaire texts him.

[Grantaire: a habit as in a recurring thing?]

[Enjolras: I suppose so, yeah]

[Grantaire: and with no relationship?]

[Enjolras: Yeah.]

[Grantaire: as in friends with benefits?]

[Enjolras: Is that okay?]

[Grantaire: fuck yes]

Chapter Text

It doesn't start out slow. They go on like that for a day, hurried kissing and pinning each other to the wall, rolling their hips in the back of the Musain.

But now, they’re alone, in Enjolras’ house, and Grantaire can say he’s a little bit scared. The house Enjolras shares with Combeferre and Courfeyrac isn’t clean. It’s cluttered with books. Some are on the counter, the coffee table, the floor.

"No relationship involved," Enjolras repeats, breathing against the nape of Grantaire's neck, his hot breath distracting the dark haired man from the conversation.

"Just sex?" Grantaire asks, still in disbelief.

"Just sex," Enjolras confirms once again. "No feelings, no emotions, no fucking Valentine's day presents. Just sex."

"Agreed," Grantaire murmurs, letting Enjolras lead him across the room and into the bedroom. They kiss, and he quickly loses his shirt, while Enjolras rolls his hips against Grantaire. They stumble onto the bed, Grantaire hovering over Enjolras while discarding all of his clothing. "Not fair," he groans, gesturing to Enjolras' covered chest. The man laughs and pulls off his own shirt, exposing perfect ivory skin, tangling a hand into black curls and lowering Grantaire head.

Granatire looks up once again before unzipping Enjolras' jeans, making sure this is what he wants. He takes Enjolras’ cock, and the way Enjolras reacts--his head thrown back releasing a breathless, broken moan and thrusting into Grantaire’s hand--Grantaire’s stroking it too slowly.

It's awkward and bumpy, which is everything that it shouldn't be, but it all works out in the end, when Grantaire's heated, wet mouth is wrapped around Enjolras' cock.

Hands are fisted in Grantaire’s hair, and Enjolras does nothing to restrain himself from thrusting his cock farther, the head of it touching the back of Grantaire’s tight throat. From the years of practice Grantaire has had, his nose reaches Enjolras’ stomach and he doesn’t even gag.

“Fuck,” Enjolras groans, bucking his hips. Grantaire quickens the bobbing of his head, even though he wants to go slowly and memorize every detail, he doesn’t, because Enjolras made it clear there was to be no feelings involved.

His tongue drags up the length of the cock, swirling around the head when he gets there. Enjolras groans, tipping his head back, and Grantaire pulls back enough to swipe his tongue over the tip.

“Faster, I need--” Enjolras swallows, “God, Grantaire, I need more,” Enjolras pants out. Grantaire pulls off Enjolras’ boxers and takes him in hand, though his head is still lowered. “What are you--?” Enjolras starts, but is broken off with a gasp when he feels Grantaire’s tongue between his legs.

Grantaire bites Enjolras’ inner thigh before moving back to his entrance, making Enjolras writhe and moan.

“I hate you,” Enjolras calls out while Grantaire does things with his tongue that he didn’t think anyone could ever do.

With a final stroke of Grantaire’s hand, Enjolras comes, letting out an debauched noise.

Grantaire moves so that he’s lying shoulder-to-shoulder with Enjolras, obviously achingly hard, coming back breathless and eyes wide with lust.

“Holy shit, Enj--” Grantaire whispers, and it’s out strangled and hoarse and ragged. Enjolras, recovering from his orgasm, hovers over Grantaire, spits in a hand and wraps it around his cock. Enjolras strokes Grantaire lazily while biting at his collar bone.

They kiss, and it’s sloppy and hurried and heated. Grantaire groans into Enjolras’ mouth, and to keep himself from calling out the blond’s name, he bites his lip and lets his head fall back, digging his nails into Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Faster,” Grantaire repeats Enjolras’ words. “Go faster,” he whines, bucking his hips and seeking more friction.

“Ask nicely,” Enjolras says, and it makes Grantaire want to rake his nails down Enjolras’ back, which it seems he’s doing anyways. It makes Grantaire want to scream and bite and pull on Enjolras’ hair.

But he does it anyway.

“Please, Enjolras, fuck, please--Faster, harder, anything, please--” Enjolras flicks his wrist but doesn’t speed up. “Fuck,” Grantaire groans, “I hate you.” Granatire shudders and throws his head back against the pillows.

Enjolras makes his grip tighter and ducks his head to bite Grantaire’s neck. The artist’s hands are tangled in the blonde curls, pulling harder with each stroke. With a final moan from Grantaire, he comes into Enjolras’ hand.

Enjolras falls back on the bed, breathing heavily.

“Thank you,” Grantaire whispers, almost inaudibly, but Enjolras catches it, and doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “I can leave, if you want, or--”

“Stay,” Enjolras interrupts, shaking his head.

It’s back to being awkward, and Grantaire doesn’t know if he should sleep on the couch or in Enjolras’ bed.

Enjolras fixes the tense air by grabbing his boxers and wiping the come off their hands, licking some of it away and making Grantaire whimper. Grantaire falls asleep with a sigh and an arm draped stiffly across Enjolras’ torso.

In the morning, Grantaire wakes up to Enjolras clinging to him. Their legs are tangled together, and somehow they’d ended up holding hands. The sunlight catches on Enjolras’ eyelashes, and it makes Grantaire’s inky curls look brown. Grantaire’s breath hitches upon seeing Enjolras, sleepy with his hair sticking up all over the place.

“What?” Enjolras groans, yawning and squinting at the brightness. His voice is thick with sleep and slightly raspy, reminding Grantaire of why it’s like that and causing arousal to stir.

“You’re awake?” Grantaire asks, quietly, even though they’re the only two in the house.

“Yeah, and I could’ve used a shower an hour ago.” Enjolras stretches, his toes curling. “I just didn’t want to wake you.” His eyes are closed, but he has a sleepy smile playing on his face.

Grantaire doesn’t know how to respond, because all he can think right now is how much he wants to wake up to sleepy Enjolras for the rest of his life.

So he blurts, "Do you want pancakes?" and Enjolras laughs, like the thought of Grantaire cooking him pancakes is absurd. "Pancakes are my specialty. But it’s a secret, otherwise I’d have everyone coming to me for breakfast." He grins at the blond man, and Enjolras nods.

Grantaire finds his way to the kitchen while Enjolras is in the shower, and almost drops his spatula when he sees Enjolras wet with a towel loosely hung over his waist.

"Are they done?" Enjolras asks, waking Grantaire out of his stupor, and he nods his head, flipping them on a plate and setting it on the part of the table that's not covered in books.  

"If you want coffee you'll have to make it," the dark haired man says, jokingly, running a hand through his hair with a sleepy smile still on his lips.

Enjolras disappears for a moment and then comes back clothed in a shirt and jeans.

He sits down and glances at Grantaire, who's still smiling. Enjolras raises his eyes brows and Grantaire's grin just grows wider. He smiles back and then looks over at the papers resting on the table, notes and essays on his politics class. He furrows his eyebrows, but some of the stress and pressure looks faded away.

"When is it? Your exam, I mean," Grantaire asks, eating the pancakes that he did a very good job on, Enjolras thinks. Sitting at Enjolras’ kitchen table, eating pancakes with him makes Grantaire giddy, and he has to suppress his grins or Enjolras will look at him oddly.

"Two days, not counting today," Enjolras says, "So I have to study. Don’t you have a final?" He asks, because he knows little of Grantaire's life, which probably isn't good.

"Kind of," Grantaire explains, shrugging nonchalantly. "I have to turn in a piece. It doesn't have to be recent, but mine is." Enjolras nods absentmindedly as he pulls out his politics textbook, his eyes rereading the highlighted sentences. "Speaking of which, it's not finished. And I think it's due soon." Grantaire stands up and yawns. "So I'll leave you to your studying, and I'll go home to get Eponine drunk and finish my painting."

He grabs his green beanie and smashes it on his head before turning the handle on the door to leave.

Enjolras puts the dishes away and goes back to his studying.

Chapter Text

The next morning is quiet, with Combeferre at the Musain, but Courfeyrac bursts in a little after noon, just when Enjolras is rereading the orange highlighted sentences in his book.

“But it’s the day before exams,” Courfeyrac groans, “you should take a break from the studying.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather study some more in case I forget anything,” Enjolras counters, ducking his head so his eyes are fixed back on the book.

“It’s, like, two hours of not studying, come on, Enjolras. You studied all day yesterday. You didn’t even come out of you room.”

Somehow, by some miracle, Courfeyrac gets Enjolras to stop studying and go with him to Jehan’s apartment--which isn’t that far away--to watch some Disney movie he has picked out.

Courfeyrac is smug, because he thinks Enjolras being not uptight anymore must have resulted from his suggestion of casual sex.

“Which movie?” Enjolras asks, grumpy because he lost the fight.

“Tangled,” Courf says with a smile. Enjolras groans, because in his opinion, Jehan could not have picked a worse movie.

Jehan’s first floor apartment has flowers sitting outside, and there’s a cheesy welcome mat at his door.

“We’re here,” Courfeyrac announces, letting himself in and immediately sitting in the biggest armchair. Jehan walks over with popcorn and sits on Courf’s lap. Marius and Combeferre are occupying the other chairs; Eponine and Cosette are on the ground in front of it, oblivious to the fact that everyone knows they’re holding hands; Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are curled up on a big pile of blankets in the center of the room; and there’s only one open spot left.

“You got Enjolras to come?” Combeferre asks, surprised. Enjolras nods and gives him a tight smile; he sits down in the only open seat, which happens to be on the sofa, next to Grantaire.

