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Grantaire paces in front of the car to distract himself from his growing feeling of nausea, and the unbearable heat of the summer day. He’d sit inside to calm his nerves, but Enjolras has the keys, and he is stuck somewhere on the Metro because of delays—or so he texted Grantaire. For all Grantaire knows, Enjolras might have just used it as an excuse to avoid him as much as possible. But the reasonable part of Grantaire’s brain —it’s small, granted, but it surprisingly exists— reminds him that this isn’t Enjolras’ brand. Enjolras doesn’t ignore problems. He fucks them into leaving him alone, apparently, and only shoots short, perfunctory texts for the following weeks to make sure that their carpooling plans still stand.
To be perfectly honest, Grantaire wishes he could have bailed. He certainly thought about it, turned the idea over and over in his mind. But there is no missing the art conference he’s been invited to in Nantes, and Enjolras is going there for work, too, and trains are absurdly expensive at this time of year, with Parisians fleeing the stifling heat of the city to enjoy the seaside air. Grantaire also pays for a part of the car’s insurance and secure parking space, like the rest of his friends, for this exact sort of situation. It’d be a shame not to use it on one of the rare occasions he needs to leave Paris.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras greets when he arrives. Impressively, he somehow captures the coldness of his texts since that night. “I’m sorry I’m late. Apparently something was on the rails, they had to remove it, and you know what the RATP’s efficiency is like.”
Grantaire nods stiffly. “I do. I thought you supported state-owned companies, though?” Grantaire knows it’s a mistake when he says it. But he wasn’t able to stop from pushing Enjolras’ buttons when they were on good terms, so he’s under no illusion that he’ll manage to rein it in now that he’s hurt and mad—at himself, and a little at Enjolras, too.
Enjolras throws him a warning look as he sighs. “Don’t start, Grantaire. We’ve got a way to travel together.”
“Right. Don’t sound too enthusiastic about it.”
Enjolras doesn’t answer. He is a terrible liar, and he couldn’t pretend to be glad to sit in a car with Grantaire for four hours straight if he tried.
Enjolras unlocks the car and Grantaire loads their bags. They both keep their mouths shut as Grantaire takes the wheel and drives them out of Paris. The parking spot Les Amis collectively pay for is far from the city centre, but Parisian roads are a nightmare anyway and leaving the Île-de-France area always takes forever. The perk —and it’s the only upside— is that between dodging aggressive drivers and focusing on his own aggressive driving, Grantaire doesn’t have much time to think about the excruciating silence. Or to come up with a jab to drive Enjolras wild, or even to recall how Enjolras’ hands had felt on him. That speaks of the disaster that is Parisian traffic, because Grantaire hasn’t been able to stop replaying the scene in his head since it happened.
It’s driven him wild, knowing that Enjolras is a biter who likes to soothe with kisses, knowing the sounds he makes in pleasure, knowing it was only a creative way to get Grantaire to shut up. It has made him angry and sad, in turns. And that, too, is surprising, because Grantaire had long thought he’d gotten over the bitter bite of years of unrequited love. He can’t say he’s a fan of updated self-discovery.
“You’re gonna break the steering wheel with that grip,” Enjolras points out once they’ve left Île-de-France behind them. It’s the first thing he’s said since that ‘the light’s green,’ which was about two minutes into their trip, and to which Grantaire only grunted an answer.
Better to break wheels than hearts , Grantaire thinks bitterly, and the only thing that stops him from saying it aloud isn’t his desire to maintain the peace, but what’s left of his dignity (not much, it turns out). Grantaire forces his fingers to loosen up —Enjolras was right, he’s been holding onto the wheel so tensely, he’d give rigor mortis a run for its money.
“Right, wouldn’t want to damage your car, ô dear leader,” he says caustically. He briefly wonders about his coping mechanisms —his irrepressible need to provoke others to hide his pain. Something for his therapist, he thinks; not for the several hours stuck in a car with Enjolras.
“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras snaps. Grantaire would laugh at his predictability if he weren’t so miserable. He doesn’t like the reminder of how well he knows Enjolras. Especially now that he knows him better and more intimately than he’d ever expected to. “Also, it’s not just my car, but yours and your friends’, too. Now I know you don’t care much about yourself, and you’ve proven yet again that you don’t care about my feelings, but I’d hope you at least take care of something which belongs to your friends .”
Grantaire scoffs in surprise, and a little in pain, too. The stab at his self-esteem is a new low, but claiming that Grantaire doesn’t care about Enjolras’ feelings is plain rich . It’s not Grantaire who invited himself into the bed of the guy who’s loved him for roughly as long as he’s known him, while fully aware of that fact —everyone and their grandma is aware of Grantaire’s love for Enjolras, he’s shouted it to the rooftops often enough, sometimes even literally. And sure, Grantaire had every opportunity to say no when Enjolras propositioned, but he’s not a strong man. He’d taken what he believed would only be offered once, and he’d grabbed his clothes and his shattered heart off the floor before the sun was up.
“De facto excluding yourself from the list of my friends, huh?” Grantaire says, when he’s recovered enough.
The venom isn’t gone from Enjolras’ voice, but it is watered down with something else, something sadder, when he says: “And who’s to blame?”
Grantaire doesn’t have any answer for him. He resolutely watches the road before him and overtakes the stupid car in front of him, just because he can.
As far as chilly rapports to keep relative peace with Enjolras are concerned, Grantaire is, surprisingly enough, out of practice. The past few weeks notwithstanding, it’s been a long while since they’ve hit such a wall; they’d gotten so much closer, so much kinder and more patient with one another. This makes the situation all the more awkward when Enjolras turns the radio on without a word.
Grantaire hates it immediately, and judging by Enjolras’ audible wince, he’s not any more of a fan of Claude François’ music than Grantaire is. Somehow, this unbearable car ride has gotten impossibly worse.
For his own sanity, Grantaire blurts out: “So, uh, your thing is tonight?”
Enjolras freezes by his side, surprised. “A dinner function. And yes, it is tonight,” he says. He sounds cold and stiff. Claude François keeps screaming like an idiot through the radio; Grantaire briefly considers unbuckling his seatbelt, opening the door and jumping.
“…Cool,” he says instead. He’s not giving up on the escape idea quite yet.
After a while, Enjolras adds, “Thank you for the attempt. It was almost a relief from the music.”
Grantaire’s mouth hangs open. He’s long been used to Enjolras’ awkward, blunt and painfully honest delivery, but with the fraught context, he bristles. “Gee, thanks. Such a praise, I feel so appreciated, so loved—” he stops in his tracks. He knows a blunder when he’s done one —force of habit and familiarity, probably.
Enjolras’ laugh is devoid of any hilarity; it is full of disbelief and bubbling anger. “So loved, huh? Do you expect me , of all people, to feel sorry for you?”
Grantaire brings a hand to his cheek as if he’d been slapped. He can still hear the echo of the strike, and he certainly feels the pain. He and Enjolras have had their fair share of fights in the past, but that’s the first time Enjolras has been so plainly cruel, directly mocking Grantaire’s affections. Grantaire’s pain hardens in his chest.
He turns the radio off. “Attempt over,” he says. He cannot recognise his own voice.
