Chapter Text
When Grantaire decides to marry Enjolras, he does so with two assumptions. They are not ridiculous assumptions. He does not assume there will be no fighting, because Grantaire is not an idiot, and the first thing he and Enjolras had done upon ditching the Parisian authorities was have an argument about who was taking the bed in Grantaire’s hotel room; never mind that it was Grantaire’s hotel room.
He does not assume that there will be meeting of the in-laws, because frankly Grantaire does not want Enjolras anywhere near any of his own parents, nor does he want to be anywhere near Enjolras’ parents. For self preservation reasons; it has nothing to do with the way Enjolras’ eyes had gone dark when Grantaire had mentioned walking down aisles and being given away.
He doesn’t even assume that their marriage is going to be sunshine and rainbows and also maybe kittens. Not that Grantaire has ever assumed that anything is going to be sunshine and rainbows and maybe also kittens, except for actual sunshine and rainbows and kittens. But still.
When Grantaire decides to marry Enjolras, he does so with the assumption that there will be regular and fabulous sex, and that there will be no shooting, murdering, killing, blowing up of apartments, holding friends for hostage, or any of the other things Grantaire associates with being an assassin for hire.
The sex thing, as it turned out, happened to be incredibly accurate and far exceeded Grantaire’s expectations; the other things . . . not so much. But to be fair, no one marries their significant other with the assumption that they’re an assassin for hire, so really, none of this is Grantaire’s fault.
From the less than impressed look on Courfeyrac’s face, he does not agree.
“Okay, run me through it again?” says Courfeyrac. He gestures for another round, and Grantaire debates resting his head on the table.
“You know the guy who ruined the hit on Valjean the other day?” he says instead.
“Yeah?” Courfeyrac is swirling the drink around in his glass, making the liquid slosh about in soothing circles. It’s a little dizzying, and this really should bother Grantaire, but seeing as he himself has already downed more shots than he probably should, he figures it’s a good thing at least one of them is sober. Courfeyrac throws back his drink; Grantaire amends that last thought to “partially sober.”
“Turns out it wasn’t just some guy.”
“Oh?”
Their drinks arrive, and Grantaire downs his without pause. “No,” he continues miserably. “Turns out it was Enjolras.”
Courfeyrac does an admirable job not choking on his own drink. “What?” he gets out a few seconds later, voice somewhat raspy. “I mean, Enjolras? Like, your Enjolras? As in the man you decided to shack up with in Paris while on the run a few years back? The one who can’t cook to save his life and yet keeps inviting me over for dinner?”
Grantaire gives up on pretense and rests his head on the table.
“That Enjolras?” continues Courfeyrac, sounding somewhat frantic. His voice has gone all high and squeaky.
Grantaire’s right cheek is digging uncomfortably into the countertop, so he shifts a little so that he can rest most of his face on one arm.
“Grantaire?” Courfeyrac sounds actually concerned now, and his voice is taking on a tone that Grantaire knows from experience can only end badly.
“Yeah,” he says, before his friend decides to do something stupid like spill alcohol on him. “That Enjolras.”
“Oh,” says Courfeyrac, very small. “Well, fuck. That’s—” he breaks off and gestures for yet another round. “Fuck,” he finishes.
“Pretty much,” says Grantaire. He takes the drink set in front of him, heaves his head up, and swallows it in one disappointed gulp. “Pretty much.”
The alcohol burns a little on the way down, but Grantaire finds he doesn’t particularly care, at this point. Either way, he’s not nearly drunk enough for this, and it’s really not fair how deeply ingrained his self preservation instincts are at this point. Grantaire would like to drown his sorrows in expensive liquor and wake up naked in someone’s bed, but he can’t. He can’t, because Grantaire has more enemies than he has fingers and toes combined, and because Grantaire’s conscience has taken on a remarkably uncanny resemblance to a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed, apparently-also-assassin.
“So, um,” says Courfeyrac eventually, breaking him out of his reverie. “What are you going to do about it?” He pauses somewhat awkwardly. “Enjolras, I mean.”
Grantaire lets out long breath and gazes down at his hands sadly. “I don’t know,” he says. “Not go home, though.”
“Oh,” says Courfeyrac again.