Their thighs are pressed together, and every time Grantaire reaches for his drink, their arms brush. The light touches make Enjolras’ mind go fuzzy.

Jehan nudges Courf every time he starts to play with the poet’s hair, and he says defensively, “I was paying attention, I swear, but your pretty hair is far more interesting.” Jehan blushes slightly, and doesn’t protest when Courf goes back to braiding with gentle fingers.

By the middle of the movie, Enjolras is nodding off on Grantaire’s shoulder, and he tries really hard not to move so the blond doesn’t wake.

The last thing Grantaire sees before he also falls asleep is the lanterns on the screen, and he hears Eponine whispering to Cosette with sad eyes, “I want to do that someday.”

“We will,” she whispers back, and nudges her shoulder, knowing she was thinking that she wouldn’t be able to because of the money. She’s silent, but the grin she wears would have been hard to hide.

“Think we should move them?” Courfeyrac suggests, his head nuzzled into Jehan’s side from tiredness.

“It might be impossible to separate them,” Jehan says quietly, since the two have their legs tangled and their hands clasped, holding on to each other like they never want to let go.

“Enjolras might be mad when he wakes up,” Courfeyrac mumbles.

Jehan says something back, but they both fall asleep before they can actually make the decision to separate the two.

Everyone wakes up around noon the next morning, and no one says anything regarding the way Enjolras and Grantaire were curled around each other. Courfeyrac makes pancakes, and they’re not as good as Grantaire’s, but they’ll do.

Grantaire leaves first, and Enjolras is following shortly after. He catches up to Grantaire--because Grantaire’s a slow walker--and grabs his arm.

“Enj--” Grantaire starts to say, but is cut off by lips on his. Enjolras breaks the kiss but keeps his forehead against Grantaire’s. He grabs his hand and locks their fingers, and Grantaire definitely doesn’t try to memorize the way Enjolras’ hand fits almost perfectly in his own.

“Come back to mine?” He asks. Grantaire tries to ignore the swooping in his stomach and nods, pulling him back in for a breathless kiss.

They fall in step together while walking, and Grantaire can’t help but be nervous. Even at the door to Enjolras’ house, he can still feel the uneasiness in his stomach.

Grantaire hasn’t walked two feet in the house before Enjolras has him pushed up against the door, sucking and biting at the muscle in his neck. Enjolras thrusts a leg between Grantaire’s thighs, and both of them let a moan slip.

“Combeferre and Courf will be out today,” Enjolras says, his voice low and full of lust, between open mouthed kisses on Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire’s achingly hard, and it seems like his jeans have shrunk within the past five minutes, and all he really wants to do is get them off.

“Bed?” is all that Grantaire can manage. Enjolras nods and pulls away, turning and walking while taking his shirt off. Grantaire follows, discarding his clothing as well. In the bedroom, Enjolras pins Grantaire against the mattress, and Grantaire is bucking his hips and searching for friction.

“Off,” Enjolras says, tugging at the jeans on Grantaire, who lifts his hips and kicks them away. He bends over and grabs the lube from the nightstand, then goes back to hovering over Grantaire, putting his lips just by his ear. “I’m going to take you apart with just my fingers.” Grantaire whimpers, his chest contracting and cock obviously hard.

Enjolras dips his fingers in the container, pulling out his index finger dripping in lube. He slowly pushes the finger in, eliciting moans from Grantaire.

“Try not to come,” Enjolras says, his breath hot on Grantaire’s neck. He’s hitting the prostate lightly and then drawing back out, only to push back in again at a torturous pace.

Grantaire rakes his fingernails down Enjolras’ back as Enjolras adds another finger, crooking them slightly once he’s in at the knuckle. He repeats hitting the prostate, but this time he holds it there until Grantaire writhes and then he pulls it out again.

“Oh my god, oh my god, Enjolras, fuck,” Grantaire whines, screwing his eyes shut and throwing his head back on the pillow.

“Remember what I said,” Enjolras whispers and bites the muscle in Grantaire’s neck. He slips another finger in, making this three, and he stretches Grantaire out. Enjolras ignores Grantaire’s cock, curved up and aching for touch. Grantaire bucks his hips, seeking friction but getting nothing. As Enjolras stays at the same terrible, wonderful pace, Grantaire reaches up to the headboard, wrapping his fingers around it, searching for purchase on anything.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, Enjolras, I’m gonna come--” Grantaire squirms, his muscles contracting and his toes curling, and he reached down between them.

“Don’t touch yourself,” Enjolras says, now placing open mouthed kisses and bites on Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire pulls his hand back up to the headboard, struggling to control his breaths, which are fast and heavy. Enjolras adds a fourth finger and thrusts them in, now at a much faster pace. He ignores his own erection and focuses on Grantaire, drinking in the way he’s falling apart.

“Can I--” Grantaire stops short, choking back a moan. “Now?” Enjolras only nods, and he can feel Grantaire tighten around his fingers and then go slack, finally getting his release. Enjolras comes with him, the groans and debauched noises coming from Grantaire sending him over the edge.

Grantaire can’t form coherent sentences, so he just lays with his head on the pillow and tries to control his breathing.

Enjolras swings his legs over the side of the bed and starts to clean up, turning his back to Grantaire. Grantaire stands up and knees almost give out as he pulls his boxers back on, and he aches to press his lips to the bones of Enjolras’ spine, or the faint freckles sprayed across his shoulders, or the inside of his elbow.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls on his boxers and collapses back on the bed.

Surprisingly, Enjolras lays back down, his arms curling around Grantaire absentmindedly. He traces patterns along Grantaire’s spine, watching Grantaire shiver. And they both fall asleep after some time, content to take a lazy nap for the next few hours.

Grantaire groans when he’s woken up with text messages. It’s the worst way to wake up, he thinks. The constant, annoying buzzing ruining your mood. But, he’s being woken up like that now, and he’s upset he has to untangle his arms from Enjolras’ to turn off the sound.

He reads the texts anyways, because they’re from Eponine and she might need something.

[Eponine: where are you?]

[Eponine: cosette has this thing for art museums and she knows the perfect one]

[Eponine: call us if you want to come]

Grantaire wonders when Eponine and Cosette have started the ‘us’ thing just as Enjolras stirs, a sleepy smile on his face.

“I’m going to order food in, if you want to stay,” Enjolras offers, rolling away and grabbing his phone.

“Eponine and Cosette invited me to this thing,” he says, holding up his phone as if that will explain things. Enjolras nods as he pulls up the pizza place’s number. Grantaire gets up and starts to walk pull on his jeans. “Um--Call me when your finals are over, I guess?” He says with uncertainty, bringing up Cosette’s contact in his phone.  

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, nodding and smiling. “Sure.”

Grantaire steps out the door, hesitating before he leaves. He flashes a  grin at the blond, “Good luck.” And he’s walking out the door.

Chapter Text

Grantaire sits in front of his easel, wiping his painted hands every so often on various parts of his body, tugging on his hair when he becomes frustrated. The blond curls aren't angelic enough, the red jacket isn't as startling as it should be, and the blue of his eyes don't have the right expression.

There's a knock at his door, and it's about noon, though Grantaire doesn't know why anyone would be knocking at his door for any reason.

Well, except one.

He goes to answer it, not bothering with his appearance.

“Hi,” Grantaire says, uneasy, to Enjolras. He grins and grabs Grantaire's hand, leading him out of the house and down the sidewalk.

“We're getting ice cream,” Enjolras announces. Grantaire looks confused, but goes along with it.

“Why?” He asks, because it isn't like Enjolras to do anything other than study and work and plan. “I thought you were going to call me?” He stumbles after Enjolras.

"Because finals are over," he replies with that stupid grin still on his face. Grantaire arches an eyebrow. “And I wanted to do this instead.”

"Not that I don't love ice cream, or that I don't want to go get some with you--but isn't this what dating people do?” asks Grantaire, trying to keep up. Enjolras’ smile doesn't falter, because he really couldn't be happier.

“Yeah, it is, I guess--but right now I don't care and I want ice cream."

Either they don't notice they're still holding hands or they don't want to do anything about it.

Enjolras glances at Grantaire, and he looks amused. “How does one get paint in their hair?” There's red on his right thumb, blue at the nape of his neck, and white mixed with gold in his inky curls.

"It happens when you get frustrated," Grantaire says dismissively.

"And what are you painting?" Enjolras asks, because he'd forgot to yesterday morning and curiosity is getting the better of him.

"Apollo," Grantaire answers, looking anywhere but Enjolras.

"Why’s it making you frustrated?" They're almost in front of the ice cream shop now, a little further than the Musain, with flowers outside and Christmas light hanging up even though it's spring.

"Because I'm fucking it up and it's not perfect," Grantaire sighs, opening the door to the shop, exposing them to pastel yellow walls with blue and green curtains over the windows.

"I thought it’s not supposed to be perfect?" Enjolras shoves his hands into his pockets, pulling out his wallet.

All Grantaire says is, "Apollo is," before he gets scolded from Enjolras for also pulling out for his wallet.

"I'm paying," he says with a glare that turns into a polite smile when he looks at the woman across the counter. "One vanilla ice cream." He looks at Grantaire with his eyebrows raised, and Grantaire tries to stifle his laugh.

“The coffee kind," Grantaire says to the woman, who’s fighting a smile. She hands them their ice cream and they sit down, and Grantaire tries not to look too happy about it.

“Did I tell you about the Washington, D.C. thing?” Enjolras asks licking the ice cream nonchalantly off the cone, and Grantaire has to look away, telling himself it’s just ice cream, Enjolras is literally just eating ice cream.

