Chapter Text
Grantaire is naked, hard, and tied-up on Combeferre’s bed. He’d like to say that this is the first time he found himself in this position, but sadly, it’s not. Not even by a long shot.
Maybe he should start from the beginning.
*
The Musain is peaceful during this time; a mid-day lull between rush hours, making it the perfect place to draw. Or, it would be peaceful, if it weren’t for the presence of Courfeyrac. Specifically, a Courfeyrac who just got laid, which is the loudest and most insufferable Courfeyrac.
“Courfeyrac, no one wants to know about your sexual exploits. No one,” Grantaire says, eyes focused on the sketch taking form underneath his fast-moving pencil. So far he only has a rough outline, but the shape of knowing eyes that seem to stare into your soul is unmistakable.
Courfeyrac pouts at him. “You would totally benefit from some relationship advice. Let the Courfster show you the ways of love,” he croons, sliding his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders.
A look of horror crosses Grantaire’s face. “One, no. Just, no. Two, did you really just call yourself the Courfster? Quit letting Marius make you watch chick flicks.”
“I resent that! Also, Enjolras would have an aneurysm if he heard you. You shouldn’t call them “chick flicks,” that’s assigning a gender to movies, which makes it only acceptable for people who identify as female to watch them.” Courfeyrac smiles, a sly thing that sends dread shooting through Grantaire. “You know who else watches chick flicks? Combeferre.”
Damn it all to hell. Grantaire can’t help but lean in, intrigued despite himself.
“Really?” His voice isn’t squeaky at all. He’s just coming down with very sudden, very selective allergies.
Courfeyrac’s smile is that of the Cheshire cat. “Mhmm. He really loves The Princess Bride. Knows all the quotes and stuff too.”
“Why are you telling me this, exactly?” Grantaire asks, suspicious. Courfeyrac rarely does things out of the goodness of his heart. In fact, he’s a menace to society, something that Grantaire has said over and over again, but no one seems to realise it other than him.
“Because. I’m going to help you seduce Combeferre!”
Courfeyrac yells right into Grantaire’s ear, and that, coupled with the shock of that someone else has realised his infatuation, makes him jerk in surprise. He ends up on his ass on the floor, while Courfeyrac beams down at him with a truly scary smile.
There’s no getting out of this if Courfeyrac is determined, and from the looks of it, he is.
Well, then. This should be fun. (Not.)
*
This is a bad idea. This is a really, really bad idea.
No, scratch that, this is the worst idea, and Grantaire is going to kill himself after he murders Courfeyrac for talking him into this.
This, of course, being Step One of ‘Mission: Get R into Mothman’s Pants.’ (Don’t look at him like that, it was Courfeyrac who came up with the name. No one should let Courfeyrac come up with anything, ever.) Courfeyrac’s List, which is a long, detailed list full of complicated steps and back-up plans - it goes all the way up to Plan N - states the following to be Step One:
1) Establish connection by bonding over whatever it is unwashed artists and guys who get unreasonably excited about moths bond over.
(“That sentence got away from you, didn’t it?” Grantaire asks when he first sees the list.
“Meh, grammar is not really my strong point. I’ll leave that to Jehan.”
“He’s a poet, not a grammarian. You’re dating him, shouldn’t you know that? Also, nothing is your strong point, Courf.”
“Hey! Matters of the heart are my strong point! Don’t make me revoke my offer to help you, Grantaire.”
“Oh dear God, please do - ow!”)
Step One will be carried out by/using:
• A can of mushroom soup
• A copy of the Iliad
• Lots of rope
• Stealing Grantaire’s shirt
• A copy of The Princess Bride
(“Do I even want to know?”
“No, you really don’t.”
“Okay, then.”)
That’s how Grantaire finds himself standing in front of the apartment Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras share. The door is a dark, unassuming brown, giving absolutely no clue about the madness that results from having Enjolras and Courfeyrac under one roof. Really, Grantaire is certain that the only reason Enjolras hasn’t violently murdered Courfeyrac yet is because the bloodstains would be a bitch to get out of their beige carpeting. Well, that and the fact that Combeferre could negotiate anything into a peaceful conclusion.
He knocks on the door, bravely ignoring the urge to run away and never come back.
The door swings open to reveal a madly-grinning Courfeyrac. “Oh, Grantaire! Whatever would you be doing here?”
“Um, you invited me. Step One, remember?”
Courfeyrac sighs in a very ‘I can’t believe I have to put up with this’ manner. “It’s a good thing you were never requited to be a spy. Come in. Enjolras is out for the next few hours, and Combeferre is in the shower.”
The inside of the apartment is pristine, except for the books that litter every flat surface. The living room opens onto the kitchen, and there’s a hallway leading off to the bedrooms and bathrooms. There’s a lot of red, which Grantaire knows to be Enjolras’ touch. It seems that not even Combeferre is willing to try to separate Enjolras from his favourite colour.
The artist in Grantaire wants to weep at the bare walls. They’re white, and boring. He resolves to wheedle Enjolras into letting him paint a mural or something.
He’s just taken a seat on the couch when the bathroom door at the end of the hallway springs open. Because of the arrangement of the furniture, Grantaire has direct vision down the hall. And oh, wow, so that’s what’s hiding underneath Combeferre’s dress shirts and smart sweaters.
Muscle. And lots of it. Not the bulging, steroid-induced kind, but those of a man who knows how to work a fucking gym. The sight of the deep ‘v’ of Combeferre’s hips makes his mouth run dry. He can imagine those strong, tattooed (Combeferre has tattoos!) arms wrapping around him. He wants to know how that lightly tanned skin tastes.
“Oh, hey, Grantaire,” Combeferre says. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
A complicated look passes between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but Grantaire decides that he doesn’t mind because it gives him more time to ogle Combeferre without being noticed.
“Grantaire is going to help you study for your Classics midterm!” Courfeyrac announces.
Grantaire tears his eyes away from Combeferre’s abs with great difficulty. “I am?”
“He is?” Combeferre asks at the same time. They share a sheepish look.
Courfeyrac is grinning so widely that it seems as though his face will split. “Yes! I even have his personally annotated copy of The Iliad right here.” He produces a battered book out of the messenger bag he carries everywhere. Grantaire can recognise it as his, but what he doesn’t know is how Courfeyrac got it. Last he checked, it was sitting on his bookshelf, snuggly fitted between a copy of The Song of Achilles and Bulfinch’s Mythology.
“Now, I have a date with Jehan. It’s open mike night at the Corinthe! Toodaloo.” Then he’s gone, slamming the door shut behind him with a gleeful: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“You know,” Combeferre says thoughtfully, “that isn’t as limiting as he seems to think it is.”
Grantaire makes a dying whale noise. “Please put a shirt on.”
Combeferre quirks an eyebrow. “Does my near-nakedness offend you?”
“Offend - offend me? Oh my God, Combeferre, for the sake of my sanity, put a shirt on. And preferably some pants.”
As Combeferre obliges, shutting his bedroom door behind him, Grantaire flops backwards on to the couch.
“I am going to die of sexual frustration,” he tells the ceiling.