“Yeah,” says Grantaire, still sadly. He gives his glass a shake, before setting it down on the bar, and letting his arms settle back onto the surface, only to startle when his phone starts buzzing. When he pulls it out of his pocket to look at it, it’s Enjolras.
Grantaire sighs. “Speak of the devil,” he says.
Courfeyrac makes an awkward, faint sounding noise.
“Courfeyrac?” says Grantaire, glancing to his side.
“That’s a terrible thing to say about your husband,” says Enjolras, right before he punches Grantaire in the face.
It’s a fabulous punch—Enjolras leads with his left foot, folds his thumb outside of his fist, and swings his arm in a neat, clean, power-filled arc. Grantaire’s last thought, typically, is how very pretty he looks doing so.
Grantaire wakes up, and instantly every muscle in his body is tensed. He’s in his own bed, which he can tell by the slide of the luxury sheets he remembers fighting with Enjolras for, and by the slightly uncomfortable tilt of his head that suggests he’s not on his side of the bed. He’s also not alone, which he can tell by the uncomfortable itch that’s starting to settle into his shoulders. He’d never quite managed to kick the adrenaline surge that accompanied that buzz, not even when heavy lidded, too-blue eyes trailing down his sides meant the opposite of running for his life. It’s probably helpful, at this point in time, that his heart has started beating just a touch faster, because as it turns out, Enjolras has zip-tied his hands behind his back.
“You did that on purpose,” he says about the bed-thing, without opening his eyes.
There is a moment of silence, and for a moment, Grantaire worries that he’s misjudged and is alone, but then Enjolras is sighing. “Did what?” he says.
Grantaire keeps his eyes closed. “You know what,” he says, louder than he would normally, as he manages to get a wrist free. Enjolras has left far too many inches between skin and plastic, and it’s easy. Grantaire would grin, if he wasn’t certain that Enjolras had done that on purpose as well.
“No, actually,” says Enjolras. “Enlighten me?”
Grantaire groans, mostly for effect, before flicking his eyes open and focusing on their ceiling light. They have a standard two light system, with an inexpensive fan and little else, and Grantaire really can’t justify staring up at the immobile blades for as long as he does. When he gets himself into an awkward seated position, he finds Enjolras staring back at him, arms crossed tightly over his chest, and beautiful mouth turned down.
“What?” he says when Grantaire just stares at him. “Stop that.”
Grantaire has to take a few moments to just look at him, in an obscene, thorough, and if they weren’t married, probably lecherous way. As they are married, the slow drag of his eyes down the expanse of Enjolras’ bare forearms and black, cashmere sweater, only serves to make Enjolras shudder. It’s infinitesimal, barely-there, and only noticeable to Grantaire because he’s looking for it.
“I find I don’t know what you mean,” he says finally when Enjolras’ lips start to purse. He rolls his shoulder back a little, stretching out the vertebrae of his spine, before settling more solidly against the headboard. Their headboard.
There should be something oddly poetic about this scenario, Grantaire decides. If it weren’t for the fact that the second to last time he’d seen Enjolras had been on the wrong end of the barrel of a sniper rifle, Grantaire would be pleased to be zip-tied and naked in their bed—because he is, actually, completely and utterly naked.
“What?” snaps Enjolras, reading something into Grantaire’s silence.
“I don’t know what to say,” says Grantaire, still grinning. “I think I should be flattered, though.”
“What?” repeats Enjolras, but there’s some honest befuddlement coloring his tone. He looks entirely displeased by the situation, down to the sockless, shoeless bare feet, and the sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
Grantaire smirks. “You remembered,” he explains, shaking off the blankets so that he can curl a leg up and around in search of a pillow. He probably could do it without the leg, but the slight bob of Enjolras’ Adam’s apple when his eyes light on the flesh of Grantaire’s left thigh is entirely worth it. “‘The key to my release lies beneath this pillow?’” he quotes brightly.
Enjolras continues to stare at him somewhat blankly.
“Sherlock Holmes?” says Grantaire. “The movie we watched the other night?” He licks his lips. “Nothing?”
Enjolras’ face does that thing where his features freeze, but Grantaire can tell from the flick of his eyes, that he’s thinking.
“No?”
Enjolras’ tongue darts out to wet his own lips.
Grantaire sighs. “I suppose you’re lucky you’re pretty,” he says. “I have no idea why I married you.”
