look at them. they’re not even really using these moments to save themselves. it’s not a touch to get the other away from them. it’s not a defense. it’s just a touch for touching sake. more of a silent plea than a tactical maneuver. fighters who refuse to fight back to avoid hurting the other. whether you ship it or not, these are crucial moments in their relationship as far as trust and support goes
If you’ve ever thought about writing smut or a sex scene but for some reason haven’t bc of fear or shame, this is your sign from God telling you that you should go for it. You should just go for it.
Genuinely, seriously, and completely unironically, writing sex scenes and exploring my favorite characters’ sexualities in writing has been one of the most healing and rewarding hobbies I have embraced in my adulthood. As someone who grew up queer in a hyper-conservative Christian space, I felt robbed of getting to explore sexuality in a healthy way, but writing smut can be such an amazing way to understand your own kinks and desires. Personally, it has helped me figure out what I am looking for sexually in a relationship and how I would like to be treated.
The internet has never had greater communities than the thousands of ppl on this app and ao3 who bond over a shared love of fictional character porn. Seriously, I have yet to think of anything more BEAUTIFUL and MAGICAL than the spiritual connection we feel across continents and all over the world just bc we believe that two men want to fuck. And trust me, there is something freeing and liberating about getting to write it yourself. Is there any kink you’d like to explore but are too shy to explore it with a partner at first? There is literally not a safer space than your own mind and the beautiful words you will create just trying to describe a cock going into a hole.
This is me fully affirming and supporting anyone across the world who wants to write about some fucking. DO THAT SHIT, man. It’s SO FUN. In my mid-twenties, my ideal relaxing day off is literally making myself a cup of hot coffee, turning on the lo-fi, and writing a good smut scene between one of my favorite ships. Literally the highest form of self-care imo. Nothing feels better. WRITE THAT SHIT.
Grantaire shouts and saunters happily over the grass path that leads him to the Political Studies building, a small, modern construction with concrete walls and circular windows lined on each floor. It is surrounded by two paths framed by lilies, daisies and orchids. The newly planted garden at the front makes for a perfect spot to study, sleep, or relax after endless hours of debating about politicians and their useless attempts at controlling society.
Or at least that’s what Grantaire thinks they do in there, Enjolras has corrected him multiple times and has ranted for hours about the real objective of his career, and Grantaire finds it fascinating, still, it’s funnier to see him slowly lose his temper until he has no choice but to sigh and give in to whatever Grantaire is arguing back.
Grantaire is well aware his fascination responds directly to the way Enjolras’ brows crease, the way his eyes widen and his lips slightly part in an annoyed smirk that slowly has become an amused smile, it has nothing to do with the noble path of political studies. It never has.
It's never been about acts of protest and whether they're useful or not, it's never been about whether it's hope for humanity and their rooted selfishness and it's never been about the belief that a fight is worth it no matter the outcome.
It's never been about making Enjolras feel bad about his strong and fair beliefs, it's always been just about...Enjolras.
About his passion and relentless need to do the right thing, to protect those who need it, to fill the spirit of the Amis with the same fire he holds in his eyes and lead them to whichever cause needs them now.
Everything has always been about Enjolras and the small moments Grantaire gets his attention all to himself. Those sparkly and ablaze, blue eyes searching for any sign of conviction in Grantaire's stoic and defiant face. His pink lips pouting slightly against his will, ready to let out the next string of fierce words to at least try and shake Grantaire's frozen conviction. His passion overpouring from his pores, his hands, his whole body, all of it bathing Grantaire in that beautiful attention he craves every day.
He's found a way to have Enjolras look at him, and even though it's not the healthiest, he'll settle with it for now.
His bag bounces dangerously and some brushes threaten to fall as he speeds up waving at Jehan who notices him first. The rest of the Amis who are gathered in a tight circle on the grass -Courf, Ferre, Feuilly and Muschietta - look up and seem happily surprised to see him there.
Grantaire usually doesn't join them at their improvised reunions in front of this building, mainly because it clashes with his Anatomy class and also because it's right after Enjolras' History class, which means it's the perfect moment for Enjolras and Grantaire to debate. It happened once and after Jehan ended up crying cause Grantaire yelled and Enjolras yelled badk, he and the rest of the Amis decided it was just not worth it, so usually Grantaire dutifully goes to class and joins them later at the Café Musain.
