Work Text:
When Eponine tells him that NOH8 Campaign is hosting an open shoot in the middle of the week, Enjolras thinks it might be a fun thing to do. What she doesn't tell him until after he agrees to take her is that it's in Woodland Hills, of all places.
"Isn't Marius from around there? Make him take you."
"I am, but this is the first one of the year—they probably won't be in L.A. again until Pride, and that's months from now. We need to strike now, while the iron is hot!"
"Is that a self-promotion strategy, or do you just really want to go?" Enjolras asks tiredly.
Eponine tilts her chin upward, defiant. "Both."
"We'll see who wants to go," he relents. "But I am not driving."
"Great! I'll have Jehan spread the word." She practically bounces away from his cubicle.
Enjolras sighs and turns his attention to the spreadsheet Courfeyrac e-mailed him that morning; it accounts for all their expenditures and the profits from their impromptu bake sale the week before. He only looks at it as a formality—Courfeyrac's math is always right. They're in the black, which is to be expected, but he heaves a sigh of relief, nonetheless. Until Combeferre reports on web sales and fulfillments, he doesn't really have anything else to do for the moment. He glances at the clock; it's barely 10:30.
This is a huge problem. It's Monday morning and he's on his third cup of coffee and Grantaire hasn't called him like he said he would. They haven't spoken at all since Friday night, and now that he's been agonizing over it all weekend, Enjolras is beginning to wonder whether Grantaire simply forgot or if maybe he's been the victim of some big prank.
He probably forgot. Enjolras pulls out his phone and sends a rapid-fire text. Something innocuous to test the water.
You (10:28:57 AM): Eponine wants to drag us all to the Valley on Wednesday, just a warning.
There's no response for nearly half an hour. Enjolras tries to play solitaire on his computer but feels guilty about wasting time, even though he has nothing better to do. He settles on watching the clock on his computer screen until finally his phone chimes.
Grantaire (10:56:15 AM): whats in the valley
Then,
Grantaire (10:57:35 AM): sorry i didn't call
Grantaire (10:59:13 AM): can i take you out to lunch
You (11:00:02 AM): NOH8 open shoot. And frankly, I'd be insulted if you DIDN'T buy me lunch
Grantaire (11:00:56 AM): give me like 20 mins
In Grantaire time, that could mean anything from fifteen minutes to an hour. It takes him twenty-three. Everyone in their tiny office is surprised—albeit pleasantly—to see him there outside of meeting hours. Courfeyrac's head shoots up from behind his cubicle like a fucking whack-a-mole—Enjolras tries not to look at him because he's doing weird things with his eyebrows.
Grantaire takes his time approaching; Enjolras has the biggest desk in the far corner of the office, so he has to walk past everyone else first. He looks so casual, meandering from cubicle to cubicle, lazily chatting Jehan up and asking Eponine how her little brother is doing. Combeferre waves him off distractedly when he tries to say hello, and Courfeyrac merely grins at him.
"Hey." His cheeks are slightly pink.
"Hey, yourself." Enjolras wants to be stern with him (his entire weekend was ruined) but the whole situation is so unexpectedly cute that he can't even bring himself to be annoyed. "I've never seen you act shy."
"Yeah, well." Grantaire rubs the back of his neck. "I'm asking this person I really like out for lunch but I think he's sort of mad at me. Maybe I'm a little nervous."
"Maybe he's nervous, too." Enjolras looks down at his desk and quietly adds, "I'm not mad."
"Not even a little bit?"
"Well, yeah, a little bit, but you're taking me out to lunch, so I figure you're pretty apologetic."
"I really am sorry," Grantaire mutters. "Anyway, you ready to go?"
"Take me somewhere nice," he advises, pushing himself away from the desk. To all of his friends' credit, none of them cheer or clap as they walk out together—although he thinks he hears Courfeyrac yell something once the door is closed.
Enjolras keeps pace, but Grantaire hasn't told him where they're going. Grantaire, as it turns out, is difficult to follow. He keeps his eyes down and keeps slowing his pace for no reason—as a result, Enjolras nearly crosses the street instead or turning a corner more than once.
"So," Enjolras begins, clearing his throat. "Busy weekend?" He doesn't mean for it to come out like an accusation—well, maybe a little.
"Yeah," Grantaire says sheepishly. "I got a little frenzied and got a lot of work done, which didn't really leave me in a headspace for, like… sleeping or… anything, really."