“I should say the same,” says Enjolras, and for once, his tendency to say exactly what he means and feels makes Grantaire’s entire body tense. It’s hard to hide, be it that he is naked, and so of course Enjolras notices. His face softens, eyes going a shade gentle, and Grantaire very pointedly looks away.
“R,” Enjolras begins gently in a tone that Grantaire has come to associate with his tours, and usually ends with them talking about their feelings.
“Shut up,” snaps Grantaire.
His cheeks feel like they’re well on their way to on fire, and he can’t quite get himself to look Enjolras in the face, yet, but that’s no reason to start talking about their feelings. Because they will, at this point, since Grantaire is for all intents and purposes tied to the bed and naked, and Enjolras is making that face like he can’t quite decide if what he wants to do is shake his head, or hug Grantaire.
Grantaire isn’t sure which he would prefer. His mouth seems to make the decision for him, though, since he finds himself adding awkwardly, “I mean, can we talk about something else.”
“Okay,” says Enjolras reasonably. “What would you like to talk about, then?”
Grantaire considers gaping at him, mostly for effect, but settles for shifting a little on the bed so that he can get his legs under him. By some miracle, the sheet doesn’t dislodge. Grantaire ends up glancing down at it with amusement. “If this isn’t some sort of elaborate reenactment scene,” he says, “care to explain the nudity?” He pauses. “Unless, is the denial part of the reenactment scene?”
Enjolras rolls his eyes, but almost smiles, and finally uncrosses his arms. “Your mind would go there, wouldn’t it,” he says somewhat dryly. “But no, the reason you’re naked is the considerable number of weapons you had on your person.” He rubs at his left wrist with his right hand, mouth twisting upwards. There is a thin patch of faint, untanned skin where Grantaire knows the watch he gave him usually sits.
A quick glance at their dresser reveals that it’s not there either, and Grantaire can’t quite fight the sudden dropping of his stomach when it occurs to him that maybe Enjolras threw it out. But then, Enjolras would never throw out something that expensive—not out of any sort of misguided sense of guilt, or anything, but more because he’d probably think to give it as a gift. Never mind that it was custom engraved and that it made an obnoxiously juvenile part of Grantaire go a bit fluttery whenever he saw it adorning Enjolras’ wrist. (The only other thing that had that affect on him was the love bites, but Grantaire had found that Enjolras was much more likely to wear the watch out in public than he was those.)
When Grantaire’s brain reengages, it’s to find Enjolras gazing at him with an odd mix of amused and adoring on his face. Grantaire isn’t quite sure when he’s supposed to get used to that expression, but he figures if it was going to happen, it would have happened sometime during the last five years.
“Did you say something?” he says finally, when it becomes clear that Enjolras is either staring him down, or waiting for a response.
“No,” says Enjolras simply. “I’m just waiting for you to stop pretending to still be tied up.”
Every muscle in Grantaire’s body locks into place. Again. “Oh,” he says. “Any, um, reason for that?”
“Not really,” says Enjolras. “Only, I’ve been working on my throwing skills, and I’ve been looking for an opportunity to test them out.”
Grantaire opens his mouth, and closes it. He pictures Enjolras in black, skin tight, full body clothes, with shuriken; he pictures Enjolras completely naked, holding a knife—licking a knife. The room is suddenly stifling.
“Is it hot in here for you?” he asks, bringing up his free hand to fan at his face and tightening his leg muscles so that when Enjolras flings the first knife, he doesn’t move so much as an inch.
It goes flashing past his face to land in embedded in the headboard with a dull and ultimately anticlimactic thud.
“The headboard, really?” says Grantaire, making a noise in the back of his throat. “I really liked this headboard,” he continues. “You did too—it has all of these lovely slats for you to grab onto—”
The next knife ends up about an inch from where Grantaire’s fingers are playing on the wood.
“Oops,” says Enjolras, but when Grantaire looks, he can see he’s blushing.
“Right,” he says. He reaches out to pull the knife free, and has to use more force than he expects. “Huh.” It comes free with a harsh tug and sends him forward jolting a little. “That was—that was a lot stronger than I—you probably could have k—” He breaks off, blinks, and sighs. “You’re angry at me, aren’t you?”
The third knife doesn’t end up anywhere near Grantaire’s person; the knife ends up balanced between Enjolras’ fingers, a flash of deadly silver in the otherwise bare room.