“You didn’t personally tell me, no, but I gathered.” Because I listen to every single word you say, he doesn’t add.

“Oh. Well, it’s a three day trip, but I have to go by plane,” Enjolras explains.

“Leave it to Enjolras to find a way to learn even when he’s finished with classes,” Grantaire comments sarcastically.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, “Anyway, I need someone to drive me to the airport, will you?” Grantaire tries to hold back his smile. But fails, horribly, because he has little self control at times like these.

“It would be an honor,” Grantairs says, bowing his head. He looks back up with a wicked grin. “When?”

“An hour,” Enjolras informs and doesn’t look happy about it. “So we need to get home,” he adds.

Grantaire’s eyebrows raise up at the ‘we’, but Enjolras pretends not to notice.

He’s been doing that a lot lately.

They walk back to Enjolras’ house, not stopping at Grantaire’s on the way, and Grantaire suspects he’s just here for the sex.

So he tries to kiss the blond, who kisses back just as eagerly, but stops them both in a matter of a few seconds. “I have to pack.” His words brush Grantaire’s lips.

“Then I’m going to take advantage of your water pressure and take a shower while I’m here,” Grantaire says, and proceeds to the bathroom.

It’s not very long, so Grantaire’s out within a couple of minutes, finding Enjolras sitting at the table, sipping at his coffee.

Grantaire had gotten dressed in the bathroom, but Enjolras notes that the thin green shirt Grantaire had put is showing a thin strip of bare skin just above his waist, and his curls are wet ringlets off his head.

“Enj, are--Are you staring at me?” Grantaire asks mockingly. In response, Enjolras directs his eyes towards his coffee in front of him and ignores the flush in his cheeks.

Grantaire reaches out for the mug and takes a sip. “There’s some in the pot, you know,” Enjolras mutters before snatching it back. Grantaire shrugs but doesn’t make his own cup, and Enjolras picks up his suitcase.

“C’mon,” he mumbles, opening the front door and stepping out. He sets his suitcase in the back of the car and sits in the passenger seat.

“You weren’t kidding when you asked me to drive you,” Grantaire mumbles and starts the car.

They go half way without bickering.

“Why are you turning the heat on?” asks Enjolras, who is layered in a long sleeve shirt and jacket.

“Because it’s fucking cold, Enjolras,” Grantaire shoots back, his eyes not wandering from the road.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have taken a shower, Grantaire,” Enjolras mocks. “Who would ever think to leave the house with wet hair is beyond me,” he mutters to himself.

“I’m in a committed relationship with your shower. She was calling to me,” says Grantaire, fighting the smile that’s plastered on his face.

“She’s seeing other men,” Enjolras retorts seriously, and things seem normal for a while.

The rest of the way is almost silent, except for when Grantaire steals Enjolras’ cup of coffee and proceeds to drink almost all of it, ignoring Enjolras’ attempts at protest.

At the airport, he sees Enjolras off, and it should be awkward, what with the do we kiss or hug or handshake but it’s not. Enjolras notices Grantaire’s confusion and laughs, not in a mean way, but soon the dark haired man joins in and when they call five minutes until the gate closes, Enjolras waves while walking towards the gate and his lips quirk upward in a smile.

Chapter Text

“It’s boring here,” Grantaire says. Even though Enjolras isn’t at all enjoying the trip he’d wanted to take since the beginning of the year, he wouldn’t admit that.

It wasn’t mandatory--a three day stay in Washington, D.C.--they left the day exams were finished, leaving no time for a break--that included a tour, which is something any politics student would love to get their hands on, and a class that even the teacher was dying to go to. Enjolras, of course, was lucky enough to be able to go.

The hotel room isn’t too extravagant. It isn’t at all small, though. There was a reason the trip cost more than a thousand dollars.

“You just miss me,” Enjolras accuses. Grantaire’s adjusting the phone so it’s resting on his neck, making him able to continue sketching.

Grantaire yawns and lazily replies, “I also miss your stubble when your head’s between my--”

“You’re killing me,” Enjolras says, getting ready for his class now forgotten. “It’s too frustrating to know that you’re there and I’m here and I’m not coming home for three more days.” Enjolras continues, “And then you call me with things like this.”

“Keep talking,” Grantaire says between ragged breathing.

“Are you--Grantaire, are you getting off to my voice?” Enjolras asks.

“Maybe--” Grantaire’s cut off my his own debauched moan. “Okay, not maybe. Yes, I am, so keep talking.”

“Are you trying to have phone sex with me?” Grantaire makes an impatient noise. “Sorry, sorry. I miss you, too,” Enjolras starts, “and your cock in my mouth, and what you taste like--God, Grantaire, what you look like gripping the sheets might be my favorite thing.” Enjolras pauses, and Grantaire groans, stroking his cock faster.

“I fucking hate you--Don’t stop, keep going,” Grantaire doesn’t hide the breaks in his words.

“It’s very inconvenient that I have a class in ten minutes,” Enjolras says and tries to tame his flushed look. “But I’ll text you later.” His voice doesn’t hide the grin he’s wearing.

“Hate you,” Grantaire groans, his voice breathy.

“Talk to you soon,” Enjolras hangs up, his voice hurried.

[Grantaire: it’s nice to know that you have to go somewhere while i can sit in my apartment]

[Grantaire: how long will it take for you to have to go into the bathroom to jerk off]

[Enjolras: This isn’t what I meant by ‘I’ll talk to you soon’]

[Grantaire: did you mean that after the meeting you can tell me how you’d fuck me if i was there with you]

[Grantaire: because i’m not at all patient]

[Grantaire: of all people, you’d know that, with me begging for you before you even touch me]

[Enjolras: It’s starting now]

[Grantaire: isn’t that inconvenient]

[Grantaire: pants are also inconvenient. especially right now]

[Grantaire: that’s why mine are off]

[Enjolras: You’re killing me]

Enjolras sets the phone upside down and turns it on silent, but his fingers itch to reach for it when it lights up.

So he does.

[Grantaire: you sound like me when you say that]

[Enjolras: Except you’re louder in bed]

[Grantaire: look he’s getting the hang of it]

[Enjolras: Does it amuse you that I’ve never been so hard in my life]

[Grantaire: god i wish you were here]

[Grantaire: your hand feels much better around my cock than mine does]

Grantaire gets a phone call and smirks when he sees the name.

“You didn’t last very long,” Grantaire says into the phone, his voice low and husky. He can hear Enjolras’ heavy breathing and his strained whimpers.

“Fuck you,” Enjolras breathlessly moans behind gritted teeth.

“You’re the one who decided to go on the trip instead of fucking me over a table. But I can use my imagination, so it’s okay,” he continues, his hand stroking his cock faster.

“I hate you,” Enjolras groans as he comes, and Grantaire follows him only a few moments after, collapsing back on the couch.

“I’ll see you when you get back, then,” Grantaire says smugly, hanging up the phone and getting something to clean up with.

Because of his absence, their friends demand to see Enjolras right when he got off the plane, delaying Grantaire’s plans until later that night.

Courfeyrac volunteers to drive Enjolras home from the airport, and they walk into the Musain an hour after Courf left, around seven in the evening.

Grantaire tries really hard not to look up, but fails.

Enjolras is breathtaking, as always. He’s changed into a casual shirt and jeans, and his hair a mess. He’s talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and his posture is relaxed while his expression playful.

“You couldn’t be more obvious,” Eponine snaps, taking a drink of her bottle and sliding into the seat next to Jehan, glancing over at Marius. She turns her gaze to Jehan and calls him out on it, also. “You, too.”

Jehan blushes but Grantaire holds his glare and says, “It’s not like you don’t do your share of pining.”

“That was before,” she mumbles, scowling, but brushing off their raised eyebrows. Jehan stays quiet, though his eyes reflect empathy. “But, that’s why we have each other, right?” She says, clearly sarcastic and joking, and picks up a bottle of beer from the table.

Jehan sighs airily, taking a drink out of his coffee before hunching over to write something down in his notebook.

Grantaire grumbles and gets up. Before leaving the Musain, he stops to smoke outside.

“Going somewhere?” Enjolras’ playful tone reaches him, and it would startle Grantaire if he wasn’t so used to it.

“Art museum,” Grantaire explains with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Every week they showcase a new student’s art. Apparently this week it’s mine.”

“Can I come?” Enjolras blurts out, and once Grantaire has gotten past the shock, he nods his head.

“You just got back, don’t you have--I don’t know, activist stuff to work on?” Grantaire asks, his eyebrows furrowed because, really, why would Enjolras want to go anywhere with him?

“I’d rather come with you, actually,” Enjolras says, sincerity in his voice. He can see the self conscious look in Grantaire’s eyes.

“Oh. Okay, yeah, sure. It’s this way,” Grantaire mumbles, motioning to his left. Enjolras falls in step beside him, and the walk is short but quiet. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, either; Grantaire blows smoke out of his mouth while Enjolras smiles fondly every few minutes.

Walking up the steps to the museum, Enjolras has to stare at the statue out front in awe. It’s simple, really, only a young man raising a flag, and is made out of copper. Before he gets the time to ask about it, Grantaire is walking away.

Grantaire decides to take the long way to the back, stopping by his favorite piece.

The first one is by Benjamin West, and is titled Pylades and Orestes Brought as Victims before Iphigenia.

The dark haired man looks intently and passionately at the painting, as he so often does when he looks at art that inspires him.