"I know how that is." Enjolras is single-minded and driven, and when he gets focused, he tends to turn into something of a steamroller. He can't really fault Grantaire for that in good conscience, although he suspects that he may have conveniently forgotten to mention the presence of alcohol in his flurry of productivity. "I guess I have to forgive you."
"Easy there, you haven't even had your eight dollar sandwich yet."
"Eight dollars, you'll spoil me."
Grantaire shoots him a sidelong glance. He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he nods toward a storefront. "This is the place."
It's uncharacteristically cold for Los Angeles, even in winter, so they duck inside. The first thing Enjolras notices is the smell of freshly baked bread, and they both stop to inhale at the same time. It's an almost sickeningly gentrified little hole-in-the-wall café, and the woman behind the counter welcomes Grantaire by name.
"You come here often?" It doesn't seem like Grantaire's kind of hangout—they don't appear to serve alcohol—but doesn't say that out loud. Enjolras keeps his eyes carefully on the menu hanging above the counter.
"Not really. You know, flirt with the waitress once…"
"… Get free coffee?"
"Probably not if I keep bringing boys here. Damn, I didn't really think this through."
"So how many boys have you brought here?"
"Just you."
Enjolras orders a nine dollar turkey wrap and goes to find a seat while Grantaire pays. He chooses a corner table and sits in the chair closest to the wall, where he can see everyone in the café. He gets a text message, but it's just Courfeyrac texting him a smiley face with five mouths so he scowls and stuffs his phone in his pocket.
"All's not well at the fort?" Grantaire asks as he sits across the table from him.
"The opposite. It's Monday morning and everyone is so on top of everything, there's nothing for me to do."
"That sounds terrible." He looks down and fiddles with the salt shaker a bit, and for some reason it's so cute it almost makes Enjolras angry. "So about the other day… Did you mean what you said? I mean—I got a little manic, there, so I thought that maybe I hallucinated it."
"You mean the part where you used some weird reverse psychology and got me to beg you to go out with me?" asks Enjolras. "I did. I do. I never really gave you a chance to be my friend until then and I regret it. I don't want to miss out on a great person just because I—" He stops for a moment, frustrated. Because he's single-minded and judgmental? Because he's married to his work? Because he never would have looked at Grantaire twice before that day? "Because I'm an idiot, basically."
It's a difficult thing to say out loud and it leaves him feeling incredibly vulnerable. The waitress chooses this exact moment to serve their food, and it's all he can do just to nod at her. He'll leave a nice tip.
"You're not an idiot," says Grantaire, stabbing absently at his salad with a fork. "And I'm not really a great person. In fact, I'm kind of a terrible one, and I think you know that. But I've liked you for a long time, and I just thought, after the other day…" He trails off, looking abashed.
"So the reason you volunteer with us…"
"We don't agree on a lot of things, but I wish you could see yourself when you get all worked up. You're incredible. I wish I cared about anything as much as you care about us." Us. Grantaire laughs. "The first time I heard you speak, I thought… I don't know. Like I could follow you to the ends of the earth and still not be able to figure you out."
"I don't know, you're kind of an enigma, yourself." Enjolras shrugs and takes a bite out of his wrap even though his stomach feels like it's full of lead. (It is fucking delicious, however.) "Listen, forget about what I want to do for a second. Are you sure you want to see me again? I'm difficult and stubborn and I won't put out and I'll probably hurt you."
Grantaire looks scandalized. "God—god, I'm not—I'm not just trying to get into your pants, I do actually listen to you sometimes. And the rest of that—that doesn't matter."
Enjolras wants to press the issue, but Grantaire looks so unmovable that he simply smiles and says, "Okay. Okay."
"Okay? Eat your nine dollar wrap. Jesus Christ."
Left to his own devices, Enjolras would've brooded (in fact, he's almost determined to prove how awful he could potentially be by being exactly that awful), but Grantaire is quick to change the subject and they manage to salvage the rest of their meal. They talk about Grantaire's art and his exorbitant rent ("Can you even afford to take me here?") and how Courfeyrac may need to start looking for another roommate because Marius has been talking about maybe moving in with Cosette and Eponine.
And then finally: "So what about this Valley thing?"
"It's one of those things where you pay money to put duct tape on your mouth and get your picture taken with really blown out lighting. Eponine wants to go so she's making me organize." Enjolras shoots him a tight smile. "I don't suppose you want to come with us…"
Grantaire shrugs. "I don't have anything else going on. Also this really cute boy is gonna be there, so."