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Very funny.” Grantaire had argued initially for come color in the room in the form of paint on the walls, but back then Enjolras had other ways of winning arguments that involved far more screaming and far less knives.
“I could scream, though,” Grantaire realizes. “I mean, that might cause something of a stir with our neighbors. Don’t give me that look, I know you know we have neighbors—they ambushed you our first week here and taught you how to make pie.”
Enjolras stares at him; nearly gob smacked and annoyed both. His mouth has gone somewhat slack, and he’s almost grinning. When Grantaire starts to grin back, he seems to come back to himself. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on,” says Grantaire, rolling his eyes. “You don’t expect me to believe that you made that pie yourself?”
Enjolras is worrying quiet.
“You do?” Grantaire shifts his grip on the knife in his hand. “Really?”
“I had help.” Enjolras looks a little pink, but also less tense. Grantaire is counting that as a win.
“What, did Combeferre come over and help . . . you,” says Grantaire, faltering when Enjolras abruptly looks away from. He looks right back instantly, eyes caught on the dance of the blade in Grantaire’s hand, but the moment is already cast in iron in Grantaire’s memory. “Wait,” he says. “Hold on. Is Combeferre—Combeferre’s not really a glorified nanny, is he—”
“Private Tutor,” interjects Enjolras.
Grantaire shakes his head and sends the knife in his hand flicking past Enjolras’ left shoulder and into their bedroom wall. “Whatever,” he says. “The point still stands—you lied to me.”
Enjolras’ mouth opens and closes. “I have no idea what to say to that,” he says finally.
“‘I’m sorry?’” Grantaire suggests, reaching out to fish for another knife. “That’s the gold standard for apologies, I’m pretty sure.”
“Apologies,” repeats Enjolras. The hand not holding the knife clenches awkwardly at his thigh, and Grantaire has a sudden flash of Enjolras wearing nothing but thigh holsters. With guns. Loaded guns.
His throat is dry. “Um,” he says. “Yeah?”
“For what, exactly?”
Grantaire gives him a look, and twirls the knife a few times. “Lying to me.” He flips the knife through the air. “Honestly, Enjolras. I’m starting to doubt that you’re even in the game, let alone my biggest competition.”
The knife in Enjolras’ hand ends up in the wall somewhere to the right of Grantaire’s head; it takes off a few strands of his hair on the way, and Grantaire ends up looking down at them on the bed sadly. They paint an odd picture with the zip ties next to them, and he can’t quite figure out if he should be laughing or crying.
“You were saying?” says Enjolras.
“You lied to me about Combeferre,” says Grantaire.
“What?” Enjolras blinks, and then starts sputtering, so Grantaire flings his own knife across the room, making no pretense of grazing Enjolras like before, so that his husband has to duck to avoid losing an eye. “Would you—” tries Enjolras.
Grantaire pulls the third knife free of the wood, and throws that one for good measure.
“Would you stop doing that?” persists Enjolras, still crouching close to the ground.
“Nope,” says Grantaire. He gets up, ignoring the slight hitch of Enjolras’ breath when he leaves the sheet, and heads over to his bedside table. “Not until you apologize.”
“Apologize,” says Enjolras in that same dubious, deadpan tone.
Grantaire is half listening, mostly focused on finding the Browning he has stashed in the drawer. “Yeah,” he says, fingers find the gun and magazine right where he left them.
“For not telling you about Combeferre,” continues Enjolras. He sounds less off put, but no less stubborn.
Grantaire pauses to sigh. “Yes,” he says.
“Right.”
Enjolras’ voice is suddenly much closer, and Grantaire looks up, gun in hand, to find himself staring down the barrel of—and here Grantaire actually has to fall back on the bedside table and make a terrible face—Enjolras’ Glock. It is incredibly hard for Grantaire not to make some sort of reference to hand strength, in the face of that.
“Like Courfeyrac is actually an actor,” says Enjolras, like he isn’t currently holding Grantaire at gunpoint.
Grantaire gives the gun another long look, lips curving into a smile, and finishes loading the magazine. “He is, actually,” he says, over the click, and cocks the gun. “But only on the side. Mostly Courfeyrac blows things up.” And kills people occasionally, but Enjolras hasn’t been at all forthcoming on the Combeferre issue, so Grantaire’s not about to tell him that.