“The shepherd brought the two men before Iphigenia. They grew up together, considered each other a brother, and he--and they loved each other.” Grantaire doesn’t tear his eyes off the painting. He does, though, run a hand through his hair self consciously.

Enjolras stares at the beautiful art, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“Anyways,” Grantaire clears his throat, moving on to the back of the museum. There’s only a few people walking around the museum, mostly couples on their lazy Sundays. The air is filled with the smells of the coffee shop and of old paint.

They stop in front of a messy watercolor, and the painting looks like it’s based off of the Pylades and Orestes one, but looks different. In it, one man is reaching for the other’s hand. The one who’s tall and strong is standing in front of a window, giving the effect of a halo, while the more slender and broken one is shrunken down into a secluded corner, looking up at the other man, stretching out one arm upwards. Their hair is curly and has a crown of green leaves in it, but the bold one’s is long and light, pulled back in a neat black ribbon, while the other man’s is dark and messy.

“Is this--?” Enjolras starts to ask, but is interrupted by Grantaire.

“It’s Achilles and Patroclus,” Grantaire lies, because he doesn’t want to admit that yes, this is the cynic who calls himself Grantaire and the fierce leader Enjolras. He does tell the backstory, though, just substitutes different names in. “Achilles is standing, brave and proud while Patroclus is shrunken down. He tries to reach out to him, but--Achilles,” he catches himself from saying the wrong name, “doesn’t notice because he’s too focused on what’s in front of him.” Everything’s rushed out, nothing at all like when he was explaining the famous piece of art.

Enjolras doesn’t question the piece further, just gives him an encouraging smile.

“Is this your final portfolio?” Enjolras asks, keeping the conversation going. Grantaire puts a hand behind his neck and shakes his head.

“No, I’m--It’s not this.” Grantaire drops his hand and stares ahead of him, his eyes locked on the watercolor.

“Can I see it?”

Grantaire hesitates and thinks about the consequences. Enjolras will most definitely recognize it’s himself, and that may be horrible.

“Yeah,” he gives in, running a hand through his hair. “It’s--um, it’s in the art building, if you want to walk there.”

“Lead the way.” Enjolras motions in front of him, following behind Grantaire until the artist grabs his hand, pulling Enjolras beside him.

“It’s--the studio isn’t far from here,” Grantaire says while they’re walking.

They pass multiple cafes and bake shops before reaching it. It’s a simple building, really, small and made out of brick. The windows are small, but there’s example pieces of work showcased in them. One is a sculpture of a bird, another is a charcoal drawing of the Empire State building, and then Enjolras’ eyes reach Grantaire’s piece.

Oil paint on canvas, and it’s breathtakingly beautiful.

Enjolras has lips parted slightly upon seeing the Apollo incarnate.

“It’s, um--I finished it in two days, so--” Grantaire starts, putting a hand at the nape of his neck. Enjolras turns around to meet his eyes, and Grantaire flinches, ready for the reaction of seeing yourself painted canvas.

“It’s beautiful,” Enjolras says, glancing back at the painting. Grantaire grins and grabs Enjolras’ hand again, pulling him in the direction of his apartment.

Chapter Text

The walk home was quiet, but it wasn’t awkwardly silent. The sound of footsteps against cement in the morning and the feeling of another person’s weight in his hand is comforting, and Grantaire can’t help but smile every few moments when he thinks about it.

Before Enjolras can wrap his head around the feeling of holding hands, though, they’ve reached Grantaire’s apartment and he’s dragging him inside, pulling him into a kiss that made him panting for more.

They stumble in, tripping on their lost clothing items and stumbling over the furniture.

Enjolras moans into Grantaire's mouth, ripping the hem of the shirt over Grantaire's head because he needs to be touching him, there can’t be any space between them.

Grantaire leads them to the bedroom, losing their belts and shoes and pants. Enjolras leans him down on the bed and hovers over the dark haired man, rolling his hips down.

"Fuck," Enjolras says, resting his forehead on Grantaire's, sliding down both of their boxers.

"Drawer," Grantaire chokes out between the strokes Enjolras is gripping on his cock. He whimpers once Enjolras' hand is gone, but Enjolras replaces the absence with a finger in his entrance dripping with lube.

Grantaire groans, not being able to restrain himself, because shit, he’s fucked people with a lot less lube than this, and Enjolras’ finger is hitting his prostate and he’s shaking.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers, hoarsely, writhing underneath Enjolras.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras mocks while sucking on a nipple, his eyes flicking up and looking at Grantaire from under his eyelashes, letting out breathy moans.

“I need--” his voice breaks with a moan “--more, faster.”

Enjolras adds a second finger and hooks them, pressing against that spot again and he’s watching Grantaire fall apart beneath him.

Three fingers in and Enjolras rolls a condom on his cock while Grantaire grips the sheets.

Grantaire moans out curses and pleads. “I hate you so much, Enjolras, just fuck me, oh my god--” His sentence is choked off by a sudden intake of breath, because Enjolras doesn’t push in slowly, he fucks Grantaire into the mattress. Brutally slamming his hips down and drawing noises they both didn’t think they could ever make. It’s desperate and feverish, leaving them glistened with sweat.

“Holy fuck,” Grantaire chokes out, his words drawing into a moan.

Enjolras sucks spots along Grantaire’s collarbone, he bucks his hips hard enough to cause the books on the end table to fall over. Grantaire’s scratching down Enjolras’ back, pulling at his hair, biting his neck.

The sound of skin on skin if wonderful, and Enjolras licks at the nape of Grantaire’s neck, kissing and biting and sucking there.

The blond groans, tightening his hold in Grantaire’s hair and then stroking Grantaire’s cock when they’re both close, and he comes in Grantaire. Enjolras pulls out and takes Grantaire in a shaky hand, stroking without a rhythm as he recovers from his orgasm.

Grantaire’s hands are fisted into Enjolras’ hair, tugging on the blond curls with more force than Enjolras has ever felt.

“Enjolras--” Grantaire’s come gets on his stomach and Enjolras’ hand. Enjolras pulls out and they’re both gasping and shuddering, unable to form coherent sentences.

The blond gets up to get a washcloth while Grantaire lays there, curled up and tired.

Enjolras drags the warm cloth across his stomach and his own hand, sending chills up Grantaire’s spine. They’re both naked, and Grantaire is curled up with an arm flung across Enjolras. Neither of them try to move it.

They’re awake and breathless for a while, and Enjolras traces his fingers lightly along the bones of Grantaire’s hips. He doesn’t restrain himself this time, though, as he presses kisses to Enjolras and his bare chest.

Grantaire falls asleep first, sighing happily into the covers, while Enjolras is still awake, not being able to drift off. Minutes after Grantaire’s closed his eyes, he’s mumbling Enjolras’ name and other slurred words.

Enjolras tries to forget about it.

Grantaire jerks awake at dawn, Enjolras clinging to him again, in a cold sweat.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers and tries to be gentle. “Enjolras.” He shakes the man he’s sharing a bed with.

“Mm--What?” Enjolras groans, twisting and stretching, taking the blankets off of Grantaire.

“‘Ponine likes to come home from the bars at this hour,” he explains, assuming Enjolras definitely doesn’t want Eponine to know they’re fucking.

Enjolras nods and then gets up, and the light hits that the side of his body makes Grantaire’s breath hitch.

“Tell Eponine I said hi,” he says, his tone playful, before shutting the bedroom door and letting himself out.

Grantaire just breathes for a few minutes before getting up and throwing clothes on.

There’s whiskey waiting for him in the kitchen, and he grabs it, taking a swig while sitting down on their couch. It’s not long before Grantaire is drunk, his pain numbed and his thoughts fuzzy.

Eponine comes home a little while after Grantaire passes out, light streaks of morning shining through their little windows.

“R, where are you?” Eponine calls, stumbling through their shitty apartment. She finds him curled up on the couch, strong alcohol clutched in his hands. “Grantaire?”

“Hey, Ep,” he slurs back, picking his head up slightly.

She’s seen this before, and she’s been on the other end more than a few times.

“Want to talk about it?” Eponine asks, brushing back the dark curls off Grantaire’s forehead.

“I shouldn’t be like this,” Grantaire starts in the middle of the story, “because at least I get a little bit of him.” Eponine places a kiss to his temple, not quite understanding but still following. “Right? I mean, it could be someone else. I could be having sex for money to buy alcohol and he could be fucking Courf or Feuilly or anyone willing. Because who wouldn’t be willing?”

“What do you mean, Grantaire?” Eponine sighs, stroking his hair back absentmindedly.

“It’s not real. And I want it to be real, but that’s too selfish, right? I should just be happy it’s me and not someone else,” Grantaire murmurs, and Eponine is still very confused. “I guess it’s worse than fucking someone for money, though, because I love him and the other people are just strangers.” He continues, “It’s my fault, too. He probably thought I don’t care about anything and then I agreed to this, which confirmed that.”

Eponine sighs again, because even though everyone else thinks Grantaire doesn’t care about anything, there is actually quite a lot he does care for. People just don’t bother to notice.

“I’m fucked up,” Grantaire mutters before nuzzling his head on Eponine’s shoulder, falling asleep like that.

Chapter Text

Enjolras does slip into states of moping, sometimes, whether it be because of the stress from school or their protest went wrong or, in this case, not knowing how to handle his feelings.

Combeferre walks into the house to see Enjolras with his head in his hands and Courfeyrac nowhere to be seen.

Immediately, he makes coffee for them both, and sets Enjolras’ on the table while sipping his own. Combeferre’s hair is messy and his stubble has grown in, like he’s only been getting a few hours of sleep each night.

