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The evening’s meeting was almost concluded by the time Grantaire chose to grace Les Amis will his presence, and Enjolras scowled, fully ready to call him out on his tardy arrival.
But Bahorel beat him to the punch. “Capital R,” he said, sounding delighted, “you took my advice.”
Enjolras’s brow furrowed, but before he could ask what, precisely, Bahorel meant, Grantaire swaggered forward and in doing so, revealed Bahorel’s meaning by the pair of new, and borderline indecently tight, trousers.
“Double-milled cloth, from Staub’s,” he told Bahorel with a wink. “With a few minor alterations.”
Minor was certainly one word for it, though not the one Enjolras would use as his eyes trailed up Grantaire’s shapely legs to land firmly, and unmovingly, on Grantaire’s derrière.
It took him far too long a moment to realize that Combeferre had said something to him, and even then, Enjolras wasn’t fully able to tear his eyes away. “What?” he asked, distractedly, and Grantaire turned in his direction, and met his eyes.
And smirked.
Bastard.
“I was asking,” Combeferre said, with no small amount of amusement, “if you wished to go over the pamphlet draft this evening?”
Enjolras forced himself to look away from Grantaire. “Not this night,” he said, aiming for his usual commanding tone and almost certainly coming up short. “I have other things to which I much attend.”
“Of course,” Combeferre murmured politely, though Enjolras was certain he saw the corners of his mouth twitch toward a knowing, and smug, smile.
Still, Enjolras forced him to sit down at his usual place as their friends slowly began to trickle out for the night. He forced himself to pretend to read through the paper in front of him, though truth be told, he had no idea what it even said, or, frankly, if it had any writing on it at all.
Most of all, he forced himself not to look again at Grantaire, and his damned trousers.
Perhaps sensing the tension, their friends seemed to take their leave in more orderly a fashion than most nights, until at last Enjolras and Grantaire were alone. And perhaps sensing the way Enjolras’s mouth had gone dry at first seeing him walk him, Grantaire stood and stretched languidly, before moving to lean against the table opposite Enjolras, his legs in those trousers perfectly on display.
“I apologize for missing the meeting,” Grantaire told him, his voice low, and Enjolras just managed to meet his eyes.
“It appears you had a passing excuse,” he managed, and Grantaire grinned.
“What, these old things?” he asked, mock-innocently, splaying one large hand against his thigh, and Enjolras swallowed, hard.
“Yes, those,” Enjolras said, attempting disapproval that would have been more convincing had his voice not risen half an octave unbidden.
Grantaire’s grin softened, just slightly. “Well, good,” he said quietly. “Because I wore them for you.”
Enjolras bit off a groan and stood, taking Grantaire by the arm and all but marching him to the small closet at the far end of the back room. While it was sometimes used for storage, they were both in luck that it was predominantly empty, and Enjolras hastily closed the door behind him before turning to face Grantaire.
Too many times now had they met this way, finding a spare nook or empty space where they could be alone together, where Enjolras could let the mantle of leader fall away and let himself be just a man, if even for a few sparse moments. But rarely had he been so quick or eager to abandon his work, and certainly rarer still had he not insisted they adjourn to somewhere far more private.
He must be going mad. And the only thing he could pin the blame on was those damned trousers.
“Were you trying to kill me tonight?” he asked, drawing Grantaire close to him, cupping his cheek with one hand. “Surely you must have guessed the impact those would have on me.”
Grantaire turned his head to kiss the palm of Enjolras’s hand. “Guessed? No,” he said softly. “But, oh, how I hoped.”
Enjolras shook his head with something like disapproval. “They are magnificent,” he told Grantaire, meaning every word. “And you…” He trailed off, searching Grantaire’s expression for a long moment. “Beautiful,” he murmured finally, running his thumb across Grantaire’s lips.
He expected and thus anticipated the way Grantaire would attempt to turn his head away as he always did when confronted with such praise, and so caught his chin to hold him in place. Enjolras knew that Grantaire was not considered conventionally attractive, but Enjolras cared even less about that than he did most conventions.
Because to him, Grantaire was beautiful, whether shouting at him in the middle of one of their fights, or looking at him in the flickering candlelight when they were the last two in the Musain, and right now, when he was flushed and pressed against the wall.
Especially right now. Especially in those trousers.
Enjolras wanted nothing more than to kiss him, so he spared a glance at the door to ensure he had in fact closed it behind them before doing just that.
When first they began this, Grantaire had always seemed startled, and cautious, whenever Enjolras initiated something physical, but that day he was neither of those things, melting into the kiss with a sort of contented familiarity that turned all too quickly into a familiar hunger.
Enjolras had intended solely for this to be a quick kiss, a brief brushing of lips to convey what his words and his eyes couldn’t, but then Grantaire’s lips parted against his, and Enjolras’s hands trailed down Grantaire’s sides to instead grasp the other man’s ass, feeling the too tight fabric pull against his fingers.
Though neither man spoke, the silence was filled by the wet sounds of their mouths moving together and their increasingly heavy breathing. Something about kissing Grantaire made Enjolras forget himself, forget his duty and obligations, enough to leave him panting and hungry for more in a backroom closet.
It was enough to make him laugh, just lightly, even if the sound was quickly captured in Grantaire’s mouth. But there was a patent absurdity in what they were doing, rutting against each other with just a thin door between them and any of their friends who might return or, worse, the proprietress.
Almost as if sensing his thoughts, Grantaire crowded him against the door, and Enjolras almost protested, save for the fact that he realized his body weight was likely as effective a door stop as any. Grantaire rolled his hips teasingly against his as his lips traced down Enjolras’s throat, pausing to suck almost languidly against his pulse point.