Enjolras frowns at him, and Grantaire lifts his own gun in response, left hand curling around his right automatically and index finger full extended and at the ready. He leaves the safety on partly because something ugly clenches in his stomach every time he so much as thinks of hurting Enjolras, and also as a test.
“So wait,” says Enjolras. “Those commercials we sat through—”
“Were actually real, yes,” says Grantaire. He shudders. “Sadly.”
Enjolras looks torn between glee and despair. “Ah,” he says.
“Yeah,” agrees Grantaire.
Enjolras’ eyes dart down briefly. “Could you—could you put on some clothes, please?”
Grantaire blinks. “Why?” he says somewhat loftily. “Does it distract you? My being naked, I mean.”
“No.” Enjolras twitches, which would worry Grantaire, but he notes that the safety is still on on his gun as well.
He lowers his weapon, but doesn’t make a move to cover himself up.
“What are you doing?” says Enjolras shortly.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” points out Grantaire.
Enjolras’ gun comes down quickly. “You weren’t going to shoot me, either,” he replies stiffly.
Grantaire grins. “No,” he agrees, fingers catching on the bed sheet considering. “I probably should, though.”
Enjolras narrows his eyes at him, cautious, even as Grantaire slides the magazine free of the gun and sets them back into the drawer.
“Your turn.”
He doesn’t know where Enjolras’ Glock goes, because Enjolras makes an outraged sort of noise, before pivoting on his heel and striding into their walk-in closet. Grantaire isn’t entirely certain why they have a walk-in closet, but when Enjolras emerges sans weapon carrying a pair of what Grantaire is relatively sure are his own boxers, he does have to wonder.
“Question,” he says. “Do you actually have a model worthy wardrobe, as Courfeyrac puts it—”
Enjolras makes a sour face.
“Or are we really playing host to more illegal firearms than probably is healthy?”
Enjolras throws the boxers at him. “Put those on,” he says. “And I don’t think any number of illegal firearms is healthy.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” says Grantaire, pulling the boxers off of his face and holding them in front of his chest. “One is probably healthy—that’s just being cautious.”
“Cautious,” parrots Enjolras. That’s the third time he’s done that this entire conversation, and Grantaire is seriously worried that he married a tropical bird.
“Cautious,” says Grantaire. “Why am I putting these on?”
“Just do it,” says Enjolras absently.
Grantaire blinks. “Why?” he says, to be contrary, and Enjolras’ eyes flash.
“So that I can beat you within an inch of your life,” he says, voice a low growl.
Grantaire swallows heavily but bends to pull the boxers on. “That seems counterproductive,” he points out. “Particularly if you’re going to continue using that tone—”
His sentence gets cut off when Enjolras lunges for him, spinning in close and snarling. Grantaire’s hands come up on automatic, and he shifts his weight onto his back foot. “You lied to me,” Enjolras says, voice still no more than a rumble.
“That voice!” Grantaire says brightly, twisting on his feet and stepping back and away from the reach of Enjolras’ fists. “If you want me to stay clothed, it’s not helping matters much.”
“I—you—” says Enjolras. “Fuck you.” His arm connects with Grantaire’s, the slap of skin not quite painful and loud in the quiet of their breath.
“Yes,” says Grantaire. “That is the idea.”
“Oh my God,” says Enjolras. “You’re—you’re the most infuriating. Dimwitted. Single-minded. Artistically talented. Piece-of-shit I’ve ever met.” He punctuates each insult with a well placed jab, several of which hit, and Grantaire very quickly decides that their bedroom is not the place for this.
When Enjolras moves forward again, he ducks down, under, twisting his way free and heading for the door. He considers snagging a knife or two, but thinks better when he catches sight of Enjolras’ face.
“See,” Grantaire says as he’s fleeing towards the kitchen. “I’m pretty sure the artist thing isn’t as insulting as you think it is.”
Enjolras obviously has no such qualms about the knives, and after one goes whizzing by Grantaire’s head, he rethinks the kitchen plan.
“Seriously,” he says, halfway to the living room. “I’m pretty sure that’s almost a compliment—if you weren’t currently in the process of trying take my head off with your admittedly fabulous aim”—he ducks the second knife—“I would take it as such.”
“It wasn’t,” says Enjolras almost viciously. “I bet you don’t even own an art gallery.”