It hurts and it sucks, Grantaire thinks, as heavy, uncomfortable silence settles once more on the car like a stifling duvet on a hot and sticky summer night. In the light of their crumbling relationship, it stings to look back on their rough start and the years they’d spent working to get over it. They’d grown past the point of ‘antagonistic friends of friends’ to become real friends, within and outside the bounds of their incredible, codependent friend group. They’d become true buddies . Buddies who spent an increasing amount of one-on-one time. Buddies who texted first thing in the morning, and late into the night, and who sometimes snuck out from work a bit early to grab lunch together. Buddies who sent and received ‘this made me think of you’, ‘I wish you could have been here’ and ‘I want to try this place, this film, this restaurant with you.’
This makes the offence all the greater to Grantaire. Being used by someone with whom he entertained a contentious relationship, Grantaire could have dealt with. Being used by a friend, only for his love to be laughed out — Well, fuck that noise.
A good hour after their last interaction, Grantaire’s devastating energy has simmered long enough. It boils over. He itches for something, his hands are almost shaking. And suddenly, an opening —anything would do. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Enjolras staring through the window. His eyes are dull and unmoving, and his jaw is clenched so tight, Grantaire feels it in his own. He feels the train wreck coming, too, as he opens his mouth to say nothing helpful or kind —this used to be his favourite sort of thing to say, a long time ago.
“All that fuss about my grip on the steering wheel, but you’re not being any more delicate on that jaw of yours,” he says sardonically.
“Well, this jaw only belongs to me, so I’ll clench it until it breaks if I want to,” Enjolras bites back.
How the hell did they go back in time? Enjolras is as easy to bait as he was as a uni student, and Grantaire is as ready to use any sort of bullshit argument to taunt him as when he was a uni skipper.
“And here I thought you belonged, body and soul, to your one mistress, Patria , our grand nation?” There’s a mocking smile in Grantaire’s voice and the air quotes he makes with one hand. Never mind that Enjolras has long updated his younger, naive views. He’s no less passionate, perhaps even more so, but he’s got a more critical eye on the country whose values he defends, when the nation’s politics, institutions, and general public misuse them so shamefully.
“Oh, go to hell,” Enjolras shoots back. He sounds weary, perhaps as much as Grantaire.
"You know, us hanging out already isn't working here, so I doubt it'd go much better in the underworld."
It’s a low shot, and a laughable one. Even if he insensitively sleeps with people who’ve loved him openly and loudly for years, Enjolras is the last person who’d go to hell, if such a thing even exists. He cares so much, he means so well. As long as Grantaire isn’t concerned, anyway.
“Stop whenever you can. We need gas, and I need some air that’s free of your provocation and cynicism.”
“Aye aye, captain.”
Grantaire needs to piss anyway, and he’ll welcome the reprieve, too. Between Enjolras’ presence, and his own incessant, destructive desire to needle him until he breaks, to hurt them both and punish Enjolras for saying ‘please’, and himself for saying ‘yes, anything,’ Grantaire wants to crawl out of his own skin. Out, and into someone’s skin who hasn’t been branded by Enjolras for one night, and one night only.
Enjolras slams the door closed behind him before Grantaire has even pulled the handbrake. As soon as he’s turned off the engine, Grantaire drops his head on the wheel and sighs. He idly thinks that he might end up with a stupid Renaud stamp from the embossed symbol on the wheel, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. At least, he’ll look the fool he feels like.
The air is sticky without the car’s blessed AC, and the place smells awful. It looks gross like highway stations almost always do; Grantaire makes a quick job of getting gas and parking closer to the station’s shop. It’s cool inside, and peeing brings Grantaire a relief he needs —but not the kind he wants. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror when he washes his hands; he knows he looks like shit, he doesn’t need the confirmation. He’s barely been able to sleep the past nights, and he knows he won’t catch up on lost sleep tonight. The showdown in the car will keep him awake for a long, long time. He dreads going back.
Grantaire buys a bottle of Coke and some M&M’s at the shop before he goes. He doesn’t want either, but he’ll take whatever time away from this awful trip he can get. Anything to escape his bruised feelings, Enjolras’ cruel reminders, and his own destructive coping mechanisms.
Just a few moments after he steps back into the outside heat, Grantaire hears a strangled yelp.
“ Fuck !”
Grantaire recognises the voice, the one he knows better than anyone; he runs in its direction. Right around the corner of the station, he finds Enjolras leaning against the wall, holding one of his feet against his other leg. There’s blood everywhere .
Grantaire can’t be considered a polite guy by any stretch of the mind on his good days, but fear tends to make him swear even more. In spite of the warm weather, he feels his head cool down instantly at the sight of the blood and Enjolras’ pained face. Nausea curdles at the bottom of his stomach.
“Holy balls, how the fuck did you do that?”
“What does it look like?” Enjolras grouses, gesturing at the large glass shard that’s stuck in his foot, and the scattered remnants of what must have been a bottle or a jar. Grantaire hadn’t even noticed it; it’s the typical sort of grime his eyes expected to see in a dingy place like this, and he tuned out as a result. Quite obviously, Enjolras had made the same mistake.
Emotions have run high all day long, Grantaire’s blood is still pumping hard in fear, and he feels his brain grappling at whatever it’s got a chance to make sense of, out of all the blurred, confusing things going on in his life at the moment.
“Did you seriously have a walk on a pickle jar graveyard wearing fucking sandals ?” Grantaire blurts out. “That shit is slippery and dangerous, dude.”
“I’m aware, thank you .”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, that,” Enjolras says, acerbic. “Now you think you can snap out of it and be useful enough to take me to the hospital? I appear to have a massive chunk of dirty glass sticking out of my foot.”
Enjolras’ pain, it seems, makes him as lovely as Grantaire’s fear. This, on top of the already unbearable irritability and hurt, is a recipe for disaster, Grantaire registers. He pales.
“Right. Fuck. Let’s get you to the car.”
“I can’t walk, Grantaire. Could you bring the car closer—”
Grantaire doesn’t let Enjolras finish his sentence. Adrenaline has been pumping sporadically through his veins throughout the day, with devastating spikes during the worst of their fights; a new rush is already hijacking his brain. Before he registers Enjolras’ reasonable plan, Grantaire makes his way to him and unceremoniously lifts him onto his shoulder. Enjolras’ lanky legs are dangling before him, his head upside down, about level with Grantaire’s backside.
“Grantaire, that’s really not necessary—” Enjolras says.
“Just enjoy the view and let me do the one thing I’m good at.”
“Lifting people?”
“It’s a niche skill. Now stop squirming, you spindly bastard.”
Grantaire can almost hear Enjolras scowl. It might also be a wince —Grantaire accidentally jostles him as he gets down the few steps to the parking lot.
“And here I thought I was a ‘golden god’ or a ‘vengeful angel’?”
The call back is true enough, Grantaire has spent years waxing poetic (bad one, at that) about Enjolras’ breathtaking physique, charisma, and overall presence. “We’re all bound to fall at some point.” And that’s true, too, but Grantaire doesn’t know who he’s talking about. Behind him, Enjolras winces again. It almost sounds like a sob. “Now watch out, we’re at the car and I’m gonna put you down.”