Today tho, his 2 pm class was cut short due to an unexpected spill of resin all over the workshop floor and to clean it the whole group had to be “evacuated”, meaning Grantaire has two full hours at his disposition to finish his monthly sculpture project, start his environmental design exam or touch up his most recent sketch (Courfeyrac holding Bahorel on a headlock with Enjolras frowning at the back).
All of them very tempting but the prospect of seeing Enjolras for at least a brief moment during the day and out of their usual meetings where he is always busy and neurotic, makes Grantire sprint to the building, following Jehan's strict instructions on how to get there.
Small, wonderful, and adorable Jehan is sitting with his legs crossed against a very sleepy Feuilly, he smiles warmly when Grantaire reaches them.
"R! What's the reason for this very honorable visit?"
Muschietta smirks and looks up from the book she's reading. "Came to admire the view?" Her eyes dart to the side where Enjolras is sitting against one of the columns of the entrance, his blonde hair falling around his face like a halo. He doesn't look up when Grantaire approaches and it stings in a very familiar way.
Grantaire drops his bag next to Courfeyrac and lays down, letting out a dramatic sigh of relief. "Actually, dear Chetta, I got two free hours because I'm an amazing artist, thank you very much."
"Oh, so we're back to lying to seem cool? Wy didn't you guys tell me?" Courf comments casually, never taking his eyes away from the screen of his computer. He's typing furiously and Grantaire imagines it must be something important for tonight's meeting.
Grantaire can't wait to learn about the new plan Enjolras must have mapped out by now, he's more than ready to pick at the weaker points and at least get him to yell at him for a few minutes. The anticipation makes his fingertips tickle.
"Working on something important there, Courf?" Grantire points to the computer and it's Combeferre who looks up now, he nods and grins widely as he always does when explaining their work.
"Indeed my good friend. We received another citation from the board after last week's occupation of the library, we're drafting a very passive-aggressive response right now."
"Let me guess, you did the passive, Courf the aggressive and our fearless leader will do the editing?"
Courf finally looks up and smiles proudly. "You know us too well, R."
Grantire winks at him and finally, his eyes land on Enjolras. "So, Apollo...how passive-aggressive are we talking about? Are we talking Zeus convincing Metis to become a fly and then eating her passive-aggressive or-"
Grantaire doesn't get to finish because Enjolras stands up abruptly, his boots sending a few grass leaves flying around. Combeferre, who can be considered always on top of Enjolras' whereabouts and activities, looks up surprised but doesn't mention anything.
"I have to go," Enjolras announces, cold, stoic, his warm eyes far away from where Grantaire wants them.
On him.
"Enj-" Combeferre starts but Enjolras is quick to grab his bag and turn around before he can finish.
"I'll see you tonight, send me the draft and I'll have it ready." the last few words are barely audible because Enjolras shouts them as he makes his way back inside the building.
He disappears behind the glass doors and Grantaire feels like an idiot.
This is what he does all the time, chase Enjolras away, annoy him until he doesn't have another choice but to leave and put physical distance because Grantire is that dense and annoying.
Things had been going better lately though, he was more patient, and more understanding, he even seemed to enjoy some of his debates with Grantaire, a smile stubbornly tugging at his lips whenever Grantaire managed to shoot back a witty response, which was very often.
Grantire was getting used to that but today it all seemed to fade away in an instant.
What did he do wrong?
“Courf did I do something that I’m not aware of?" he asks honestly confused.
"Not that I know of other than your ever-present annoying personality." he keeps typing but Grantire can see the slightest shadow of worry in his features.
If Ferre and Courf, Enjolras' best friends and partners in crime, are confused by this then Grantaire is plain lost.
And hurt.
And disappointed.
And empty.
“Not gonna argue on that one.”
He settles on saying.
Enjolras doesn't come back.
The café Musain is bustling with life.
Marius passes glasses full of some fancy liquor his grandfather sent him from Scotland, Feuilly passes normal-looking brownies Grantaire knows are not your familiar, common brownies and Courf follows them trying to snatch and extra portion for himself.
Jehan is doodling on Eponine's arm as she longingly looks at Cossette who is in the middle of recounting his day at his father's company and Joly arranges a variety of posters and documents on the desk Combeferre is sitting at.