Grantaire whirls to face him. “Take that back. You leave baby out of this.”
“I bet it’s not even an art gallery,” snaps Enjolras, undeterred. “I bet it’s some sort of super secret base.”
“Why would baby be a super secret base—”
“Or something even worse,” spits Enjolras. “It could be a front.”
“A front,” says Grantaire.
“For like drugs,” continues Enjolras. “Or women.”
“Or—or women—Enjolras you have met me, right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” snarls Enjolras, moving towards Grantaire quickly. He has a knife in his right hand, and Grantaire puts both of his up.
“And of course it’s a real art gallery!” he protests. “Why wouldn’t it be a real art gallery?”
“Are you telling me you’re actually traveling for art related things?”
“Well, no,” concedes Grantaire. “But I mean, yes! Yes, occasionally I pick up paintings!”
Enjolras raises an eyebrow.
“After I kill people,” finishes Grantaire.
Enjolras lowers his eyebrow in an incredibly arrogant and irksome manner.
Grantaire narrows his eyes. “What are you trying to say about Baby,” he says.
Enjolras throws his final knife at him. “Stop calling it that!” he shrieks. “It is a fucking building!”
Grantaire frowns at him. “Enjolras,” he says slowly. “Is this about something other than the fact that both of us were hiding our true professions from each other?”
For a moment Enjolras’ mouth hangs open, before it snaps shut and he make a ridiculous noise. “No!” he replies, voice high. “Why would it be?”
“I don’t know, you just seem somewhat stressed.”
“Stressed.”
“Yeah,” says Grantaire. “And also, you keep repeating things I say, which is a little worrying so maybe we should think about calling Joly—”
“We are not calling Joly!” shouts Enjolras, and tackles him.
Grantaire—Grantaire pretty much goes down, arms wind-milling helplessly, to hit their living room couch with a dull thud.
“Ow,” he groans.
“You’re awful,” agrees Enjolras.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” continues Grantaire.
“So very, very awful,” agrees Enjolras, and tips his head up so that they meet halfway.
“I think that has to be the most ridiculous argument we’ve ever had,” says Grantaire finally. They’ve curled up in an awkward bundle of limbs still on the couch, but the couch is wrong side around now, and most of the pillows and cushions are scattered around them. Grantaire is on his stomach, legs pleasantly tingling, and Enjolras has been tracing odd patterns (escape routes for their house, Grantaire’ treacherous brain points out) onto his lower back with one nail.
When Grantaire opens his mouth, he stops somewhere around their basement. “What?” His voice has taken on the dangerous, “you are about to do or say something incredibly stupid, and I am going to warn you” tone that make Grantaire swallow.
“Not the one about the lying,” he is quick to clarify. “The one about the boxers.”
“The one about the boxers,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire almost thinks he’s serious until he looks up and finds him grinning.
“Shut up,” he says, cuffing him gently about the head.
Enjolras raises an eyebrow, as if to say, “I’m not the one who compared their significant other to a parrot.”
Grantaire finds he can’t be angry at him when he looks like that. “To be fair you were repeating everything I said,” he says.
Enjolras scoffs. “That’s because everything you said was ridiculous.” He makes a face, but then his lips quirk. “Boxer conversation included.”
Grantaire grins. “Ridiculous,” he says. “So you agree with me.”
Enjolras full out smiles and he rolls over onto his side so that he can better stare at Grantaire. “I never said that,” he says.
“No,” agrees Grantaire. “But you did try to yell at me for wearing too many clothes.”
“You were,” Enjolras argues, but Grantaire can tell it’s mostly for show.
“Only because you told me too,” he throws back, yawning a little and stretching the kinks out of his back and neck. “Which was stupid—was there a point to that little exercise?”
“I wasn’t about to fight you while you were naked,” Enjolras replies, voice somewhat haughty.
“Why?” says Grantaire. “Were you worried you’d be distracted and end up fucking my brains out?”
“No.” Enjolras’ ears are a little pink.
“Because you ended up distracted,” continues Grantaire. “And fucked my brains out.”
“Well, obviously not entirely,” says Enjolras. “Seeing as you seem to keep talking.”
Grantaire considers that. “My self-preservation instincts, maybe?” he says.
Enjolras rests hand against Grantaire’s lower back, the point of contact warm and possessive all at once. “Are you sure you had those to begin with?” he says.