He drops Enjolras as gently as he knows how, unlocks the car, and opens the passenger door. When he turns to Enjolras again, he finds him looking wrecked , and not in the way he’d looked after he’d had his way with Grantaire. He’s got hair sticking to his face with sweat just the same, a flush to his cheek just as red, his eyes bright and just as shiny, but there’s nothing of that look of contentment and unbridled happiness (that part had been a bit of a baffling one to Grantaire; he’d just chalked it up to the fact that he is admittedly a pretty good lay). Instead, Enjolras looks like he’s gonna cry, curl into a ball, and possibly punch Grantaire in the jaw if he opens his mouth again.
Grantaire recognises the sign, the downturn, tight pinch of Enjolras’ lips, but he’s clearly never been good at self-preservation. He says, “Do you need some help getting in?”
“Just start the car and find the closest hospital, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, clipped.
“Sure.”
Grantaire is fiddling with his GPS app in the driver seat before Enjolras is fully settled. He did offer some help, only to be shot down with a furious, wet glare, so he sticks to his mission from now on.
“If we turn back the way we came, we’re fifteen minutes from Le Mans.”
“Let’s go to Le Mans, then.” Enjolras buckles his seatbelt.
Grantaire turns on the ignition, and they leave the gas station behind them in relative quiet; Grantaire is too focused on driving gently so as not to bump Enjolras’ foot to be his usual loud-mouthed self, and Enjolras only winces and gasps on occasions. Eventually, he swears: “Since when do you drive like my grandpa? Could you hurry up a little?”
Grantaire is driving well under the speed limit; slower than he has since his learning days. “Your grandpa was trying not to jostle you around to avoid hurting you, actually.”
Enjolras scoffs. “Right, because you care so much about not hurting me. I’m kind of bleeding a lot though, so I’d appreciate if you could switch gears from snail to normal highway speed.”
Grantaire speeds up, but he also makes the mistake of throwing a look at Enjolras’ injury. It is still bleeding profusely. A shiver of cold fear runs through Grantaire from head to toes. He wishes he could help, that he had any knowledge of first aid beyond turning passed out drunk people onto their sides (that one he has an intimate knowledge of; he’s got a hands-on learning approach like that). Enjolras’ wound looks nasty, and Grantaire is petrified.
“Fuck,” he says, “there’s so much blood.”
“I swear to the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, Grantaire, if you’re going to quote me back on damaging a shared property by getting blood on the car when I’m busy hoping I won’t get tetanus—”
“Wait,” another nauseous wave of dread washes over Grantaire, “you don’t have your shots? What the fuck, dude?”
“Of course I have my tetanus shots, that’s beside the point.”
Grantaire laughs; there’s no humour in it. Apparently, there’s only so much tension and adrenaline someone can take within a few hours before starting to feel loopy. “It’s very literally the point here.”
Enjolras whines. “Grantaire, I’m already in pain, please shut up.”
Right. Because that was the entire point of the mess they’re in, wasn’t it? Shutting Grantaire up, Grantaire who’s too loud, too in love for his own good. Joke’s on Enjolras, Grantaire is also too contrary, and he’s currently busy waving goodbye to the last threads of his sanity.
“Thought you liked me loud?” he says before he can stop it.
That’s another part of that night which had made no sense to Grantaire come morning light. One he’d desperately tried to forget, if only to not go crazy over it, over how little sense this made, Enjolras whispering in his ear to speak out, to be loud, to let him hear the noises he couldn’t stop. Grantaire’s best theory had been that this was a weird hate sex thing, but if he was entirely truthful, it didn’t quite add up. Nothing about this did.
Through gritted teeth, Enjolras answers: “ Shut up. ”
Grantaire’s own dogged contradiction is exhausting, and so is Enjolras’ repeated rejection. Adrenaline seeps out of Grantaire once more, and hurt bleeds in to fill the gaps. He feels all fight leave his body as they leave the highway and reach Le Mans.
Grantaire admits defeat and gives Enjolras what he so desperately wanted, what he ruthlessly worked for: he shuts up. He’ll lick his own wounds when they treat Enjolras’ at the hospital.
Enjolras refuses to be carried again when they reach the hospital. Instead, he insists on hopping dangerously on his good foot, using Grantaire like a crutch. As soon as they cross the door of the ER, a nurse rushes to their side with a wheelchair. Enjolras never goes unnoticed.
“Sit down, sir,” she commands, with the kind yet stern tone that emergency workers can pull off.
Enjolras does, and Grantaire hovers dumbly at his side while the nurse takes Enjolras’ personal details. The room is abuzz around them. After all of Grantaire’s own turmoil, the noise and nervous energy are dizzying, and Enjolras’ distraught tone isn’t helping.
“He has his tetanus shots,” Grantaire blurts out while the nurse is writing something down. Anything to snap out of the mad haze of the room, of the entire day.
The nurse looks up. She seems to be noticing him for the first time. “Is this gentleman coming with you? Are you two together?”
Grantaire recognises the signs a second too late, the way Enjolras’ entire body tenses up, how his eyes fill with tears, how his hands tighten into fists. He’s seen it happen a couple of times over the years he’s known Enjolras, and Grantaire never feels ready for it. His meltdowns are terrifying, not because they make Enjolras violent, or because Grantaire is afraid of what he might be told, but because they turn Enjolras so impossibly human, vulnerable, and defeated. He gets dreadfully honest about his own fears and faults, about his own crushed hopes and lost fights.
The dam opens, Enjolras snaps, the words come flooding, as do his tears. “Well, I thought we were together, but apparently I’ve fallen , and at the right fucking time, too!” He rubs his eyes angrily, as tears run down his cheeks, and Grantaire and the nurse witness the outburst in silent shock. “I was too late—” a sob strangles his words, “ too late , he doesn’t like me anymore, and we’re not together like I thought. We might not even be friends anymore, we’re just ‘dudes’ who fucked once and— and—” Another sob wracks through Enjolras’ body.
Grantaire is frozen. His brain cannot wrap around what he’s just heard, he cannot quite feel his limbs, he thinks he might tip over. He can’t even make out the noise of the ER anymore, only his own panting breath and Enjolras’ cries.
The nurse snaps into action. She uses the broken momentum of Enjolras’ wet sob to jump in, put a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and say, “Alright, alright. We’ll get your foot treated, the gentleman can go to the waiting room if you want him to be your ride home, or he can wait in the car.” She gives a pointed look to Grantaire who nods numbly.
Enjolras, who’s still sobbing, doesn’t spare a glance for Grantaire as the nurse rolls his wheelchair away, even when Grantaire says, “I’ll be in the car.”
Soon, Grantaire is left standing like an idiot in the middle of the ER. The few people around who witnessed the outburst watch him with barely disguised interest; Grantaire doesn’t have the strength to tell them to shove off. Instead, he turns on his feet, leaves the hospital, and walks back to the car as if on autopilot.
In the car, Grantaire cannot process Enjolras’ words. He hears them again and again in his mind. Abstractly, he can tell that Enjolras had spoken a language he understood, that he’d been articulate (somewhat, through the tears and graceless sniffles. It had been intelligible, at any rate), and grammatically correct. And yet, none of it made any sense. Surely, Grantaire had misheard him. Enjolras couldn’t have thought that their developing friendship was the beginning of— of— of a romance? Grantaire is easily willing to admit that he is a daft bugger, but he can’t be one to the point of missing the fact that the guy he’s been in love with for years has been romancing him, can he? And Grantaire can’t possibly have sneaked off before dawn after his first night with the boyfriend he didn’t know he had, yet had spent years dreaming of. Right?