Everyone is doing their thing until Enjolras arrives, which should be at any moment since it's only two minutes til seven.
Grantaire anticipates the moment the door flings open and Enjolras walks in, bright and ready to try and make a change in the world. He's so familiar now with the way his heart races when that happens that he's come to love the moment. He used to dread it, too scared to admit what he was feeling was complete and utter adoration rather than eagerness to annoy his friend.
Friend? More like an acquaintance that tolerated him.
And that was enough for Grantaire.
The clock hits seven and the door doesn't open. Combeferre is the one to check his watch and look at the entrance with a worried expression, followed by Courfeyrac. Slowly all the Les Amis seem to notice the time and each take turns looking at the door as if by magic Enjolras is going to appear.
They wait ten minutes, the average time it takes Enjolras to detour and grab a cookie or salad because he probably didn't have lunch, there's no other reason that would make him late for a meeting aside from his insides twisting in hunger.
Enjolras follows the hand of the clock with attention.
Tick, tick, tick.
7:10.
He doesn't arrive.
Combeferre announces that they'll wait five more minutes in case there was traffic.
"Traffic is hell at 7 pm on the sidewalks" Marius adds and Grantire is not sure if he's being serious.
Still, Enjolras doesn't arrive.
This is getting worrisome and Grantaire can sense the way the air slowly begins to tense. They stop chattering, the booze stops going around, Courfeyrac puts the bottles aways, Bahorel spies through the window every five minutes to try and catch a glimpse of blonde locks flying with the wind, attached to a very annoyed Enjolras approaching...but nothing.
Enjolras has never missed an Amis meeting, not even when they removed his appendix. He fought off a nurse, a resident, a student, and Combeferre and won. They had to give him his laptop and the wi-fi password.
Grantaire stays at the back of the café as always, in the little booth they reserve only for him, with enough room to have him spread out his sketch books and hidden enough in the dark so Enjolras doesn't see him snoozing in the middle of a meeting.
That hasn't happened in months but he can never be too careful.
Cossette stops by now and then to pass him some snacks and peek at his drawings but apart from that he keeps to himself. He's worried as fuck. This is not Enjolras. Enjolras doesn't miss meetings, he isn't late he doesn't disappear without telling Ferre. Maybe something happened to him, maybe he decided to ditch the all and go find a new rebellious group, one without a liability as Grantaire.
That would've been ridiculous.
Grantaire would've left if Enjolras had asked. If it meant keeping him where he belonged. He would've done it in a heartbeat.
His hand stills where he's trying to get Bahorel's bald head into the right shape, he's been doodling mindlessly, his mind going in every direction except the paper. When he looks down the shading is all wrong, the light from the window doesn't make sense, the background looks funny and Enjolras...looks perfect.
The wild hair tamed into a bun, the crossed arms that make him look like an angry professor, the pursed lips and rolled eyes he always reserves for the younger Amis and their shenanigans, and the tilt in his head Grantaire notices happens when he's trying to make sense of something.
Funnily enough most of the time he tilts his head while arguing with Grantaire, and maybe he's trying to figure out why he hasn't kicked him out or punched him in the face before, but some cruel, deceiving part very deep in Grantaire's mind tells him he's trying just to understand Grantaire, to see through him and the stupid arguments he starts.
Impossible of course, Enjolras wouldn't waste his time on that.
Grantaire studies the delicate strokes that bring Enjolras to live in paper and it hurts him to know the reason he's so good at painting him are months of lovingly staring and stealing glances even when they're not at the meetings, his mind training him to doodle Enjolras as naturally as breathing.
He's about to go back to Bahorel and his funny-shaped head when a phone rings. They all check, even Grantaire, who has zero possibility of being Enjolras' contact of preference.
It's Ferre who stands on a chair and shows his screen to the rest.
"He's alive, just took something for a headache and it knocked him out. He'll stay in his apartment today."
Courf claps and his shoulders drop, clearly relaxed after learning that his best friend is alright and not abandoned and unconscious in some ditch. "Alright people, now that we know he didn't run away with a french hottie who is as bitterly appealing as him, we need to get to work. Marius-" he calls and throws an empty plastic cup towards the table at the back. "-stop oggling Cossette, she's gay and please bring those pamphlets you were working on."