Grantaire laughs. “Very funny,” he says.
“No, seriously,” Enjolras continues. “When you botched the Valjean hit—”
“Oh, excuse me?” says Grantaire. “When I botched the Valjean hit?” He rolls himself over so that he can better frown at Enjolras, who looks back at him with a raised eyebrow. “Stop that.” Grantaire reaches out to stroke a thumb along the fine hairs as he speaks. “I keep telling you your face is going to stick like that.”
“Are you saying you didn’t botch the Valjean hit?” says Enjolras, seemingly unconcerned. He doesn’t move away from Grantaire’s touch, however.
“Actually, I wasn’t going to say that anyone had botched the Valjean hit,” says Grantaire. “But now that you mention it, probably the Valjean hit would have gone better if you hadn’t interfered.”
“Right,” says Enjolras. “Because obviously it’s my fault. Need I remind you that I got there first.”
“I’m just saying that I had everything under control before you came in guns blazing—” Grantaire doesn’t get to finish talking, because Enjolras slaps a hand over his mouth.
“Stop talking,” he says.
Grantaire licks his hand, which does nothing but remind him of just what that hand had been doing several minutes ago, and doesn’t make Enjolras reprimand him.
“Do you hear that?”
Grantaire opens his mouth, breathes against Enjolras’ hand, and blinks. And then blinks. And then frowns. From the back of the house, Grantaire can just make out the faint thump of footsteps.
He catches Enjolras’ eyes, notes the way Enjolras’ fingers have already gone slack around his jaw, and presses a quick kiss to the skin there. He nods. I hear them.
Enjolras nods, moving to take his hand off of Grantaire’s face, when all of a sudden Grantaire sees red.
Literally.
There is a tiny speck of light, flashing along Enjolras’ right pectoral, and Grantaire is rolling them and the couch up over them, heart pounding, to gunshots, thudding into their floor.
“I don’t suppose those are yours—” Grantaire tries to say, before Enjolras silences him with a pointed and venomous look. Grantaire is going to say not his guys, then. Not Grantaire’s either, which is worrying. That they’re both still naked, is rather unfortunate.
“Do you have a plan?” says Enjolras somewhat quietly when Grantaire twists away to see if he can reach his abandoned boxers. He pulls them on, tosses Enjolras his own pair and a shirt, and slams their way into the kitchen. Bullets go thudding into the walls as he goes, and it occurs to him that possibly he should be thinking and waiting for Enjolras, but when he ducks down behind their island, the other man is right alongside him, barely breathing.
Grantaire considers their position, reviews the house layout, and pauses. “It is possible that my closet is downstairs,” he says finally.
“What?” says Enjolras.
“My closet,” repeats Grantaire. “Filled with. Clothes.” He waits for Enjolras to get it; Enjolras does not appear to get it. “Guns,” he clarifies. “I have a bunch of guns downstairs.”
“Oh,” says Enjolras. “Good plan, then.”
“Fabulous,” says Grantaire. “After you.”
“Wait a second,” Enjolras says, halting on the stairs. “This seems like a bad idea—there’s no way out.”
“Aw, come on,” says Grantaire, snagging his hiking boots and tugging them on (mostly so Enjolras is forced to pull on the knee high red rain-boots that Courfeyrac bought him for his last birthday). “What could go wrong?”
“I cannot believe you said that,” says Enjolras, making a face.
He continues making that face, even as their would-be assassins get tired of hunting for them with guns and decides to chuck a few grenades into the basement, and even as they go back up the stairs, guns in hands, just in time for their house to explode.
“So, you were right,” says Grantaire into the silence. “The basement was not a good idea.”
Enjolras hits him; be it that he’s currently standing next to Grantaire in too-tight boxer briefs, an open button down shirt, and knee high red boots, Grantaire finds that he doesn’t care. He’s probably going to have to send Courfeyrac some sort of thank you card, however, and that’s depressing.
“Stop staring at me like that,” says Enjolras before Grantaire can voice his displeasure. “And say nothing.”
Grantaire considers speaking regardless, and Enjolras just looks at him.
“Nothing,” he repeats. “Now come on. We need a car.”
Grantaire would like the record to show that he says nothing, however he would also like it to show that Enjolras’ ass, and Enjolras’ legs, are only made more fabulous by the knee high, red boots.