“Something’s wrong,” Enjolras guesses after seeing Combeferre’s appearance.

“I could say the same for you,” he replies, evenly, raising his eyebrows. Enjolras has the purple color of the sleep deprived under his eyes, too. The blond just groans and puts his head back in his hands, and Combeferre sighs, “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No,” Enjolras looks up and snaps without thinking it over. Combeferre treads lightly, because feelings aren’t generally something Enjolras ever wants to talk about. “Yes--In a minute,” he mends softly and sips his coffee.

After a deep breath, Enjolras slowly meets Combeferre’s eyes. He stays mute, staring intently at the other man.

“Is it someone?” Combeferre asks, slightly exasperated he has to coax the information out of Enjolras.

“Yes,” Enjolras mutters hoarsely, flicking his eyes down at the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Then, Enjolras continues so quietly that Combeferre would’ve missed it, “Grantaire.”

“Can I ask what happened?” Combeferre pushes. Both of them don’t speak for a few minutes, and his question hangs in the air.

“I’m fucking him,” Enjolras answers and breaks through the silence with hard words. Angry words. “And he hates me,” he mutters.

“He couldn’t ever hate you.” Enjolras’ cold eyes find Combeferre’s. The blond’s posture is slouched, and it would be alarming to see Enjolras like this if it was anyone but Combeferre.

He laughs bitterly-- “No, he does. And I don’t blame him.” Combeferre pushes up his glasses and runs a hand through his hair.

“And you don’t plan to tell him about your feelings?” He asks, moving on with the questioning. His voice betrays no pity, he is a student finding the best possible solution, as well as being a friend.

“What feelings?” Enjolras snaps, bitterly. It’s so like what Enjolras used to do, deny his feelings until they eventually went away. “I don’t see how that would help my situation,” Enjolras adds more quietly and grimaces.

Combeferre presses his lips together and nods tightly. “He doesn’t hate you,” he says after a while, and Enjolras starts to protest again. “No, he doesn’t,” Combeferre cuts him off, though still being gentle and reassuring. “It’s Grantaire, in what world could he hate you?”

“After all I’ve done to make it quite clear that I despise him, he could.” Enjolras tugs at his hair, giving up but still frustrated.

Combeferre sighs, exasperated. “He doesn’t,” he repeats. “You could ask him, but there’s no need for that because he doesn’t,” Combeferre stresses, and Enjolras’ head sinks further in his hands.

“How do you know?” Enjolras asks, muffled from his palms.

“I just do,” Combeferre insists and nudges Enjolras to make him drink the coffee. Enjolras just shakes his head no. “You’ll feel like shit later,” he pesters, and, reluctantly, Enjolras picks up the mug.

“I feel like shit now,” Enjolras mutters under his breath, but takes gulps until the coffee’s gone, and once it is, he curls back up on the couch. Sighing, Combeferre pulls out his phone. “What are you doing?” Enjolras groans, his head lifting off the cushion.

“I’m calling Jehan.” Combeferre presses button and lifts the phone up to his ear.

“Why?”

“Jehan has the ability to cheer anyone up, I do believe,” Combeferre says with a smile.

Jehan shows up fifteen minutes later, carrying tea that’s Enjolras’ favorite.

Enjolras doesn’t usually let anyone see him like this, frustrated and nothing he can do about it. Rarely does Combeferre see it, but he slowly lets his wall down in front of Jehan.

So Enjolras tells most of the story, but gives no names.

Jehan tries his best not to look giddy. “It looks like you’re in love,” he says sweetly with a sad smile.

“Are you judging by how I look like shit or my situation?” Enjolras asks sarcastically, brooding. Jehan had picked up on his appearance the moment he walked through the door, but decided not to say anything about it.

“He’s in love,” Jehan confirms it to Combeferre, who nods.

“I’m not in love. I wouldn’t reduce myself to a purely idiotic waste of my time,” Enjolras spits, frustratedly sipping the tea Jehan brought him.

Combeferre wouldn’t normally tease, but he needs the tension relief. “Jehan’s right. We could call up Joly to confirm all of the symptoms you’re showing.”

“I'm not,” Enjolras snaps, struggling to contain his smile. It’s true, though, and he could tell, because he wouldn’t normally smile at that, and love has made him softer.

Jehan sighs airily, “So who is it?” Combeferre’s eyes narrowed on Enjolras’ uneasy expression.

“It’s no one,” Enjolras explains, sounding sure. Jehan nods, sad and knowing, before checking his phone.

“Will you be all right?” He asks after announcing Courfeyrac wanted him. Combeferre nods while Enjolras struggles not to sink back into the couch. So Jehan leaves, pulling on a coat before closing the door.

“Your turn,” Enjolras says grimly, and Combeferre grimaces.

He just shakes his head. “Just finals and the protests. And the, you know,” he motions to Enjolras’ face and hesitates. “What if they come back?”

“They haven’t yet, I doubt they will now.”

Combeferre nods, and Enjolras goes along with it. “You’ll be okay?” Combeferre asks, already pulling out his phone and standing up. Once he’s got Enjolras’ nod, he says in a teasing tone, “Talk things over with Grantaire.”

Enjolras winces and nods tightly, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Chapter Text

It’s not like the sex changes anything.

Grantaire still makes annoying, unnecessary, disagreeing comments, Enjolras still snaps at him for it. There’s still disdain in Enjolras’ eyes whenever Grantaire opens one more bottle, or whenever Enjolras is informed Courfeyrac is at Grantaire’s getting high.

And it’s always angry hate sex, rough and unforgiving. Enjolras’ eyes are hard as flint, cold as ice. It’s filled with biting and scratching and pulling each other’s hair and nothing at all that Grantaire wants but everything that Grantaire can hope for.

If Enjolras finds Grantaire passed out drunk, he’s more angry than hurt. Which is the reaction that Grantaire expects, because it’s what always happened before.

It’s a plus, though, that they still keep their relationship like it was, because it gives their friends nothing to be suspicious about.

Grantaire tries to keep the touching to a minimum, unless they’re fucking each other into the mattress. They don’t kiss, really, unless it’s rushed and sloppy before they fall into bed. Grantaire wants so badly to brush their knuckles together, or bump his nose into the spot on his neck that Enjolras likes, or kiss his eyelids right before he’s about to fall asleep.

But, he refrains from doing so, because he needs to be the emotionless asshole Enjolras wants him to be.

So Enjolras is here, pinned down by Grantaire’s hips, and their mouths connect only for the few minutes it takes to get half undressed.

“Grantaire--?” Enjolras starts, taking off his shirt, but is lacking its usual fuck you God Grantaire I hate you so much hiss behind his words. The blond hesitates, his lips lingering longer than a fraction of a second.

Grantaire mumbles, “What?”’ into Enjolras’ mouth, pausing to look up. There’s a familiar lust in his eyes, but Enjolras has a self conscious air around him.

He can see Enjolras swallow hard, and Grantaire presses his lips to the throat with the hint of teeth before looking back at the blond man under him.

“Will you take me?” Instead of coming out nervous and small, like Enjolras had accepted earlier on, it’s low and steady. This is new territory, and it makes Grantaire freeze.

Grantaire forgets how to breathe for a minute, and Enjolras is terrified if he’s asked for something Grantaire doesn’t want to give him.

“Will I--God, Enj, yes,” he whispers, and then the awkwardness is back. “How do you want to, uh--” Grantaire starts, but it’s, surprisingly, cut off by Enjolras’ lips.

“Like this,” Enjolras mumbles into the other man’s mouth, and Grantaire almost goes completely red because they’re never done this before, never faced each other or looked at each other or showed any emotion other than hate during sex.

“Let me just, um,” Grantaire says, reaching out to grab the lube.

Enjolras notices something and decides he’s not going to let it go unnoticed.

“You’re shaking,” he points out, motioning to Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire freezes, making the shaking even more noticeable.

“So?” Grantaire asks, trying to brush it off.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras starts, his voice calm and steadying and everything Grantaire really wishes it isn’t. “Are you--” his voice breaks and it makes Grantaire just a little more shaky, “Are you nervous?”

“Nope,” Grantaire responds with ease.

“Oh,” says Enjolras. “Because if you are, you know--” he hesitates, and continues in a voice so small it’s scary, “--I am, too.”

“You are?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras nods, not meetin Grantaire's eyes. “Have you--?”

He’s answered with Enjolras shaking his head no, and Enjolras’ stoic face is betrayed by his eyes: shy and scared and nothing at all like the Enjolras everyone knows.

“Well, fuck, Enjolras--” Grantaire stops short, because he can’t exactly come out and say I don’t want to be your first because I’m nowhere near good enough for you. There’s a beat of silence, where both of them are breathing fast and their eyes are locked on each other’s.

“Are you sure?” Grantaire asks instead, swallowing hard, waiting for the answer.

Enjolras nods, and Grantaire gives in. He moves down Enjolras’ body, and it’s so fucking slow compared to how they usually go. Grantaire starts to slide Enjolras’ jeans and boxers down and can see Enjolras is already starting to get hard, but stops and kisses the blond’s hipbones, letting a finger trail along the exposed skin.

“Beautiful,” Grantaire murmurs, barely loud enough for Enjolras to hear.

The best part is that Enjolras isn’t even protesting.

In fact, the soft noises in the back of his throat are encouraging Grantaire.

Once Enjolras’ boxers are down, Grantaire moves back up just as slowly, kissing spots along the way. Grantaire kisses him, trailing his tongue over the blond’s lower lip. This pulls a moan out of Enjolras, and Grantaire pauses to cover his fingers in lube.