With that, they all fall back into work mode.
Except Grantaire.
Enjolras beaten by a headache and some pills? Not possible.
Dude has been teased about the appendix story enough times to engrave into people's minds just how serious he is about his fights, his meetings, and his projects. A simple headache wouldn't do this.
Grantaire recalls their brief meeting early that day.
Enjolras peacefully working until he arrived.
Eniolras not sparing him one look, not even out of pity.
Enjolras storming out right after Grantaire directed a couple of words at him.
Enjolras not even looking back to say goodbye.
Was this the day he finally managed to push Enjolras completely away?
Grantaire stands up abruptly, pencils rolling to the floor, clattering and drawing very unwanted attention to him.
"Yes, R?" Ferre asks sweetly, he raises an eyebrow confused but also smiles a bit excited, Grantare never takes an active part in the meetings.
"I have to go." Grantaire declares and his voice comes out choked and funny. He shoves everything in his bag and ignores the way half of the Amis' eyes are on him.
"Oh," Ferre doesn't leave his place at the front table but he reaches one hand as if he could stop Grantaire from where he is. "Okay, are you-"
He doesn't have time to finish because Grantaire is already out the door.
He might be about to do something really stupid but...doesn't he always?
⊹₊⟡⋆
Grantaire bangs on Enjolras' door against his better judgment. He hasn't drunk today. He's been cutting back on the booze because that way his answers to Enjolras are quicker and funnier, and they make Enjolras laugh.
And Enjolras laughing is something he treasures deep in his chest, and would choose any day over any drink.
The first set of knocks do nothing, the silence inside the apartment stays defeaning and Grantaire's will starts to wither, his resolution to find Enjolras and fix whatever it is he fucked up this time tugs insistently at his heart, but his brain is starting to catch up.
What if he fucks it up more?
What if Enjolras lied and he is on some kind of date?
What if he is actually sick and Grantaire is just adding salt to an already horrible night?
Yes, Grantire doesn't drink very often anymore but at this very moment, he'd be very thankful to anyone that passed him a shot of booze.
His heart and brain pull at different sides. One wants to avoid and brace himself for Enjolras' blow up at the next meeting, there he'd have Ferre and the rest to placate him, but his heart, his heart wants to see Enjolras, wants to bask in the intensity of his gaze, wants to coax a laugh or a curse out of him, whatever comes first. His heart needs to beat at least for a bit next to Enjolras or he will go insane.
Grantaire knocks again, his brain resents him but his heart is thrilled.
A warm light escapes from under the door, there's one, two, three footsteps and the doorknob starts swiveling, a click and two seconds later the door creaks open and Enjolras is there, real and perfectly captivating in his pajama bottoms and a red oversized t-shirt.
"What are you doing here, R?"
The edge in Enjolras' voice is nothing new, Grantaire has been on the receiving end of it for way more times than he'd like to admit, but he's always earned it. He's worked hard to be at the end of Enjolras' blazing anger so it sucks to have the sharp edge of rejection and annoyance plunge into his heart without even knowing why.
"You skipped the meeting," he declares before any other whiney thought leaves his reckless mouth.
"I'm sick."
Please, Apollo.
Grantire rolls his eyes, mostly out of habit since he knows he should be treating Enjolras with tweezers and gloves right now, something he hasn't learned to do very well yet.
"You never skip meetings."
Enjolras lets out a bitter laugh. "I do now."
"No, you don't." The hallway echoes Grantaire's words and he shivers when he hears himself sounding so demanding and pushing. He doesn't have the right to. Still, he'll fix this no matter how annoying he has to get. "You're mad at me, more than usual that is," he adds as an explanation, so Enjolras knows he's not there just to annoy him.
Enjolras' eyes widen a tiny bit and Grantaire notices because he's so used to seeing him, his every move, his every shift of expression, he knows now he'll square his shoulders, puff his chest out petulantly like a kid trying to make a point, and furrow his brows to dignify Grantaire with an answer that'll make him leave. "R, listen-"
Grantaire won't leave.
“Tell me what I did please so we can move on.” He cuts off, getting more frustrated and scared with every passing second. “I know I’m not your favorite person but please for the well-being of the group just please tell me.”
I'll fix it, I'll try my best.