“ Fuuuuuuck ,” Grantaire groans, dragging the sound out. “Grantaire, you fucking idiot.”
He isn’t quite ready to fully admit to these realisations yet —they still seem wildly impossible to him. Enjolras liking him? He’d long accepted the impossibility of the thing, had convinced himself of it a near decade ago, had taken it for absolute truth, somewhere along his other unshakeable certainties like ‘the Earth is round,’ ‘flat-Earthers are somehow stupider than me,’ ‘pineapple on pizza is one of the grossest things in existence,’ ‘getting drunk on Piña Colada equals inevitable disaster,’ and ‘Feuilly is the best person who will ever grace this planet.’
And yet, without going so far as to shake the grounds of his solid, reasonable truths, even Grantaire isn’t delusional enough to completely ignore Enjolras’ clear, grammatically accurate, and intelligible meltdown, nor the collection of facts, which only seem to make sense in the light of this new information. Grantaire’s head hurts, reason, doubt, and certainties fighting mercilessly in his mind.
By the time Enjolras gets back to the car, hobbling on a pair of crutches with his foot bandaged and his eyes swollen, Grantaire has eaten his M&M’s, drunk his Coke fast enough to choke on a sip and welcome death as soda fizz burnt through his nostrils, and he is nowhere close to emerging from his own mental breakdown. He deserves to be cut some slack for it, he thinks, because his world has been turned upside down by the most dangerous thing of all: a possibility .
Enjolras stuffs his crutches and his bloody sandal on the backseat, and he sits in the front.
Grantaire opens his mouth with no idea of what he’ll say. Nothing comes out, but Enjolras says nonetheless, “Not a word. Please .” He sounds more drained than ever before.
“Still want to go to Nantes?” Grantaire says anyway.
“Yeah. It’d be a shame for all of this to have been for nothing.”
“Right.”
Enjolras keeps his eyes closed for the rest of the way, and Grantaire shuts up on the off chance that Enjolras is truly asleep. He doesn’t actually believe that he is, but it gives him some time for himself to think and put things together. He’s still not certain he’ll be able to understand what went down, but he’s hopeful he’ll reach some sort of conclusion by the time they get to Nantes.
He does. When they near their destination, it is late enough that Enjolras might run a tad late to his business dinner, and Grantaire is confident that he’s got a solid sequitur from this mess of a situation they’ve found themselves in. Two, actually, because he’s smart like that.
The first is that there’s been a misunderstanding somewhere, one apparently involving Enjolras dating Grantaire somehow, and the second: being bitter and rude like he’s been all day long has left a sour taste in Grantaire’s mouth. Granted, Enjolras was harsh himself, but Grantaire has grown a fair amount since his university years, enough for him to acknowledge that he might owe someone an apology. Even if that someone is Enjolras, who gets under Grantaire’s skin like no other, and who might or might not have taken advantage of Grantaire’s feelings, for sex or some other nefarious purpose Grantaire doesn’t understand. He’s fuzzy about that part now. Now that he’s pulled his head out of his butt-hurt feelings of betrayal, he can admit that it never sounded much like something Enjolras would do. It had been a good reason to explain the unexplainable, though.
They reach the periphery of Nantes at rush hour; the traffic slows down and so do Grantaire’s thoughts. He says, “We’re almost there.” By his side, Enjolras hums. “You won’t be late for your dinner, will you?”
“If I do, I have a good excuse,” Enjolras says, gesturing at his bandaged foot.
“Right.” Grantaire stops for a while, as the car rests at a red light, and he tries to think of a way to phrase what conclusion he has matured during the drive. He notes with no small amount of frustration that being truthful and composed comes much less easily to him than vitriol and provocation. “We should probably talk about some things,” he says eventually.
Enjolras sounds dejected when he answers, “I’m not sure I have the energy for this, Grantaire.”
“It’s important, though. I think there might have been a misunderstanding here. Like, a massive one that we both might feel really stupid over.”
Enjolras scoffs humourlessly. “Trust me, misunderstanding or not, I already feel plenty stupid.” He’s opened his eyes and twisted enough to look at Grantaire as he navigates the heavy traffic.
“Well, that makes two of us.” The navigation announces their arrival in a dozen minutes, Grantaire notes. He fights his better judgement and pushes the words out. “Considering how the day went, I don’t really feel like I can make any sort of request, but still… Can you promise me you won’t laugh in my face for my bold assumption that you might stoop so low as to—” Grantaire halts himself. He’s already stopped being constructive.
“As to what, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks with interest. Of course, he wasn’t going to let that down, even in the face of Grantaire’s obvious discomfort.
“Promise first.”
Someone honks when Grantaire hesitates too long to take a turn —simultaneously navigating feelings and an unfamiliar city is tougher than it looks. Enjolras flips the bird to the offending driver as he drives by, but he’s still looking seriously at Grantaire. “I promise I won’t laugh.”
Enjolras might have bruised Grantaire’s feelings, but he never lies. Grantaire nods. “Okay. So, um, at the hospital, you said some things.”
Enjolras groans and runs an embarrassed hand on his face. “ Urgh , and very publicly, too.”
“Yeah, well, it made me realise that we might not have been on the same page at all the other night? And possibly the weeks before that?”
“That much is clear.”
“Please, let me finish,” Grantaire says, unnerved. He can already feel his resolve fizzling away; he fights against his own cowardice to get the words out. Enjolras’ jaded comments do nothing to help. Besides, that’s usually Grantaire’s role, and the irony of him being unsettled by his own old behaviour is not lost on him.
“Right, sorry.” For that matter, Enjolras actually sounds genuine. Grantaire might have gloated in his place; yet another reason why Enjolras dating him made so little sense, it hadn’t even occurred to Grantaire. And yet, evidence is stacking up, and Grantaire can’t take pride in being less stupid than flat-Earthers if he’s going to keep ignoring it.
“What you said, I just— Did you really think we were dating?”
Enjolras sighs. His voice is unusually small when he says, “I thought we were getting there, yes. That we were working to that point.”
Their hotel is in sight. Grantaire slowly heads to the private parking lot; he is shaken to his core. There go his unshakeable truths. What’s next? Does Feuilly secretly vote for the Front National? Does he kick puppies for fun?
“I never, never would have been able to guess,” he says truthfully, stopping the car in the first spot he finds. When he finally turns to Enjolras, he notices that his eyes are misty again.
“Is that because you don’t share my feelings? You’ve always been so vocal about me, how you like me, how perfect, beautiful, smart, and brave you think I am… You even drew us together, old and grey, on a napkin once. You probably don’t remember, you were pretty drunk. But, with everything you’ve said for years, I assumed…”
Grantaire definitely doesn’t remember the napkin, but he’s not surprised either. Not for the first time today, Grantaire wishes that the beautiful, round (or is it, really? Who even knows anymore?) Earth would swallow him.
“Yeah, no, I think that this part, my feelings for you, are pretty solidly established, and by now, after years , unlikely to go anywhere.” Something in Enjolras’ face shifts. It finally relaxes, loses some of the harshness it’s held since the beginning of the ride. “It’s yours that I’m less certain of.”
“Well, you were always a sceptic.”
“Fair point. I really just thought we were becoming proper friends, like close ones who hang out a lot, but then you invited me home, suggested we sleep together, and I don’t want to make this creepy, but I’ve been hoping for something like that, or really just for you to notice me for years, Enjolras. And when I say years, I mean closer to a decade than a couple. So how was I to know it meant anything to you now, after all this time? I just assumed you wanted some fun, which would have been pretty inconsiderate…” Grantaire says at last.