Enjolras gasped, and dug his nails into Grantaire’s ass. “If you leave a mark on me—” he started, the warning clear in his tone, and Grantaire pulled back just far enough to smirk at him.
“My apologies,” he murmured, though he didn’t particularly sound apologetic. “But can you blame me?”
“That depends,” Enjolras returned, his blood racing like fire through his veins, and without warning, he turned them, pushing Grantaire’s back against the door. Grantaire’s eyes darkened, but before he could say anything, Enjolras snaked a hand between them, palming Grantaire’s cock through the front of those damned trousers that had started it all. “Can you blame me for this?”
Grantaire’s eyes were half-closed as he shamelessly rocked against Enjolras’s hand. “No,” he said softly, and there was something too earnest in his voice, all teasing long since gone. “No, I don’t blame you for anything.”
There were a great many things Enjolras wanted to say to that, a great many repudiations he would make if he was a stronger man, but Grantaire’s head was tipped back against the door, his mouth half-open as he let out a breathy, wanton noise, and Enjolras knew he was not strong enough now.
Again Grantaire seemed to sense his thoughts, as he gasped, “I beg of you, do not stop, please—”
Were Enjolras stronger, he would have. He would have pulled back, and straightened his clothes before leaving Grantaire in the closet to take care of himself.
Instead, he pressed more firmly against the outline of Grantaire’s cock, stroking him through the fabric. He raised his other hand to again trace his thumb across Grantaire’s parted lips. “If you wish me to continue,” he said, his own voice as calm and even as he could manage, “then you must remain quiet.”
It was an idle threat if ever Enjolras had made one, but Grantaire’s eyes met his and, without warning, he closed his lips around Enjolras’s thumb. Enjolras barely managed to cut off his own groan as Grantaire’s tongue curled around his thumb, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked hungrily at the digit.
Grantaire let out something almost like a whine, though the noise was muted, and not just by Enjolras’s thumb in his mouth. Of course – leave it to Grantaire to decide on obedience here, and now, when never he could manage it when Enjolras requested it in service of the Cause.
The thought had Enjolras’s heart pounding against his chest and without warning he yanked his thumb from Grantaire’s mouth and instead wrapped his hand lightly around his throat, his thumb now against the hollow at the base of his throat. His other hand continued its steady, rhythmic movement as he pressed down, just slightly, against Grantaire’s throat. “You would do anything I asked of you in here, wouldn’t you,” he murmured, more a statement than a question, and Grantaire nodded, just once.
It was the only answer Enjolras needed, and he kissed him again, a slow, almost gentle kiss that contrasted the frantic movement of Grantaire’s hips to meet Enjolras’s palm.
He drew back to press a single, light kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth before asking, in a ragged whisper, “What if I asked you to come like this?”
Grantaire whimpered, but still he managed a nod, a flush spreading down his neck. Had they more time, in a more private location, Enjolras would have been tempted to tear the shirt from Grantaire just to see how far that flush spread, to trace it with his tongue, and his teeth.
But he knew from experience that Grantaire was teetering close to the edge now, so that discovery would have to wait. “You would, wouldn’t you,” he said instead, increasing both the speed and intensity of his hand against Grantaire’s clothed cock and reveling in the way Grantaire bit his lip to keep from crying out. “You would ruin these beautiful new trousers, just because I asked.”
Grantaire swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving against Enjolras’s thumb. Anything , Grantaire had said, and Enjolras could feel it now in the way he nodded. I’ll black your boots.
Thankfully, there would be no need for that.
“Please,” Grantaire whispered, which was the only invitation Enjolras needed.
He moved his hand from Grantaire’s throat to instead cup his cheek, smoothing his fingers against the day’s stubble and caressing the ruddy skin as he leaned in to press his mouth again to Grantaire’s, swallowing his cry as Grantaire’s hips stuttered in their movements as he came. He kissed him as the last tremors of his release faded and the only thing keeping him upright was Enjolras’s body against his, the kiss turning slower and sweeter as Grantaire’s breathing finally evened out
Grantaire sagged forward to rest his forehead against Enjolras’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he murmured, and Enjolras felt a pang of guilt that Grantaire should be thanking him when it was he who had commanded this, he who had driven Grantaire to this point and reveled in every moment of it.
But then Grantaire straightened, his eyes again dark, and he pressed his own hand almost experimentally against the front of Enjolras’s trousers. The breath caught in Enjolras’s throat, and it took all his self-control not to buck against the touch.
“I think not,” he said, his hand closing around Grantaire’s wrist, though he did not force his hand away.
Grantaire cocked his head slightly. “May I not return the favor?” he asked, his voice low, and Enjolras swallowed, hard.
“Not here,” he managed. “Unlike you, I see no reason to ruin a perfectly good pair of trousers.”
Grantaire grinned, something dark and wolfish in his smile as he leaned in to kiss Enjolras. “Then in that case,” he murmured, his voice low in Enjolras’s ear, “I believe we can remove the trousers entirely from the equation.”
“Grantaire—” Enjolras started, though it was without any real heat, and certainly without any real protest, especially as Grantaire unfastened his trousers with one deft hand, pushing them down Enjolras’s hips.
“Fret not,” Grantaire whispered in his ear, his hand closing around Enjolras’s cock. “I promise this will not take long.”
And forgetting his own admonishment to keep quiet, Enjolras let out a moan as Grantaire slowly sank down to his knees in front of him.