"R, please, I don't want to-" The sharpness in Enjolras voice seems to be melting and is leaving behind the faintest of quivers. He sounds tired.
For some reason that annoys Grantaire even more, if he's in trouble or something why can't he just say it?
"Would you stop being so selfish, I-"
“I dreamt of you. Happy?" Enjolras cuts off this time, he doesn't shout, which is something Grantaire would've expected, he doesn't even flinch while saying it, his face stoic and eyes lost somewhere behind Grantire. "Now leave, please.”
What?
"What?" Grantaire chuckles, unsure if he should feel flattered, insulted, or just confused. He'll choose offended for now. "And I am such a nightmare or-"
Enjolras groans and throws his hands in the air, he walks inside the apartment but doesn't close the door. "Ugh, you're impossible."
Grantaire steps in without thinking and with no invitation, but Enjolras leaving the door must be an invitation to come in, right? And even if it wasn't he's already inside and his feet are stuck on the entry because the apartment is so Enjolras it even smells like his cologne and the new banana hair conditioner Courfeyrac bought for him. Grantaire knows that because Courf made it everyone's business when announcing it at one of their meetings as the first order of the day.
Grantaire looks around shyly, held back by that nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him he's not allowed to be here. He's not enough to be entering Enjolras' world like this, but still, he peeks and commits everything to memory.
The place is not completely tidy like Feuilly's home but not as messy as Grantaire's own, there's books on the kitchen counter and a couple of dirty cups of coffee scattered around them, there are dishes to be done and a boiling pot of what seems to be noodle soup. On the other hand, the living room is neatly arranged, the coffee table sitting perfectly at the center of the furniture, fluffy cushions adorning the big black couch and two navy blue bean bags on each side of the chimney.
It's such a normal and lived-in apartment and Grantaire's chest hurts with how much he doesn't know about this Enjolras. The Enjolras that does his dishes while mumbling some random pop song, the one that sits bare-footed on a bean bag with his laptop and a cup of too-bitter tea, the one that lays on the couch on his pajamas plotting and planning the next grand action for a world that most definitely doesn't deserve him.
The Enjolras that at the moment sits at the end of his couch, hugging his knees and looking small, so fucking small.
"So, you dreamt about me?" Grantire takes two tentative steps towards the couch, giving Enjolras time to stop him or kick him out.
He doesn't.
"Big deal! I have this recurring weird dream where Courf turns into a capybara and-"
Enjolras doesn't turn back to scold or fight Grantaire, a red flag on its own, but what scares Grantaire is that he makes himself smaller and hides his face between his knees.
Something is very wrong.
Grantire breathes, one, two, three times, and pushes himself to close the last bit of distance between him and the couch, he sits down slowly and silence spreads around the apartment as constricting as the worry in Grantaire's chest.
Grantaire changes his approach, maybe his old teasy self will help Enjolras feel some remain of normality. "I mean I'm kinda flattered you have hot dreams about me Apollo but-" Enjolras goes rigid at the words, frozen where he's sitting, his shoulder drops as he lets out a long sight and his body starts shaking.
He hiccups and takes in a shuddering, wet, breath.
“Oh.” Grantaire whispers helplessly, his first instinct is to reach out to touch Enjolras, run a hand down his back, soothe him, calm him, hold him and dissipate any bad thoughts or situations that may be looming over him.
He doesn't, he's scared too. When did Enjolras start crying? Was he already crying when Grantire got here? Was he crying because of Grantaire?
“Oh, okay. No, jokes.” is the only thing he can think to say, he's never been so close to Enjolras alone, he's never seen Enjolras crying and he's never even thought about the possibility of witnessing Enjolras like this, completely broken next to him.
Enjolras stays still, his tall frame looking so much smaller as he hugs himself tighter. There are dark spots on his gray pants from where tears are falling.
It's that small detail that shakes Grantire our of his reverie, Enjolras needs him. To go? To help? To just stay there with him? He doesn't know but he'll offer anything.
As always, anything and everything in his power for Enjolras.
"Sorry, Apollo. I didn't mean to- I didn't- fuck, I'm so stupid. I'll leave, okay?" Grantaire gets to his feet even when his heart hammers inside his body, begging him to say, to stay close to Enjolras.
But he doesn't want me to, idiot.