“You’ll tell me if I’m hurting you?” Grantaire asks, sincerity in his eyes; Enjolras nods with his head thrown back and Grantaire pushes a finger in.

Enjolras stiffens, having never done this before, and then moans as he relaxes, growing accustomed to Grantaire’s pace. He takes his time stretching out Enjolras with one finger first, until Enjolras’ moans are consistent, and then Grantaire continues. He adds a second finger and Enjolras is louder, and both of them are grateful they’re alone in the house.

He curls both his fingers inside Enjolras, which makes Enjolras call out Grantaire’s name, and the dark haired man smiles while placing kisses on Enjolras’ temple. Enjolras tangles his fingers in Grantaire’s hair, tugging whenever pleasure shoots through his abdomen.

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut, moaning when Grantaire adds a third finger, his thrusts becoming more sure and prominent. They both breathe faster, heavier, and the blond moans.

“Grantaire--” His voice breaks off into a gasp. “‘Taire, please--” Grantaire silences him by moving up and pressing his lips chastely to Enjolras’. He pulls away, sliding down his boxers, rolls on a condom, and gives his lubed cock a few strokes, all in a matter of a minute.

Positioning himself at Enjolras’ entrance, he has to make sure again. “Is this okay?” Grantaire asks, and there isn’t enough lust in the world to cover up the nervousness and fear in his eyes.

“Yes--” Enjolras chokes out, and Grantaire slowly pushing in, waiting for the moment Enjolras screams at him to stop but is only met with Enjolras reaching down to stroke himself, his eyes closed.

“Let me.” Grantaire wraps his hand around Enjolras’, stroking to match the rhythm and pace he has set. His eyes are locked on Grantaire’s, and he’s breathing fast and heavy. As soon as Enjolras starts to flutter his eyes, he whispers, “Look at me,” and holds their gaze. He searches for any sign of hurt of discomfort and is met with none.

The blond bites his lip, and Grantaire leans forward again to kiss him.

Enjolras doesn’t hold back his noise, and neither does Grantaire, because this is different than all of the times they’ve fucked. Instead of scratching, Enjolras whimpers--an honest-to-God fucking whimper--into Grantaire’s mouth, and Grantaire moans back, looking into his eyes.

Grantaire’s doesn’t change his pace. He draws things out, thrusting in slowly and pulling out so only the tip of his cock in inside Enjolras before moving back in again, making Enjolras shake and writhe under him,  

Enjolras shouts Grantaire’s name as they come, and neither of them scream I hate you at all. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.

Quietly, between shaky breathes, Grantaire whispers (and prays Enjolras doesn’t hear him but secretly hopes he does), “I love you.” Enjolras doesn’t stiffen or turn away, so Grantaire assumes the former.

Enjolras reluctantly goes up to get a washcloth, and he comes back to Grantaire laying lazily on the bed. He slides the cloth across Grantaire’s abdomen, watching a trail of goosebumps rise and humming slightly. A sleepy grin spreads across Grantaire’s face and he lets Enjolras clean him up.

It’s natural now, the way they fit together like a puzzle. The curve of Grantaire’s back fits snugly against Enjolras’ side, and their hands always find a way to twine together.

In the middle of the night, Grantaire tends to curl in on himself at the edge of the bed while sleeping, dragging the blankets with him. Enjolras spreads out, limbs taking up most of the space. Since it’s freezing, he tucks Grantaire into his side, wrapping his arm around him and pulling the blanket up to cover both of them.

Grantaire opens his eyes to see the sun shining through the window making a halo out of the blond curls in front of him. It’s wild and unruly, sticking up in every direction. Enjolras’ breath is still slow and even, but he starts to stir.

“Morning,” Enjolras mumbles with his eyes still closed. He opens them and squints from the sunlight, creating crinkles by his eyes, and Grantaire smiles because, frankly, this is the happiest he’s been.

“Good morning,” Grantaire whispers hoarsely. Enjolras leans down and presses his lips to Grantaire’s forehead and, momentarily, Grantaire stops breathing. And, making the situation so much better but worse, Enjolras trails his thumb lightly over Grantaire’s cheekbone.

“Pancakes?” Enjolras asks, but, even though Grantaire’s pancakes are absolutely delicious, he really just wants Grantaire to stay longer.

Enjolras leaves kisses on Grantaire’s shoulder as they’re getting out of bed, and they lazily put on pants. No one says anything when they grab each other’s shirts and pull them on.

Grantaire makes pancakes again, they’re perfect as always, and Courf comes back after the artist leaves.

Enjolras sits as the kitchen table, drinking his coffee like last time.

Courfeyrac’s lips quirk up, and his eyebrows follow, but he says nothing and carries on to his bedroom.

Chapter Text

Their group of friends did notice earlier in the week how Enjolras looked slightly less stressed, though they just figured it was because the exams were over. His jaw wasn’t clenched so often and his temper didn’t flare up every time someone made a snappy comment. There was more drinking and laughing and having fun, and though they were grateful for the change, they were also suspicious.

So, he arrives at the Musain just a few hours after meeting with Grantaire, his face is still flushed but his hair is tame, even though Courfeyrac got a glimpse of it, very unruly, before driving over here as well.

“So, who is it?” Courf asks, casually. Their corner of the cafe grows quiet.

“Who’s what?” Enjolras retorts, just as casually. A hand goes through his hair and he looks around at the eyes of his friends. The flush in his cheeks is gone, though his heart’s still beating fast because he’s still human inside.

“I saw you earlier, and that wasn’t just bed hair.” His friends snicker while Courf smirks, and no one except Jehan notices Grantaire come in, paying for a cup of coffee at the counter.

The drinker’s eyes glance up, and he realizes what’s happening.

“Enjolras is dating someone?” Bossuet questions, clueless but still amused all the same.

Jehan sees Grantaire’s face go red. “Oh,” Jehan says quietly but just enough for Courf to hear, because Jehan thinks Grantaire’s upset over Enjolras in a relationship. “Courf--” he snaps, trying to stop him.

Little does he know.

So Courfeyrac laughs and makes another joke, “Surely it’s not Grantaire,” and the dark haired man clears his throat awkwardly before pressing his lips into a thin line.

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre hisses, but it’s too late. Grantaire’s taken into account what’s happening and is slowly backing up, realization and hurt spread across his face.

“No, we’re not dating,” Enjolras states, his voice hard and his eyes locked on Grantaire’s. Both of their eyes are angry, Enjolras’ ice and Grantaire’s fire.

Eponine gets it now. The drawings, they finally have a face. It’s Enjolras, and what Grantaire was mumbling drunkenly, that was about Enjolras, too.

And how Courfeyrac had brought up casual sex, and now the sex hair, and oh god.

“No fucking way,” she spits, just as Grantaire’s turning around to leave, but no one notices because all attention is turned towards Enjolras. “That’s all it is? You’re just fucking him?” Eponine growls, clearly angry.

Enjolras stares at her blankly. “That was the point,” he says slowly, choosing his words carefully because he’s not sure about anything right now, and his eyes are showing fear--if there’s one person Enjolras is afraid of, it’s Eponine.

“I don’t know how your thought process works, but I can’t even try to understand how you could do this to him,” she snaps.

Enjolras keeps staring.

“Please don’t tell me you’re actually that blind,” she continues, “because you’re a smart man, Enjolras, so I know you’re not fucking stupid.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Enjolras admits, his shoulders sagging.

“You haven’t been aware of how much he’s in love with you?” Eponine demands, and Enjolras can only blink. “No, of course not, because how could someone be that cruel to do that to them,” she rants, her face getting hot. “How could you have just used him and then ignore his fucking feelings for you?”

Enjolras stutters, “I don’t use him. I didn’t know, and--”

“What if it was you?” Eponine asks, her eyes narrow. “What if the only person you ever believed in fucks around with you and tosses you to the side, not caring about how you felt?”

“I thought--”

“You thought fucking wrong,” Eponine interrupts. “Even though it seems he could care less about anything that happens, he does care about something: You. Which, in my opinion, is insanely stupid because he knew it would end up like this.”

“I didn’t know,” Enjolras snaps back just ask fiercely.

“Of course you fucking didn’t, because you’re blind to things right in front of you. Just forget it,” she says, her words coming out in a growl. “You could try to fix things with him, but I have no guarantees he’ll even talk to you.”

Sighing angrily, Enjolras stands up and makes his way out of the Musain, and everyone’s eyes are on him.

Grantaire is, surprisingly, standing there, smoking and pinching the bridge of his nose, praying his headache will go away.

“Can we talk?” Enjolras asks, and it’s cautious and nothing like before. Before Grantaire can turn away, he grabs the man’s arm, but without the familiar roughness.

“There isn’t anything we need to discuss,” Grantaire snaps before jerking his arm away. Enjolras only tightens his grip.

“There is,” Enjolras stresses. “Now that I’m...aware of your feelings, it’s led me to see--to think about--” Enjolras drops his hand when Grantaire interrupts him.

“Oh, just because Apollo’s gotten his shit together means I’m supposed to stop everything?” Grantaire looks furious, and Enjolras notes he has every right to be. He takes a long drag off his cigarette, needing it to calm his thoughts.

“Apollo?” Enjolras asks, because it’s absurd anyone would call him that.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, because of course, it’s not like you don’t own a mirror, and Enjolras drops it.

He tries again, clearing his throat. “I’d like it if we could talk.” Grantaire stays silent, thinking about what could possible come out of this conversation. “Grantaire?”

“What would you like to talk about first?” He asks in a quiet tone, not ready for this conversation.