Enjolras kicks him under the table.
```
Grantaire walks him back to his office building and asks that this please, please, please not count as their first date.
"Oh no, god no, I definitely ruined it, we'll just not count that one," Enjolras agrees.
Grantaire smiles crookedly and for one terrifying moment, Enjolras is afraid he might try to kiss him—afraid because he kind of wants him to, and because he's just so completely not ready for that. Instead, Grantaire shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "I think you sell yourself short. I just meant that I didn't want our first date to be me apologizing for flaking on you."
"Oh. Well thanks for lunch."
"Of course. Now get back in there, I bet the troops are getting restless. I'll see you later."
When Enjolras returns to his desk there's a small pile of paperwork and four e-mails from Courfeyrac, each containing a different verse to Never Gonna Give You Up in increasingly larger font sizes. There's also a message from Jehan about responses to the Valley trip—thankfully only a few of them are really committed to making the trip, so they may be able to take one car.
One very big car.
Enjolras sighs. "Eponine! How many does Marius' stupid SUV seat?"
"Eight, I think."
"He may be forced to drive."
"Good lord."
At the next night's meeting (during which Grantaire is strangely attentive and Enjolras is consequently somewhat distracted), Cosette and Eponine successfully bully Marius into volunteering to drive them all to Woodland Hills. Aside from the three of them, only Enjolras, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, and Jehan decide to go. They try to wheedle Combeferre into coming along, but he calmly informs them that absolutely nothing is going to make him sit in Valley traffic.
```
Combeferre, it turns out, is the smartest of them all because the northbound traffic on the 405 freeway is horrendous.
"I don't understand where all these people come from," Courfeyrac whines. "It's like 3:00, the work day isn't over yet, you delinquents!"
"It is for us," Eponine points out from the passenger's seat. Courfeyrac ignores her.
They've been on the freeway for twenty minutes and they've only just inched past Sunset Boulevard. "We could walk there faster than this."
"Could've taken the canyon," Grantaire says with a shrug. He's seated between Enjolras and Cosette, his arm draped conspicuously over the top of the seat around Enjolras' headrest. Everyone notices, but they're polite enough not to tease. Even Courfeyrac is content to lean against Jehan and complain about the traffic.
"Maybe on the way back, if the freeway's no good," says Marius uncertainly.
"The 405 is never good," says Cosette.
"I made it over the hill in like half an hour once," Marius retorts, indignant. "It was like 2:00 A.M., but still."
"All in favor of taking Topanga Canyon home?" Most of them raise their hands. The motion gains popularity after they merge onto the 101 and feel like they're all going to die because they're merging into the far left lane going 40 miles per hour slower than everyone else.
"Combeferre was right," moans Jehan. "Hell is empty and all the devils are on the freeway."
```
It's already past 4:30 by the time they get to the high school where the shoot is being held. They find parking easily enough on one of the side streets—Marius knows the area, so they follow him. Most of the students have gone by now; only those students who have time-consuming extracurriculars are still waiting around on campus, which is a massive relief to everyone. High school kids are terrifying—especially to Jehan, because high school wasn't that long ago for him.
They spend the time until the shoot starts talking to the other people milling around the flag pole—most of them are West Valley locals, but a couple of them made the commute, same as they did. The hand out a couple business cards to interested parties—surreptitiously, of course; it's not like they're trying to steal NOH8's thunder or anything. When model registration starts up, they quietly slip their materials into their pockets.
Because none of them are prepared to pay $40 for the solo photo, they take it in groups. Marius, Cosette, and Eponine decide to replicate the picture Jehan had posted on the ABC's blog, with Marius and Eponine pressing their duct taped mouths to either side of Cosette's face. In Jehan and Courfeyrac's photo, Jehan offers Courf a little white flower he pulled off a weed growing out of a crack in the sidewalk. No one can help letting out an aww at that.
Enjolras, while naturally photogenic in candids, simply cannot pose for photos. At least his mouth is covered so he doesn't have to force a smile. When the time comes to take their photo, Enjolras looks at Grantaire imploringly. Grantaire stares back at him, gaze oddly intense; it's a surprise when the flash bulb goes off. When he can see again, Grantaire's eyes are crinkled with mirth. The next six shots are just as excruciatingly awkward until finally the photographer realizes it's a lost cause and waves them off.