“‘ Meant anything to me?’ ” Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Grantaire, you’re aware of what demisexuality is, right?” Grantaire nods. He made posters about it when they were at university for an ace visibility campaign led by none other than Enjolras himself. “And I distinctly remember you being here when I came out to everyone as demi, because I’d made sure that all our friends were there so that it’d be a one-time coming out. I didn’t want to drag the thing out.”
Grantaire frowns; he tries to recall his university days, but it’s been so long, and truthfully, he’d walked through most of them in a drunken daze. Recollection is a tough thing, even now, two years sober and counting. “Uh, yeah, I was probably plastered when you did it. Sorry…”
“Ah.” Enjolras blinks, visibly thinking about his next move. He continues slowly: “Well, just so we’re clear now, Grantaire. I wouldn’t have wanted to have sex with you if I hadn’t been really into you beforehand.”
“Uh…”
Enjolras must notice the unintelligent, glassy quality of Grantaire’s eyes because he adds, “For reference, remember Pacôme? I dated him for four months before I even felt any sort of sexual attraction towards him, or any sex drive in general.” Grantaire still stares at him with large, empty eyes. That’s more evidence than a person with average understanding abilities should need, and Grantaire feels so close to processing it, almost there, so close to acceptance— “I usually don’t see the point of sex when I don’t have a sex drive. So I don’t do it just for fun, Grantaire. I don’t do it at all unless I feel really serious about a person, usually in a romantic way.”
“Holy shit.” The realisation hits Grantaire like a truck. The foreboding and slow process of acceptance don’t even help; when it fully dawns on him, he is shaken like he never has been before. “ You like me. ”
“ Finally ,” Enjolras says, smiling for the first time today. He looks like he wants to say more, but his phone pings before he gets the chance. He’s been receiving texts during the ride, but he hasn’t checked them since they’ve left the hospital. “Shit, I’m probably running late.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket with an apologetic look in Grantaire’s direction. The moment is over. “Sorry, I just need to check— Yeah, it’s work, and I’m definitely late.”
“You should go,” Grantaire says. Now that he’s had his mental breakdown of the week and breakthrough of the year, he knows he won’t manage to convince himself this wasn’t true. The realisation has come with a new clarity, one which isn’t going anywhere.
“But we’re not done.”
“Not one bit, but it can wait until you’ve had your dinner with all the fancypants who are expecting you. You said so yourself, gotta make this whole shitshow worth it, right?”
Enjolras raises his uncertain, shy eyes to Grantaire’s. “It was already worth it though, wasn’t it?”
Grantaire doesn’t know yet what this means for them, but whatever comes next, as long as they’re out of whatever vicious, poisonous loop they’d found themselves in, anything is worth it. “Definitely. Now let’s go get our rooms so you can get changed and go. We’ll talk later.”
Enjolras nods with a smile. “It’s a date.”
The evening moves sluggishly. Grantaire takes distracted bites of his pizza as he replays the events of the day, every single word, every murderous look, and each softer gaze, too.
Grantaire has to fight his own instinct to twist and warp whatever good thing happens to him, but once he recalls that he has already indulged it these past few weeks (only for the good to come back to him once more) he is forced to accept it. His affection finally returned, Enjolras liking him back, sleeping with him—not because he could, not because he wanted Grantaire to shut up, but because he wanted him in that way… Grantaire accepts it all, with equal amounts of fear and excitement.
His phone beeps a few times, and he dives forward with an eagerness that no one with any measure of dignity would exhibit. The texts, some of which were sent throughout the day, are disappointing. One of them is from the the Beaux Arts teacher who invited him on the panel tomorrow, giving some final details; a few are from Jehan, who sent him some cryptic nudes featuring a lot of feathers and, for some reason, a really large papaya, all in the name of ‘the arts and the transcendental’; Courfeyrac sent him the minutes of Les Amis’ last meeting (one Grantaire had missed, in a cowardly effort to avoid Enjolras), asked how he was doing, and attached a clip of him singing a Lil Nas X song in between several inhales of helium; and Joly, who always wins the ‘Best Text Award,’ as far as Grantaire is concerned, sent him a video of a capybara with small monkeys on its back. Joly wins again, and yet, Grantaire can’t quite help the tinge of disappointment and impatience he feels as he shoots answers to everyone.
When the sun has fully set outside, and Grantaire has been sitting in the restaurant like a lonely idiot for a few hours, he decides to make his way back to the hotel. It’s a short walk, but he’s barely made it to the lobby when his phone rings again. He answers quicker than he ever has before.
“Hey, I’m done with the dinner,” Enjolras’ voice says by way of greeting. “Are you at the hotel?”
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I just got back.”
“I’ll be here in ten, I’ll take a cab back.”
“A cab? I can come and get you with the car, you know,” Grantaire offers. He is tired from the drive and today’s events, but whatever can get Enjolras back quicker will do.
“It’s fine, the taxi’s here already. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be here in a moment,” Enjolras says. He’s always been decisive and to-the-point before, but Grantaire senses over the phone a new sense of urgency he feels within himself. The weight of their unfinished conversation is hefty, and the possible outcome as thrilling as it is terrifying.
Enjolras arrives in the hotel’s lobby within five minutes, struggling with his crutches, out of breath, and doing a poor job at hiding it. His face lights up when he spots Grantaire. That, in itself, isn’t entirely new to Grantaire —Enjolras is an intense and focused guy, but he is also affectionate and entirely devoted to his friends; his face always betrays his affection for them when he greets them— but with the new, bewildering knowledge he’s acquired recently, Grantaire cannot help noticing the difference. Enjolras doesn’t merely look happy to see him, he looks excited , in a giddy way Grantaire has never seen on him before. It suits him.
“Did you force the poor taxi driver to speed up?” Grantaire asks to distract himself from the tightness in his chest and his quickening heart.
“No, there’s just not much traffic this late,” Enjolras says. He’s not a good liar, and Grantaire has learnt his tells ages ago. Enjolras’ gaze slides to the floor twice; Grantaire laughs.
“Sure, dude.”
Enjolras chews on his lower lip thoughtfully, already more serious. “Should we go to one of our rooms? We’ve got a conversation to finish.”
Grantaire nods. His throat knots up. There is no backing away from this.
Grantaire’s hands are shaking when he opens his hotel door. Enjolras looks wobbly, too, when he limps inside after Grantaire.
“Grantaire, I—” Enjolras begins the moment the door closes behind them.
“Before we start—” Grantaire blurts at the same time. “Sorry, go ahead.”
Enjolras laughs. “No no, you go first.”
Grantaire pauses. Enjolras is usually the one to take the lead. At meetings, even when he’s not the spokesperson, he mediates; at demonstrations, he holds the loudspeaker; in bed, he’d initiated, too. The feeling is new, the expectant look Enjolras gives him as he hands him the reins. “I, uh— I just wanted to apologise first,” Grantaire says. “For the shit I said in the car. I was angry and hurt, I thought you’d taken advantage of my feelings for your own fun, which is why I left when you were sleeping. And yeah, I was so mad. At you, and at myself.” Enjolras watches him, wordless. “All day long,” Grantaire continues, “I felt all the pent up anger of the past weeks boil over and, I mean, you remember how I used to be, the words came and I couldn’t fucking stop . I can’t say I didn’t want to hurt you, because well, truth is, I did. But I’m so sorry I did.”