"Please, don't cry." Grantire pleads and backs away, hands in front of him as if guarding Enjolras from his presence.
Grantaire turns and his brain rewards him with thoughts of: it's better this way, he's better off alone than with someone like you. He takes two steps, retracing the ones from before that took him closer to Enjolras, and it feels wrong but-
The couch creaks and Grantaire feels warm fingers tightly gripping his wrist, he turns and finds Enjolras on the edge of the couch, head bowed and shoulders shaking. He mumbles something but Grantaire can't catch it, his heart thuds annoyingly from having Enjolras' warm hand on him.
"What was that Apollo?" He asks carefully.
Enjolras looks up, Grantaire's soul crashes at the sight of him, tear-stained cheeks in full display, a pleading expression in his eyes. “I saw you die, R.”
It feels like a slap, like a rusty knife trespassing his skin, Enjolras sounds defeated, so weak.
“And I never told you…I never…” he tries to keep going but his throat closes and a choke comes out, a sob that wrecks every ounce of self-control Grantire managed to muster in the last few minutes.
“What?” Grantaire asks and gives in, letting Enjolras weak hand guide him back to the couch.
Grantaire is confused, scared, and for the first time in his life hopeful.
For what? He doesn't know, but as Enjolras moves his hand from his wrist down to wrap around Grantaire's fingers he can't help the flame that flickers to life inside his chest. His brain is getting quiet and his heart is taking over, trustful and eager to fall into the cliff of whatever Enjolras wants from him.
"I had a nightmare the other day." Enjolras starts after a few seconds of excruciating wait, his fingers twitch where they hold onto Grantaire and he dares to run his thumb softly above Enjolras' knuckles to soothe him.
It helps.
"It's all blurry and doesn't make sense, we're us but, also, we're not." Grantaire would make fun of the childish way Enjolras is describing what seems to be a bad dream, but he can't when his chest is so full of fondness and desire to listen to whatever Enjolras wants to tell him. "I'm in front of a big window with shattered glass and in front of me there are dozens of soldiers holding bayonets."
Enjolras stops and looks down, his cheeks burn in a bright pink color.
Grantaire searches his eyes and gives him a reassuring squeeze. It's okay, go on.
"And I'm not scared, R. I'm proud to be standing there. I feel defiant and ready to die but-"
His voice cracks and a rogue tear falls from his right eye, Grantaire wipes it with a careful thumb.
Taking a steading breath Enjolras continues. "But then you get there, you stumble up some stairs and make your way through them, your eyes stuck on me all the time."
"So I do that in your dreams too? Great."
Enjolras chuckles and it's a magnificent sound, even when it's followed by another quiet sob, Grantaire will ignore the embarrassment of having said that out loud in favor of basking in the glorious sound of Enjolras' laughter.
They stay quiet for a couple of minutes after that, Grantaire holding Enjolras' hand and giving him all the space and time he wants.
Anything, Apollo. You just have to ask.
Enjolras gathers his courage again and keeps talking, his voice rough and tentative. "I'm happy to see you there but also terrified because you being there means-" A pause, another shuddering breath. "It means you're there to die...with me."
I would die with you.
"And when you come closer R, you seem so ready for it, you don't care about the dozen men with guns in front of you, you push past them and stand next to me." Finally, Enjolras meets Grantaire's eyes, they burn into him with a fierceness Grantaire has never seen, not even in their most important campaigns as the Les Amis.
"And I could feel it R, the longing, the fear...and the gladness that it was you I was next to. And you, you just-"
Enjolras chokes on his own words again and this time Grantaire gently grabs his face with his free hand, he allows his fingers to softly caress the porcelain skin of Enjolras' cheek, right where a scar is fading from their last protest.
Enjolras seems to find strength in that and keeps going.
"You asked for my permission to die with me, R."
Permets-tu?
Grantaire doesn't know why but those two words echo inside his head, they claw at his heart and push him closer to Enjolras. To a truth he can't quite decipher or understand completely but is dying to.
"I woke up with the shots." Enjolras finishes, his eyes remain watery but his pulse feels steadier under Grantaire's fingers.
Grantaire lets all the words wash over him.
The longing, the fear and the gladness that it was you I was next to.