"Laugh all you want," he says after he peels the duct tape off. "We just paid $25 each to take the stupidest picture on earth."
"How can two such gorgeous people be so horrifically unphotogenic," says Jehan. There are actually tears in his eyes, which could mean any number of things. "But I don't know, you might still have a winner somewhere in that batch."
"Ugh, I don't even want to look at it," he groans, rubbing at the temporary tattoo on his cheek. "I hope you're happy, 'Ponine."
"Extremely," she says, an arm around each of her partners. "So what is there to eat around here?"
Marius pauses to think of something close by that Enjolras will approve of. "Whole Foods?"
"That's… that's a grocery store."
"It's on the way!"
"Driver picks," Enjolras suggests graciously, still trying to get the tattoo off. Grantaire tries to help by licking his thumb and rubbing at it, but all this really accomplishes is to make everyone giggle. Enjolras swats his hand away.
"That's not very democratic," Cosette teases as she checks her phone for local eateries. "Although I guess our other options are like… McDonald's and Taco Bell." Everyone simultaneously goes No or God, no, so Whole Foods it is.
There's a moment of panic where Marius realizes that he doesn't have his wallet (Cosette paid the photo fee for all three of them) but Courfeyrac says, "Marius please," and produces it from his back pocket. "You left it on the counter this morning. You are so lucky you have me to look out for you. I'll accept your thanks in the form of a gift card or formal note."
It's past nine by the time they're ready to leave, and Marius is confident that traffic will have improved. It hasn't. As they approach the 101, they see a veritable wall of brake lights as far as they can see. Enjolras checks traffic on his phone before they can get on.
"Ooh, accident right on the 405 junction. Backed up for miles."
Marius grimaces and passes the onramp. "Okay, but you can't blame me for our grisly deaths if we go over Topanga Canyon." Everyone agrees that it's worth the risk. It's only ten miles or so, what's the worst that could happen?
It's dark but mostly deserted. The going is pretty easy and Enjolras wonders why Marius is so worried before he realizes that every car coming the other direction is going by much faster than they are. He turns around; "Dude you have to speed up or pull over, there are like ten cars behind us."
Grantaire turns around, too. "Holy shit, it's like playing Snake."
Marius pulls over into the nearest space large enough for his stupidly large SUV and no fewer than twelve cars (by Cosette's count) pass them. Eponine pats Marius' shoulder encouragingly as he pulls back onto the road.
"You can do it, buddy," says Courfeyrac. "I didn't graciously remember your wallet for you for nothing."
They have to pull over one more time, and everyone in the car crosses their fingers when they get past town and Marius takes some curves a little too wide. Luckily there's no one coming the other way. When they get to the Pacific Coast Highway, Courfeyrac and Jehan cheer. Eponine leans over from the passenger seat and kisses Marius on the cheek while Cosette tugs on his ear. Enjolras reaches up to his shoulder, where Grantaire's hand is dangling over the back of the seat, and squeezes Grantaire's fingers.
"I think we deserve to stop at the beach," Marius says shakily.
"It's like forty degrees, Marius," Cosette says half-heartedly. Then, "Did everyone bring a jacket?" There's a small, somewhat reluctant chorus of Yes, Cosette. They follow PCH all the way down to the Santa Monica Pier. Most of the tourists have retired for the night, so it's blessedly easy to find street parking, even in Marius' gigantic car. Even so, when they pile out onto the beach, they're not the only ones out there.
The air is chilly and even the sand feels like ice on their bare feet. Eponine, Marius, and Cosette run ahead toward the black water, because they don't do anything by halves. Jehan seems distracted at first by the way the lights from the ferris wheel on the pier reflects in the black water, but Courfeyrac pulls him by the arm after the others. Enjolras and Grantaire hang back, following from a distance like the parents of rowdy children. Enjolras certainly feels like a parent; his friends are running around, splashing each other and shrieking at the temperature of the water. He hopes the heat works in Marius' car.
Grantaire asks something, but he doesn't hear it over the crashing of the waves. "What?"
"I was wondering if I could hold your hand," he says quietly.
"My hands are freezing," Enjolras warns in an attempt to mask his anxiety. He's never been good at holding hands. The few times he'd tried it with his high school boyfriend, he'd complained that Enjolras was cutting off his circulation and he didn't need a tourniquet. Still, he offers his hand to Grantaire.