Enjolras sits on the bed without breaking eye contact. He puts his crutches on the floor, and says, “I accept your apology. I won’t say it didn’t hurt —you always knew where to hit me. And, well, so did I. I’m sorry about what I said, too. We were both hurt by a misunderstanding, and we definitely should have cleared the air before it got this ugly.”
Earnest . Enjolras looks earnest. He pats the bed beside him to beckon Grantaire over. Grantaire follows —that’s the one thing he’s always been good at and consistent with: following Enjolras.
“Yeah. It fucking sucked. It felt like we were both back at uni, prodding each other because we didn’t know how to communicate.”
Slowly, Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hands in both of his. Grantaire notes with some level of satisfaction that he’s not the only one trembling.
“But we’re not kids anymore, right? Obviously, we’re still not great at communicating, otherwise this wouldn’t have happened, but it’s not irreparable, is it?” He looks as hopeful as Grantaire is beginning to feel, in spite of everything he has been holding onto for years.
“Nah, it’s not.” Grantaire smiles.
“So,” Enjolras says, smiling, too. “In the interest of our joint efforts to communicate, let’s sum things up before we can move forward. I like you. A lot, and romantically, on top of our friendship.” It’s the first time Grantaire hears it out loud. In Enjolras’ hold, he pinches the back of his hand discreetly to make sure not asleep. Nope, it’s fucking real . “And since you’ve always been vocal about your own feelings for me, I assumed that you were on the same page when I invited you on dates recently.”
“Yeah, nah, definitely not on the same page. Not even in the same book.”
“I know that now .”
“In the interest of our joint efforts to communicate,” Grantaire repeats cautiously, “I have been mad about you ever since we met, even if I first showed it by pulling your pigtails. And then we became friends, and then really good friends.”
“That’s when I started realising I had feelings for you, actually. Not before. I don’t want you to think that we only became closer because I started to like you romantically. It happened the other way around,” Enjolras cuts in.
Why anyone would come to the conclusion that Grantaire is romance material after spending any extended amount of time with him is a mystery to him, but that’s not the hardest thing he’s had to process today. Besides, head over heels in love with Enjolras as Grantaire may be, he’s never been under any impression that Enjolras was normal, predictable, or even remotely reasonable.
“And then you invited me home that night, and we both assumed the worst of the other.”
“Yeah…” Enjolras trails off.
“But if I’d known you meant it, I would have never left, trust me,” Grantaire says. “Hell, I would have rung the bell for a second round and made you breakfast in bed or something sappy like that.”
Enjolras’ face brightens again, lighter, more openly joyful than before. “I don’t like crumbs in the sheets,” he says.
“I’d have taken you out for brunch then,” Grantaire says. He surprises himself with his boldness, but to hell with it all, he thinks. Enjolras likes him! Enjolras is serious about him! Now is the time to be bold, now is the time to seize the chance he’d never thought he’d have. “Can we start again? On the same page of the same book?”
“Same paragraph, same line,” Enjolras agrees. His smile is so wide, it morphs into a breathless laugh. His hands squeeze Grantaire’s.
Grantaire feels his own cheeks stretched tight. “I really want to kiss you, but I can’t stop smiling,” he blurts.
Enjolras, still laughing like a lunatic, shifts forward until he’s in Grantaire’s lap. His face is so close to Grantaire’s, their noses briefly brush against one another. “Doesn’t matter. Kiss me anyway.”
Grantaire’s eyes flicker towards Enjolras’ lips. That sobers him right up. The proximity, Enjolras’ breath warming his cheeks, the faint scent of his cologne, his perfectly aligned, white teeth peeking out of his wide grin. He wants to panic —he wants to ravish this guy.
Grantaire’s hands leave Enjolras’ grasp to cup his face and draw it to his. The kiss is clumsy. With the way Enjolras is still smiling, Grantaire is kissing teeth more than lips, but truthfully, if that’s the price to pay to make Enjolras happy, he’s content to kiss teeth for the rest of his days. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a pretty good deal.
When Grantaire pulls back, he’s breathless from mere pecks. Enjolras’ hands have moved to his neck; he keeps him close, they breathe each other’s gasps.
“Kiss me again,” Enjolras says before he’s evened out his breathing. Trust Enjolras to manage to be bossy when he’s sitting on another guy’s lap.
“Then stop smiling like a loon, dude. How do you want me to work in these conditions? I can’t show off my skills if— oof.”
Enjolras’ mouth is back on his. This time Grantaire feels the plumpness of Enjolras’ lips, even as he swallows his laugh. Enjolras’ hands hold him steady and slide under the neckline of his t-shirt. Grantaire’s fingers bury in the neat braid Enjolras wore for his dinner —he can tell he’s mussing it, but he doubts Enjolras cares too much In fact, when his nails scrape against Enjolras’ neck, Enjolras moans loudly into his mouth. He does it again, and the second moan he earns goes straight to his crotch.
“ Fuck ,” he swears, pulling away from Enjolras.
Enjolras follows him and joins them again, his hold tightening around Grantaire. If Grantaire still had any doubt whether he was wanted or not before, Enjolras’ shameless eagerness rids him of it all. The feeling overwhelms him—being desired as much as he desires.
He moans, too, and shifts them on the bed. Without letting go, he turns Enjolras on his back and clambers on top of him. Enjolras squeals.
“Shit, your foot, did I hurt you?” Grantaire asks. His lips are tingling, and Enjolras’ look swollen already; they're the loveliest shade of pink.
Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I was just surprised.” He slides a hand from Grantaire’s neck to his cheek, scratches the beard there, a beatific smile returning to his face. Truthfully, Grantaire could get off on this, and this alone. “In the interest of our joint efforts to communicate,” Enjolras repeats seriously before Grantaire can kiss him again, “can we agree that we're both about to engage in a sexual encounter (if that’s what you want, obviously) on the same terms? That this isn't someone taking advantage of the other's feelings, but a shared romantic thing?”
Grantaire laughs. The nerd. Somehow, he could also get off on that. “Definitely what I want. And sure, Mr Lawyer. We agree.”
“ Great ,” Enjolras breathes out. “So, if you’ve snuck out tomorrow morning before I wake up, I’m chopping your balls off, Grantaire.”
Yeah, even on that. “Deal.”
Grantaire dives back in for a heated kiss. He means to make it slow and thorough, but Enjolras goes straight for the thorough part. His mouth opens up to Grantaire’s, his hands scramble at the hem of his t-shirt, pulling in contradicting directions, and his hips buck up into Grantaire’s. He’s hard, and fuck , it’s hot. Hot enough that Grantaire feels himself hardening in record time, too. He lowers down, meets Enjolras to match his admirable efforts to rut against him like a teenager. Enjolras keens high in his throat, and Grantaire swallows the sound like he has the laughter before.
Between them, Enjolras is still battling in vain with Grantaire’s t-shirt. Grantaire pulls back quickly to take it off and put Enjolras out of his misery. He throws the garment carelessly across the room, and Enjolras doesn’t waste any time moving his hands to Grantaire’s chest, his soft stomach, running them over the dark hair scattered all over. Enjolras looks at him like he wants him, and like he’ll never have enough. It is a heady thing, a thrilling feeling; it makes Grantaire falter, trip over his own heart.