“I realize now how incredibly wrong it was for me to do--to take advantage of you, like that,” Enjolras starts, but is interrupted.

“Believe me, the fault is mostly on my end--”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does, because I was selfish enough to take whatever you’d give me and I was fine with none of you so obviously I was ecstatic with some of you, so it’s my fault for agreeing.” Granatire rushes out the words, like he doesn’t want to say them at all but needs to. “But it’s okay, right? Because there were no feelings involved, so none of this matters.” Grantaire backs up slowly.

“Grantaire--”

“You haven’t noticed?” asks Grantaire in a strangled voice, hoarse and thick. “But really, Enjolras, did you not realize--did you think that no one would fall in love with you after some time, let alone I wouldn’t?”

There’s silence, and Enjolras holds his breath.

“It’s fine, whatever, we can forget it ever happened, if you want.” Grantaire turns and walks quickly down the sidewalk.

Enjolras watches him go.

Chapter Text

Grantaire crashes at Cosette’s mansion-of-a-house, bringing his paint with him. She happily agrees to pose for him and to not tell anyone he’s here.

“What about your final portfolio?” Cosette asks, looking confused.

“Already turned it in,” Grantaire mumbles with a brush in his mouth and adjusts the canas.

“Oh,” Cosette says simply, and turns her head when Grantaire asks her. “What are you painting with?”

“Oil paints,” he replies and dabs at some blue color that matches her eyes. She hums a song he didn’t know the words to before starting to look bored. “You can come sit and watch, if you want.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a model?” She asks, leaning forward slightly. Grantaire nods and smiles when she comes rushing over.

“I look--” Cosette starts, and he holds his breath, waiting for the response, “Beautiful. You made me look elegant, regal, like someone from the Renaissance.” She gasps and he’s pretty sure he can see a sparkle in her eyes.

His phone buzzes with texts, and he can’t just ignore his friends, even though he really wants to. So he picks it up and scrolls through the names, the first one, obviously, is Eponine.

[Eponine: please come back]

[Eponine: grantaire please don’t be lying dead somewhere]

It killed him not to run into her arms, because she’s as broken as he is.

[Grantaire: i’m fine, ep]

[Eponine: then come stop pouting and come back home]

Ah, of course Eponine was scolding him now she knew he was okay. So he doesn’t text back now that she’s reassured.

[Eponine: so you’re ignoring me]

[Eponine: okay, sorry. you’re probably upset even though you said you’re not because you lie. please come back home]

He checks various ones from various friends, and didn’t actually realize this many people noticed him at all.

[Jehan: I hope you’re okay <3]

[Combeferre: Where did you go? Is this because of the Enjolras thing?]

[Courfeyrac: Grantaire oh my god i’m so sorry i didn’t know]

[Bossuet: Joly thinks you have alcohol poisoning and would like to be informed if you’re drunken and dead]

[Bossuet: I’d like to know too]

[Jehan: Please, we’re all worried about you, just tell us if you’re okay]

They each have their own stabbing kind of pain, but Grantaire’s used to it by now, so he throws his phone on the table and gets back to painting Cosette.

When he dips into the red, his heart sinks. He pushes his thoughts away, though, numbing the pain by focusing on his work.

“It’s even worse than exam week,” Combeferre groans, typing out a text onto his phone.

Enjolras had locked himself in his room the moment he got home, and hasn’t come out at all. Or, if he did, it was when everyone was gone.

Nobody talks about Grantaire, or asks what if he’s dead?, because the walls are very thin and they know how much worse it would make this for Enjolras. But they’re thinking it.

“Enjolras?” Joly asked, knocking softly on the door. His eyebrows furrow when he gets no response, and then goes ahead and lists all of Enjolras’ symptoms.

Lack of appetite, sudden insomnia, little to no motivation...

The more the list grows, the more Joly worries.

“Will you please eat?” Enjolras hears a soft voice--most definitely Jehan. He sits, unblinking, staring at the wall and stays silent. Jehan quietly whispers, “He’ll come back. He just needs space. And time.”

So the poet tiptoes back to the living room.

“I hope he’s okay,” Jehan sighs, sitting down on Combeferre’s sofa, right next to Courfeyrac. Instead of pushing the poet away, because they’re touching each other’s thighs and arms and shoulders, he laces his fingers with Jehan’s.

“Which one?” Courf mumbles and lets Jehan sink into his chest.

Musichetta curls up next to Joly and Bossuet on the chair and sighs, “He hasn’t texted anyone back?”

The people in the room murmur a no, and then, as if on command, Eponine walks through the door, her hair disheveled and her eyes sleepy.

“Talking about Grantaire, are we?” Eponine asks, heading straight for the kitchen. “He said he’s fine, but I suspect he’s lying,” she says, shutting the fridge door. “There’s no beer here, I‘m going home to get drunk.”

“You’ve talked to Grantaire?” Jehan asks, concern in his voice.

“He texted me two words,” Eponine explains, sitting down on the couch despite what she said.

“He didn’t say why he left or what he was doing?” Courfeyrac questions, absentmindedly playing with Jehan’s hair.

“He just needs to be away for a while,” Jehan speaks up, his body still tucked into Courf’s side. They all nod in unison, and try to talk about something else.

The phone buzzes again, and he’s still shocked.

Grantaire rolls over onto his side, grateful that Cosette has a spare bedroom with a bed more comfortable than his own.

On his phone, he sees another text from Jehan, two more from Combeferre, and about a dozen missed calls from Eponine.

[Combeferre: We all miss you a lot, everyone’s really upset that you’re gone, especially Enjolras]

[Combeferre: I think you broke him]

Grantaire fights himself over texting back, and in the end his sleepiness and his self control wins.

The last thing he remembers is Cosette whispering something in his ear and kissing his forehead.

Grantaire busies his mind by painting anything that isn’t Enjolras. There’s a vase of flowers in the room he’s using, so he paints that. Later on it rains, and he drags out his assortment of blues. Then, during sunset, he paints the orange sky and feels only a little bit cliche.

“These are so pretty,” Cosette croons, picking them each up and admiring them. She scans his messy hair and frowns. “You can clean up,” she suggests, motioning towards the bathroom, and he nods thankfully.

His shower doesn’t last long, mostly because he doesn’t trust himself to be alone with his thoughts, so once he’s out, he begins to replicate the night sky, choosing the paint from the colors of the galaxies.

After the second day, things start to go back to normal. The group meets and has coffee at the Musain, they’re almost used to Enjolras and Grantaire being gone.

Enjolras was usually studying for exams while Grantaire sat quietly in the back and drank, so the silence is almost familiar. But, every now and then, they’ll glance at Grantaire’s back corner and won’t find him there, or they’ll look to Enjolras’ table while they’re arguing, expecting him to be there to add his perspective.

And, even though Enjolras and Grantaire are upset, everyone else is happy, curled up on the unnecessary but still loved armchairs the Musain has.

Cosette occupies one, with her sad, knowing eyes. Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta somehow manage to fit all on one of the large chairs, folded and curled into each other.

Understanding that Enjolras and Grantaire just need more time, Jehan is much more content to be with Courfeyrac, holding his hand or whispering poetry in his ear.

Eponine’s still doing badly, though, which unsettles Cosette. She’s disappeared, also, and every time the Musain door opens, Cosette’s head whips around to check and see if it’s the dark haired beauty she’s fascinated by.

And then there’s Bahorel--who, in fact, is upset about losing his drinking partner for the time being.

[Eponine: it’s been three days grantaire please come back]

[Marius: where are u?]

[Jehan: Come back when you feel better <3 Xx]

Grantaire wakes up to these at a very ungodly hour, and he just turns the phone off before drifting back to sleep.

It’s late in the afternoon, but Enjolras doesn’t know that because his curtains are drawn and the blanket’s clutched under his chin and he insists on his eyes never leaving the crack in the wall.

Enjolras, recognizing he has work to do and should probably eat something, walks out of his room and is greeted by his friends.

They don’t rush forward--because it’s Enjolras--but Jehan does quietly gasp, and Courf holds onto his hand tighter.

“Hello,” Enjolras says slowly, going over to the coffee machine. “Who died?” He asks grimly, because the whole house is silent and everyone is staring but glancing away when they’ve realized he’s noticed.

Enjolras shrugs when people stay quiet, running a hand through his hair. He tries not to look too disheveled, but with the circles under his eyes and the pale color of his skin, people worry about him.

Courfeyrac greets him first, tentatively. “Well, don’t you look like a bowl of sunshine?”

Enjolras grins, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sips his coffee, black, even though it usually has sugar and milk in it.

“We were thinking of going to the Musain,” Combeferre starts, cautiously. “Do you want to come?”

Enjolras nods once before diverting his eyes to the ground.

“I’ll even buy you slightly better than low quality coffee,” Combeferre jokes, grabbing his jacket. Enjolras follows him out the door.

“Grantaire.” Cosette smoothes his hair over his head. “Your friends miss you,” she says sadly.

“Don’t worry, ‘m leaving today,” Grantaire slurs.

She nods and stands, saying, “Stay for as long as you need. I’ll be at the Musain later, if you want to come.” Grantaire nods and rubs his eyes, stretching out a yawn.

Minutes after Cosette’s left, he falls back asleep with no prospects of seeing the world or his friends for another few hours.

After what could be considered a hibernation, he groggily pulls on a paint-stained shirt and dirty jeans, running his fingers through his hair.

It’s past seven, dark outside, and he can feel the chilly night air from inside the house. He decides to leave the paintings there and walks out the door, heading in the direction of the cafe.