Grantaire, stupid romantic bastard that Enjolras suspects he is, takes his hand with both of his like it's some kind of holy relic and lifts it to his mouth. For a moment Enjolras is worried that he's going to do something weird like kiss it (which just—no) but instead he blows on it (which, okay, is still sort of weird).
"God, you're right," he says, rubbing Enjolras' hand between the two of his own before delicately lacing their fingers together. "We're all going to get hypothermia and possibly die."
By the time they get down to the water, their friends have decided they've had quite enough of the cold and have finished frolicking without them. Marius and the girls have long since huddled into a mass. In the dark, they look like some hideous, giggling monster with six legs that keeps making kissing noises.
"Did I hear you say hypothermia?" asks Courfeyrac, rubbing his shoulders ineffectually. "Ahhhh I regret everything, I would run back to the car but I can't feel my stupid feet, do I even have feet anymore?"
Jehan, though considerably wetter (and therefore probably much colder) than Courfeyrac, seems to be ignoring the temperature in favor of composing a poem. "Red, the color of your nose! Black, the color of—of—" he falters, gesturing at the water and the night sky and finding himself at an unusual loss for words.
"Your sheets," Grantaire supplies innocently. Enjolras realizes with a start that all of his friends are going to go home and have outrageous amounts of sex. He is so glad he's not rooming with any of them.
"Yes, your sheets, thank you, R."
Enjolras watches him out of the corner of his eye and can't help but wonder if he's been a massive disappointment. Here they are, surrounded by amorous young lovers, and it was only minutes ago that he even deigned to hold Grantaire's hand. He doesn't imagine for a second that Grantaire is satisfied with that. His heart starts to beat too fast, and not in a good way.
They stumble back into the car, which is more difficult than it should be because they're all varying degrees of numb in all the wrong body parts, and Grantaire forgets that he's holding Enjolras' hand and nearly pulls him over. It takes Marius a couple tries to get the keys in the ignition (not least of all because Cosette is tickling him from the back seat) and when he does, he lets the engine idle for a few minutes as he cranks the heater to the highest setting.
Enjolras pulls his knees up to his chest, thanking whatever deities may be listening that he had the good sense not to go into the frigid Pacific. "You know, this will make a really great story if one of us gets pneumonia."
"Please don't try to make jokes," Courfeyrac says flatly. "That is not your area."
They set off again once Marius can feel his feet well enough to use the pedals. "So um, Jehan, are you gonna be staying at our place tonight, because…" Marius doesn't finish the question—they all think it's cute how he's too embarrassed to say that he won't be going back to his own apartment.
"Yeah, just drop us off at your place," Jehan answers.
"And um, what about…" Marius glances at Enjolras in the rearview mirror.
"I'll take R home," he offers. The Brewery is a good twenty minutes past Cosette and Eponine's shared apartment. "You kids have fun."
"Thanks, mom," says Cosette.
They drop off Courfeyrac and Jehan first, and Courf judiciously gives Marius' wallet to Cosette and tells Eponine to be in charge of his keys. With more room in the car, Enjolras and Grantaire climb into the back row and Eponine comes to join Cosette in the middle row. She lays her head in Cosette's lap until Enjolras objects ("Seatbelts!"). Sighing, she sits up and loops the center seat's strap around her waist before flopping back down dramatically.
"Yes, mother."
"Which reminds me…" Enjolras whips out his phone.
You (11:28:12 PM): Please don't play with Jehan; if you break his heart and he quits because he can't stand the sight of your stupid face and I have to hire someone to replace him, I will personally murder you
Courfeyrac (11:29:58 PM): I hope you step on a lego
Grantaire catches a glimpse of the conversation and snorts. "You're the only person I know who would use a semicolon in a text message."
"Just because you can't be bothered to use punctuation…"
"Not all of us can be bothered to flip through three different keyboards to find that shit, and besides, everyone always knows what I mean." Grantaire's smile informs him that this is a very different sort of argument from the kind they usually have.
"Do I have to separate you two?" asks Cosette.
"Seriously, no blood, saliva, or other bodily fluids in the car," says Marius. "My grandfather drives this thing."
It's only because Marius is driving that Enjolras resists the urge to throw his phone at his head.
```
Marius drops them off in front of Enjolras' apartment building and peels out so fast his tires screech.