“Thoughts on me tearing your stupid shirt apart?” he asks, to cover up his momentary weakness.
“Don’t, it’s my best shirt.”
Grantaire starts undoing the buttons one at a time. “ Boo .”
To distract himself and break away from Enjolras’ intense, unwavering attention, Grantaire leans down to kiss the expanses of skin he slowly uncovers. It’s sinfully soft against Grantaire’s chapped lips, and wonderfully responsive. Goosebumps break away across Enjolras’ chest when his shirt is finally removed.
“Cold?” Grantaire asks.
Enjolras shakes his head. Golden locks fly around —they’ve slipped away from the mussed braid; Grantaire’s very own handiwork. “No, it’s you.”
This earns him a desperate kiss from Grantaire, who is aware he’s agreed to open communication, but he’s not sure he’ll survive Enjolras’ naked honesty too long. He’ll probably melt into a pile of goo before long, or self-combust, or something of the like.
Enjolras kisses back with enthusiasm, gives as good as he gets. He’s always been one to rise to a challenge. One of his hands even slides down Grantaire’s naked back to rest on his backside. He gives it a good squeeze. The overachiever. Grantaire’s throat makes the most ridiculous sound ever. His hands slip down to the fly of Enjolras’ trousers, hovering carefully above the obvious tent in the fabric.
“You’re still down with the programme?” Grantaire says, dragging his lips to Enjolras’ neck.
“As long as you are, very much so.”
Grantaire nods. There’s a tightness in his throat. He chokes out: “Thank fuck.”
He nips at Enjolras’ neck as he slides the fly down. Enjolras’ sigh of relief is cut short when Grantaire immediately replaces the pressure of his trousers with his hand; he cups him through his underwear. Grantaire feels the weight of him in his palm, takes it in with awe. He wants to commit it all to memory, the sigh Enjolras heaves when Grantaire pushes down and up, the way his eyes open wide when fingers slide under the elastic, his frantic squeeze on Grantaire’s butt when callused touch meets soft, hot skin.
Grantaire keeps his hold light around Enjolras’ cock, drags it up and down slowly. It’s dry, it can’t be that comfortable, but Enjolras pushes his hips up, chasing what friction Grantaire’s light touch can provide him.
“Grantaire, I’m not made of glass,” he says between gritted teeth.
“Says the guy who just went to the ER because he had whole shards of it stuck in his foot,” Grantaire retorts, but he tightens his hand around Enjolras and speeds up his movement. Enjolras gasps.
Keeping up with a satisfying rhythm for Enjolras while he’s not even fully out of his underwear and his trousers half-way past his ass is a challenge. There’s not much room for showy moves or any sort of satisfying speed. Before long, Grantaire swears and pulls away.
“Fuck this, we’re getting you out of these. Hips up, sir.”
Enjolras, who looks distraught from the loss of Grantaire’s touch, complies quickly. His hips buck up, and he pulls his trousers and underwear as far down as he can without sitting up. Grantaire picks up where he left off and peels the offending garments off. He swears again.
Grantaire has seen Enjolras naked a total of three times. The first had been in the name of activism, the second in the name of student party and debauchery, the third in a blur of lust, angst, and self-hatred, just a few weeks prior. None of these instances could have prepared Grantaire for this sight, Enjolras spread out on the bed, butt naked and hard, pupils blown wide by his desire for Grantaire , a red bruise already blooming on his neck from Grantaire’s ministrations, smile still wide and content. Grantaire’s imagination, try as it might (and tried it did), could never have envisioned this —the impossible eroticism of Enjolras’ perfect textured skin, perfect sharp face, perfect mussed hair, perfect long fingers, perfect curved cock, perfect beauty spot just above his crotch—
Grantaire isn’t known for his self-restraint; he bends down to kiss it. Enjolras inhales sharply —Grantaire’s beard just rubbed against the sensitive head of his cock.
“Sorry,” Grantaire says, looking up at Enjolras with an apologetic smirk. Enjolras’ chest is heaving, his face flushed. He looks incredible. “Let me make it up to you.”
“Please, Grantaire. Please .”
The words go straight to Grantaire’s crotch. He’s painfully tight in his own jeans, but he pays it no mind. He’s made them wait long enough; he’s a man on a mission now. He takes Enjolras in his mouth unceremoniously and goes as deep as he can on the first try without choking. Above, Enjolras stutters a swear around a surprised moan. Grantaire moves. Now that he’s kicked himself into action, everything twitches uncontrollably —one of his hands slide down to cup Enjolras’ balls, the other flutters aimlessly around his chest, he bobs his head up and down at a desperate, graceless pace, and he runs his tongue along Enjolras’ length.
Grantaire varies the rhythm, switches the pressure of his lips and his tongue, but most of it is accidental —Grantaire is too overwhelmed by the moment to calculate his next move. Enjolras’ cock feels heavy in his mouth, and silky soft. Grantaire sucks hard on the head and rolls Enjolras’ balls in his palm.
Enjolras is loud now, but Grantaire’s blood pulsing at his temple is louder; he cannot make out what Enjolras is saying. From the way he grabs Grantaire’s free hand in his and holds onto it tightly enough to hurt, and the rocking motion he cannot refrain, pushing up into Grantaire’s mouth, Grantaire gathers it must be encouraging.
Grantaire gives his very best in enthusiasm, if not in skills —he’s overcome by the scents, the noises, the fact that this is Enjolras, Enjolras who likes him. He’ll show off another time, he thinks, hollowing his cheeks around the head of Enjolras’ cock, because there will be other times. Besides, Enjolras seems to enjoy sloppy just fine, since his thighs twitch and close around Grantaire’s head.
“Shit— sorry—” he says brokenly, though he makes no effort to let go. He lets his legs cradle Grantaire’s head, his hips jerk up, seeking the warmth of Grantaire’s mouth. “I’m so, so close, Grantaire.”
He is indeed, for Grantaire has just enough time to stubbornly push down as deep as he can take him before Enjolras spills with a loud moan.
“Well, fuck, ” Grantaire says when he pulls back. He is as breathless as Enjolras, and still hard as a rock —if anything, he’s surprised he didn’t actually get off, too, because Enjolras in his pleasure has to be one of the hottest things he’s ever experienced.
Grantaire kisses the thighs bracketing him into relaxing and letting him go. He gives a parting peck to Enjolras’ cock and pushes himself up to level their faces. Enjolras looks wrecked —all sweaty, hair a mess, eyes bright and happy and full of lust and affection. Grantaire’s jaw is aching, his heart is hammering in his chest, he is keyed up and so in love; he doesn’t know what to do with all the things he’s feeling.
“Hey.”
“Hey to you,” Enjolras says, panting. He laughs and leans up to kiss Grantaire. Grantaire can’t repress the sappy thought that this might be his favourite moment of the evening so far.
“Having fun?”
Enjolras cups Grantaire’s face softly; he kisses him again, slow and purposeful. “Not just fun,” he says cautiously when he pulls back. “But I’m having a lot of it. Are you?”
“I’m having a ball.” Grantaire smiles. “Even if my jeans are getting especially uncomfortable right now.”
Enjolras looks down. “Why are you still wearing them?”
Grantaire snorts. “You’re kind of distracting, and I was a tad busy just now.”