Something warm surges in Grantaire's chest and he lifts Enjolras' face with a gentle thumb on his jaw. There's still an answer he needs.
Please don't push me away.
"You said you never told me." Grantaire feels his chest is about to burst. "Tell me what, Enjolras?"
Enjolras surges forward and clashes their lips together.
His cheeks are wet.
His breath is raggedy.
His hands are clammy with sweat.
His lips move sloppy and uncoordinated.
And Grantaire follows him. Happily. Eagerly. Completely Enjolras' to take.
Down the cliff, jumping into a pool of Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras.
Enjolras hands sneak up to rest around Grantaire's neck, his fingers playing with the long curls there, it tickles and Grantaire realises right there and then that he will spend all this life yearning for that touch.
As if we didn't know already, his heart helpfully replies.
"Fuck." Grantaire whispers when they break the kiss, faces just millimeters away, Enjolras' breath warm against his lips.
He's about to lean in again but Enjolras pulls away as if something burned his skin, Grantaire's stomach drops and the constricting ropes of rejection threaten to choke him but he pushes them away in favor of Enjolras, who is scooting away and desperately running his hands across his face.
"I'm sorry, R." he mumbles.
Grantaire's pulse is still racing after having Enjolras lips on his, his hands on his skin, and it takes a few seconds for him to catch up, but when he does it's with a conviction he's only felt twice in his life: when deciding to be an artist and when deciding to devote his life to seeing Enjolras' happy.
Grantaire grabs Enjolras wrists and pulls him in. "Fuck, Apollo." he whispers against Enjolras' blonde, soft locks.
Enjolras doesn't protest and allows Grantaire to pull him closer, he fits perfectly against his chest.
"I-" Grantaire needs to take a couple of deep breaths to regain composture. "Don't you know?" He asks and wants to laugh, wasn't it extremely obvious how much he cared?
Enjolras looks up through thick lashes, eyes still shining with tears, Grantaire feels his chest burning at seeing confusion crossing his beautiful features.
"Don't you know I adore you?" he asks and it feels liberating to say it out loud. To let his love, his adoration, his devotion slip into every word, every touch.
"I'm very stupid when I want to." Enjolras laughs half heartedly bur Grantaire can see pain and regret in his eyes.
"I am too," he adds and when Enjolras smiles Grantaire dares to drop a light kiss on his forehead. His lips tickle and Enjolras leans into the feather-light touch.
Grantaire feels whole, invincible and whole, still, some part of his heart aches with longing, a yearning he's very familiar with. But that's not all, he also feels the ghost of bullets piercing his skin, the smell of gunpowder, and the pain of losing Enjolras, even when he hasn't, even with Enjolras here, next to him, clinging to his shirt.
Maybe Enjolras' dream affected him a bit more than he'd like to accept.
Grantaire moves to accommodate himself on the couch, shaking those thoughts away from his head. Enjolras lets out a small whine, he fists Grantaire's sweater and buries his nose in the fabric.
"Stay...please." Enjolras mumbles and his eyes close under heavy eyelids.
Maybe in another life or a distant dream, they don't make it, maybe they say goodbye in a tragic, expected ending. But here, holding each other in the dim light of Enjolras' living room they're safe and together. And Grantaire will make his damn best to keep it like that.
"Yes. If you permit it, yes." Grantire breathes out.
Enjolras furrows closer to Grantaire's chest and lets out a tired, shuddery breath. Grantaire wraps his arms securely around his shoulders and ignores the tears spilling from his own eyes.
He knows he's safe and that Enjolras' warm body is pressed securely against him, still, he cries.
He cries for a life where he couldn't save him.
A life where neither he nor Enjolras were brave enough for each other.
A life where the world was unjust and they had to fight to try and change it.
A life in which the only relief was dying together...so they did.
Grantaire breathes deep and lets the steady rhythm of Enjolras' chest lull him to sleep.
Enjolras doesn't dream that night and Grantaire doesn't either, that distant life can't touch them now.
So... I found this and now it keeps coming to mind. You hear about "life-changing writing advice" all the time and usually its really not—but honestly this is it man.
I love the lawyer metaphor, because whenever I see “John knew that...” in prose writing I immediately think “how? How does he know it?” Interrogate your witnesses. Cross-examine them. Make them explain their reasoning. It pays dividends.
gummygunk
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
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