"Wow, rub it in," says Grantaire, eyebrows raised. There may as well be a blinking neon sign hanging over him that says EVERYONE IS GETTING LAID TONIGHT BUT YOU. Enjolras coughs. "Sorry, I didn't mean—dammit. Can this not count as our first date, either?"
"We held hands; sadly, I don't think it's negotiable."
"Damn. How'd I do?"
"Perfectly adequate. I was actually just about to ask if you wanted to come up for a minute. It's too cold for me to even think about going down to the parking garage just now." Grantaire shoots him a questioning look. He feels himself going a bit pink and adds, "I mention that this absolutely will not result in any kind of sexual payoff. Sorry."
"No, I—Jesus. Does this offer still stand?"
Enjolras smirks and takes the steps up to the door two at a time. Grantaire follows so eagerly that he nearly bowls him over.
He lives on the third floor and usually only takes the stairs about half the time when he's on his own, but tonight he's feeling keyed up and playful and maybe a little bit obnoxious. Enjolras takes the first flight of stairs at a jog, then at the first landing, breaks into a run. Just because he's not gonna fuck Grantaire, doesn't mean he hasn't anxiously been thinking about kissing him since Friday. "308!"
"308," Grantaire confirms, close behind him. It's not really a race, but Enjolras still wants to win. When they burst out into the third floor hallway, they're neck and neck, but Enjolras knows which door to stop in front of. He thinks he has the advantage, but Grantaire somehow has his hand on the doorknob before he does. They stand there for a while catching their breath, faces flushed.
"Do I win something?" pants Grantaire. "Some water, maybe?"
Enjolras gets the feeling he wants to ask for something else. "Beat me on my own turf," he mutters, fumbling for his keys. "Might have to give you something a little stronger."
His apartment is really nothing special—not as impressive as Grantaire's studio loft, anyway—but it's nice enough, and it's basically clean underneath the clutter of ABC materials that won't fit into the office. Grantaire whistles in appreciation. "Married to the job, huh?"
"We have an open relationship." He empties his pockets onto the kitchen counter. "Water? Or beer?"
Grantaire shoots him a pained look. "Boooth?" he says uncertainly, like he's not sure which answer Enjolras wants to hear. "No, water, definitely water."
"Good choice." He pours a tall glass of water for each of them. "Ugh, do I still have that stupid tattoo on my face?"
"It's not so bad." Grantaire takes a long sip and grimaces. "You look kind of like you're going to a Justin Bieber concert, but. You know. It's the baby face."
Enjolras scowls; he'd tried to buy a six pack at Ralph's once and the cashier had told him that he'd have carded him for a carton of milk. "I need to get this thing off right now."
"Try rubbing alcohol."
"Hm." He empties his glass in one long gulp. The sense of urgency he'd felt on the stairs is gone, but his heart is still beating a million times a minute and they've reverted to smalltalk. He wonders if he's wasted an opportunity to make Grantaire kiss him.
Luckily for him, Grantaire is willing to create his own opportunities. "Can I just—I'm so sorry, oh my god. Don't take this the wrong way but I'm dying to touch you right now."
"Yeah?" Enjolras forces himself to un-cross his arms. This is exactly what he wants, but somehow the thought of Grantaire touching him is still making him tense up. What is he supposed to do? He thinks back to his last relationship—what did he do then?—and quickly realizes he'd rather not think about that at all.
"Yeah." Grantaire licks his lips. He hasn't made any move toward Enjolras at all, but he's shifted his weight forward a bit. He looks a little predatory. "I'd kiss you, too, if you'd let me."
Enjolras swallows. "I'm not a very good kisser."
Grantaire gives him a look. "So was that 'Yes, Grantaire, please kiss me,' or was that a polite no?"
"It was a statement of fact. But if you're asking for permission, then yes."
Grantaire starts by closing the distance between them and putting a hand on the base of Enjolras' neck. "Is that okay?" He nods once and doesn't even have time to close his eyes before Grantaire presses his mouth to his own. It's chaste and close-mouthed, but Enjolras is painfully aware of his own stock-stillness. After a few extremely awkward seconds of this, Grantaire pulls away.
"Again—try again," he says, embarrassed. Grantaire is more than happy to oblige. This time, Enjolras at least remembers to push back a little.
"You know," Grantaire says, a little breathlessly, "they say it gets easier with practice."
"Oh yeah? And who says that?" Feeling a little bolder now, he puts his hands on either side of Grantaire's waist. Grantaire smiles.
"I do."