Chapter Text

The Musain was slow and quiet, with only a couple people coming, but Enjolras is grateful, because it had given him time to clear his head. But now, he sits in a chair and stares at the floor, his thoughts clouded with Grantaire on his mind.

This is why he stayed inside his bedroom, so that he could think things through without curious glances towards him so often. Marius has moved onto staring, with that clueless look on his face, because Enjolras has never showed this much emotion over Grantaire.

Jehan looks up from his notebook with ink smudged on his fingers.

There Grantaire is, stubble grown in and circles under his eyes, standing in the doorway after being gone for three days.

“Hey--?” Grantaire asks slowly, hoping the tension would ease. Enjolras sits in a corner of the room, looking at Grantaire like it was the first time he’s ever seen him. Grantaire doesn’t even spare a glance at the blond once.

“You’re back,” Jehan blurts out, going slightly pink from realizing he’s only stating the obvious. Courfeyrac shifts next to him.

“I am,” Grantaire confirms, running a hand through his hair awkwardly now that the attention is on him. Everyone except Courfeyrac is staring, and mostly because he’s playing with Jehan’s hair.

“You could’ve let us know what you were doing,” Joly mumbles, thought still looking relieved.

“Sorry. Got caught up in work,” Grantaire lies behind his coffee mug.

“Painting?” Jehan asks, because it’s usually him who’s interested in Grantaire’s paintings.

“Yeah,” Grantaire smiles knowingly. “You can see them later, if you want,” he suggests, and Jehan nods. “Anyways,” he says, shifting the conversation. “Where’s Ep?”

“I don’t know,” Jehan sighs with his eyebrows furrowed.

“She left with Cosette an hour ago.” Enjolras finds his voice, and is no longer staring at the dark haired man. In fact, he’s doing everything he can not to stare at him, which means keeping his eyes locked on the floor.

“Oh,” is all Grantaire says, and he's still not looking at Enjolras. Though, he is moving to go sit in an armchair next to Jehan.

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, lifting his head to make eye contact with Jehan.

Grantaire is thankful for the pen Jehan always carries, because right now he needs to distract himself and there’s a napkin in front of him. He grabs the pen, Jehan doesn’t protest--he’s used to it--and starts to scribble, his thoughts clouded with fuck, anything that isn’t Enjolras don’t draw Enjolras not here not today.

He settles on Jehan’s hand and the tattooed words that line his arm, but gives up after not being able to get the wrist bone right.

Grantaire’s furious for more than one reason, and right now he choses to take it out on the Musain door, slamming it shut as he leaves.

Enjolras slumps in the chair next to Combeferre.

“Give him time,” Combeferre whispers, just for Enjolras’ ears, who gives a tight nod but doesn’t straighten up.

“I’m just just going to--” Enjolras mumbles, nodding his head towards the door, and Combeferre presses his lips in a thin line.

In front of the Musain is a place he knows all too well; he knows what it looks like dark before Grantaire is just about to kiss him, and Grantaire self-conscious about Enjolras seeing his artwork, and what it looks like while Grantaire’s telling him to forget it ever happened. Enjolras realizes that most of his memories out here are associated with Grantaire.

And, like before, he finds Grantaire waiting out here. He’s smoking and pinching the bridge of his nose; Grantaire’s eyes are closed tight, but he tenses when he hears footsteps.

“I don’t really want to talk right now,” Grantaire says in an even tone, not even glancing back. Instead, he takes another casual drag and stares out into the dark sky.

“Please,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire jumps because Enjolras’ voice is desperate and hoarse. “Please, let’s talk about this, Grantaire.”

Grantaire bites his lip, bites back all of the unsaid he words that he has to strain himself not to say. “If you wish it,  mon chérie,” he says bitterly, but his eyes are shining and he has to bite his lip more. Enjolras hesitates and Grantaire harshly cuts through the silence, “So talk, then.”

“It’s just---I feel like,” Enjolras says and begins to take a deep breath.

“Enj,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras’ breath hitches because what he calls him is all too close to ange, and he’s studied enough French to know it’s meaning. “Don’t feel like you need to apologize. Don’t.”

Enjolras clears his throat, “No, I--”

“It doesn’t matter, Enjolras.” Grantaire sounds defeated. “It meant nothing. None of it. I’ll still come to the Musain and you’ll still be there, and I’ll provoke you and then you’ll snap at me. It’ll go back to the way it used to be. None of it was real.”

“But--” Enjolras tries again, and Grantaire releases and irritated breath.

“Don’t feel like you need to--Whatever, it’s my fault, I’ll live,” Grantaire snaps and backs up, looking exhausted. He turns around and walks faster, and Enjolras lets him leave.

And he watches Grantaire leave for the second time.

Enjolras reluctantly goes home, walking in the cold, damp air before he reaches his house.  He tries the television, he tries books, he tries sleeping. Nothing works. He’s still replaying the past week and thinking of all the things he could’ve done differently.

Like, for example, actually tell Grantaire how he feels about him.

It only takes an hour for a dazed Enjolras to be out the door with nothing but a red shirt on in the spring air.

He doesn’t register when it starts to rain, only keeps pushing forward, a destination that looks very much like Grantaire’s apartment building.

And he finds himself, soaked, standing on a doorstep and leaning on a doorframe while staring a very angry and confused Grantaire in the face.

“What are you doing?” Grantaire asks, his voice still carrying the bitterness from earlier, with something else running beneath it. “You’re going to get hypothermia.”

Enjolras almost looks like a kid, with blue eyes wide in fear like he’s confronting his first crush. “I just--” He stops and takes a deep breath, going through all the things he should say. “I feel like, like it should’ve--” It’s not like Enjolras, to be so small and nervous. He picks up his posture and tries again, but is still quiet, a whisper that Grantaire almost misses. “I wanted it to be real.”

Grantaire gapes for a moment before recovering. “You--”

He can’t help the next words that come out of his mouth. “I’m in love with you,” Enjolras says, loud and rushed.

“What?” Grantaire’s voice cracks, he regains his posture instead of leaning on the doorframe.

“I should’ve told you sooner. But I am--I mean, I do. Love you.” His eyes flick to the ground before meeting Grantaire’s.

Grantaire smiles sadly, and he says what he’s been thinking since day one. “You can’t. I’m not good enough,” he laughs quietly, like it’s a joke, like he’s a joke.

“I do,” Enjolras says, and he’s using his riot voice and his riot eyes. He’s using the tone he saves for what he believes in and what he’s passionate about, when he’s standing giving his speeches to a crowd during a protest, his gaze now locked on Grantaire. “And it’s not like I’m anywhere near perfect. I’m too focused on school and I ignore my friends and I don’t have any idea how to have a functioning relationship, I mean, look at this--” he motions between them, “--so don’t raise me up on some pedestal.” Enjolras leans forward slightly, trying to get Grantaire to believe him.

Sighing inwardly, Grantaire runs a hand through his hair. “You feel sorry for me,” he corrects, and Enjolras flinches. Grantaire leans back on the doorframe like he’s given up.

“No.” Enjolras still looks like he’s in a stupor, like he’s angry but lost at the same time. Which he might be, for the fact that Grantaire just won’t believe him. “I love...you,” Enjolras starts, putting a hand on the back of his neck. Grantaire stares, unblinking. “I love how you look making pancakes, and how you can be so dedicated to art, and how protective you are over Eponine, and how you argue with me.” Enjolras leans in closer. “And I love how you sometimes have red paint behind your ear, or charcoal on your fingers.” Grantaire’s breath hitches and he swallows hard. “And, shit, I can’t even think around you, Grantaire. I’m not good with words--” Grantaire wants to laugh at this, but remains silent. “Or--or feelings, or anything when it comes to you, but I--” Enjolras has to stop for a beat and breathe. “I love you. A lot, actually. I don’t know when I realized it, or why I didn’t tell you when I did, but here I am. And I love you. ” He’s uneasy, unsure of whether or not Grantaire has the same feelings despite Combeferre’s assurance.

Grantaire hesitates, his eyes unblinking. “Do you need a formal invintation or--”

Enjolras surges forward, and Grantaire can feel the smile against his lips.

Chapter Text

Grantaire, being Grantaire, had insisted he was fine with staying at the shitty apartment when Cosette stole Eponine out a week before. So, Eponine left and Enjolras took her place, except he shares a bed with Grantaire which means there’s an extra room for an art studio.

Eponine took the television, claiming that it was hers, but they can go without. And the cupboards are mostly bare, but they’ll get by on coffee and bagels from the Musain.

It’s closer to the Musain and to Enjolras’ classes anyways, and Grantaire makes him pancakes almost everyday and whenever they can get their hands on cheap pancake mix.

Grantaire kept the couch, which still smells like stale smoke and old whiskey and is covered in paint. But they both love it anyway. Enjolras loves it when Grantaire’s tucked next to him, and they love it with popcorn between the seats, and they love how it’s perfect to nap on lazy Sundays.

It’s also the perfect length for both of them to curl up on, and for Grantaire to press his lips to the bare skin on Enjolras’ throat without having to crane his neck.

“I love you,” Grantaire says, murmuring between chaste kisses on the exposed skin. It’s become a known fact now--everyone is aware of it, and Grantaire has said it more than he can count, no longer a secret he has to hide in the neck of his bottle.

“And I love you,” Enjolras whispers into the man’s unruly hair, who stops and freezes.

Grantaire looks euphoric everytime he gets that response. Enjolras breaks into a grin and kisses Grantaire lazily, breaking only when they have to breathe. The artist goes back to showering his neck with kisses, now tugging at the shirt to expose his collar bone.

Enjolras is almost convinced they'll be okay.