“Right.” Enjolras sounds smug. Grantaire definitely feels smug. “Mind if I return the favour?”
“Go right ahead, good sir.”
Grantaire has gone through quite the rollercoaster today, but the prospect of Enjolras touching him still clogs his throat in anticipation. Enjolras further intensifies his excitement with each bite and kiss he gives, as he creates a tantalising trail from Grantaire’s earlobe, to his throat and clavicle. His hands are sure and stable as he unzips Grantaire’s jeans and pushes them down his thighs, along with his underwear. Grantaire is shaking like a leaf. He sighs in relief when the pressure on his crotch lets up. His cock bobs out and up.
Enjolras gives Grantaire a light shove to his shoulder and Grantaire slides off of him to roll onto his side. Enjolras follows him until they’re facing each other once more. One of his hands buries into Grantaire’s hair while the other teases, caressing his thighs, his hip bone, running around in tighter circles until it stops just short of touching Grantaire’s cock.
“You’re a tease,” he croaks. His throat is dry; he gulps uselessly, looking up at Enjolras’ face.
Enjolras is watching him already, his eyes bright and intent, his expression thoughtful. “I was just thinking: there’s no chance you’ve got some lube with you, is there?”
Grantaire laughs. “Ha, see, this is about the last outcome I could have predicted for this trip. I’d have sooner packed a body bag than lube or condoms.”
Enjolras’ lips twitch, hesitating between a frown and a smile. He shrugs. “Fair enough.” He pulls his hand back and spits in it. “This will have to do.”
“Enjolras, you could do it dry, and I’d be ecstatic all the same. You’re all I need.”
Enjolras smiles again. He looks pleased and oddly shy. He hides his flush in Grantaire’s neck as he takes him in hand. “I want to make it good for you, too.”
Enjolras wastes no time, his hand is bold from the start, his hold tight, his stroke slow and even. Grantaire’s moan comes from the bottom of his stomach. It wracks through him like thunder.
“Fuck, you already are.”
Another nip to his shoulder, hot breath on his neck. “Good.” Enjolras’ hand speeds up. “You’re so gorgeous, Grantaire. So infuriating, so wonderful.”
Grantaire throws his head back. His heart hammers in his chest, his pleasure thrumming wild and loud in his veins. There’s no way he’ll last long at the receiving end of this sort of attention. He swears; it comes out as a whine.
"Let me hear you," Enjolras continues, nuzzling around Grantaire’s bearded chin. “I like you so much. It’s taken me so long to see it, but you’re so good, so smart, so hot .”
Grantaire would laugh and protest, but Enjolras is moving fast now, his pace unforgiving and his grip just a bit too tight. Self-deprecation will have to wait, because Grantaire can feel his orgasm build up, and his brain has long shut down. He scrambles to grab the bedsheets, desperate for a tether. His hips buck forward. He feels himself losing control; he hears Enjolras’ words and his answering gasps from far away as the rocking of his hips stutters.
“Is it good?” Enjolras whispers, close enough that Grantaire feels his lips brush against his ear. “Do you like this?” Grantaire is so close; Enjolras’ voice brings him to the brink as fast as his maddening hand.
“Ye—Yes.”
“You can let go,” Enjolras says with a kiss under Grantaire’s ear.
Grantaire isn’t in the habit of following instructions, but after three, four more pumps of Enjolras’ hand, he does. His entire body tenses up, his ears buzz, his eyes squeeze shut as pleasure crests. And suddenly, the dam breaks. The pressure releases. Grantaire’s desire washes over him and overcomes his senses, blood pulses at his temples, his breath runs out. The world blurs for a beat or two.
When Grantaire snaps out of it, he finds his body loose and sticky with sweat. Enjolras is untangling himself. He meets Grantaire’s face and smiles at him, blindingly radiant and content. Grantaire’s heart, which still hasn’t fully recovered from the exertion of one of the most thorough orgasms of his life, is doing wild loops in his chest. He lunges forward and crushes his lips with Enjolras’.
This kiss is slower, languid. The pent up energy and hunger have been tamed and sated; they can take their time now.
“No regret?” Enjolras asks when they pull away.
Grantaire chuckles—his wildest dreams have only just come true; with no ground left for doubt, how could he regret any of this? He pecks Enjolras’ forehead. “Nope. You?”
Enjolras shakes his head. “None.”
Grantaire’s heart may never recover. He deflects: “We should probably clean up.”
Enjolras sighs, high and happy, and he stretches clumsily on the bed. His foot is still injured, his hand is a sticky mess, and his hair clings to his face with sweat. “In a moment,” he says, wrapping an arm around Grantaire’s waist. “In just a moment.”
Grantaire wakes up the next morning to sunlight streaming on his face. He feels better rested than he has in weeks, more relaxed than he ever remembers being, and all of his muscles tingle in contentment of being put to good use. All but one. Namely, his bladder, which is so full, he suspects it is but a few minutes away from bursting.
It’s obviously an emergency, but Grantaire is loath to leave the bed. By his side, Enjolras sleeps on, his breathing even, his golden curls, finally freed from their braid, in a messy halo around his head. He looks more stunning than Grantaire has ever seen him, even with the damp drool spot he can clearly see on the pillow.
Grantaire debates his priorities for some time. On the one hand, peeing himself in bed is particularly unsexy, and most definitely something he’d like to avoid. On the other hand, this moment is so perfect, and he promised Enjolras he wouldn’t sneak out in the morning. Threats were made last night; threats on his balls which Grantaire acknowledged and accepted, so he’s pretty sure they hold some legit legal weight. He’ll have to ask the lawyer.
Grantaire brushes some hair away from Enjolras’ face.
“Hey, dude,” he whispers.
Enjolras twitches. His eyes remain closed, but he says, “Don’t call me ‘dude’.” His voice is rough from sleep and muffled against the pillow.
Grantaire pauses. The sight is adorable, the comment enigmatic, and he really doesn’t have time to indulge in either. Can you lose a kidney if you wait to pee for too long? he thinks. Grantaire chances: “Uh… Hey, babe?”
Enjolras doesn’t move, but Grantaire is pretty sure that he isn’t imagining the way the corners of Enjolras’ mouth twitch up.
“Better.”
“Okay okay, cool. I’m not sneaking out, I swear, but my bladder is about to explode , and people always wake up while the other is in the bathroom in the films, and with my luck, you totally would wake up then, too, so I’m letting you know now so you don’t worry and you don’t chop my balls off like you said last night,” Grantaire babbles, untangling himself from the sheets. “So yeah, don’t worry, I’ll be right back, love you, I’m about to pee myself, bye .”
In the urgency, the words slip out without Grantaire realising it. He is halfway to the bathroom when Enjolras calls out. He has sprung from his pillow and sat up, and his curls stick out comically in every direction.
“Wait, babe !” he calls. Grantaire stops in his tracks. “I love you, too, now go pee and come back to me when you’re done,” he says, suddenly much more awake. Grantaire blinks once, twice. He braces himself for another existential crisis. “Go!”
“Right!”
Ignoring his bladder’s desperate protests, Grantaire rushes back to the bed to steal a kiss before he sprints out of the room. He has to make sure it’s real, that he isn’t dreaming this morning and its perfect, botched confessions. Enjolras laughs in the kiss and their teeth clack painfully, but Grantaire cannot bring himself to care. It’s real.