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The envelope lies untouched on the table, and Enjolras is just staring at it. It's weighty; he knew what it was before he'd even read it, when he collected the mail on his way into his and Grantaire's shared apartment. It lies there, apart from the rest, and it's like it's staring right back at Enjolras. The paper is clearly expensive, and the envelope is embossed. He's not going to open it. He won't give them that satisfaction. It will go in the trash, and unthought of.
As soon as Enjolras decides that he's done glaring at it, of course. That's when the door opens and Grantaire walks in, humming something under his breath. Enjolras doesn't look away from the envelope, but he can't help but notice Grantaire out of his periphery. He always notices Grantaire in his periphery; he used to fight it, called it a distraction, abhorred Grantaire for keeping his thoughts away from his causes. Now he welcomes it; Grantaire's presence is a centering one, the sole constant in his never-ending crusade to change the world. And the envelope on the table is a stark reminder of how that crusade started.
"Are you trying to start a fire with your mind or something? Because I think there are human limits that even you can't transcend, Apollo." Grantaire's voice cuts through the tension in the kitchen smoothly. It's practiced. Grantaire has always been good at diffusing tension, most often at the expense of himself, and always for Enjolras's benefit. When it isn't his fault, that is.
Enjolras gives a noncommittal grunt and moves to toss the envelope, but Grantaire snags it before he can.
"Your full name is on this." Grantaire states, and Enjolras doesn't answer. "Like, not just your legal name, but your entire douchey family name. And it's embossed."
"R-" Enjolras tries to stop him but Grantaire opens it anyway, reading it out loud, at first in a ridiculous posh accent, but it turns disbelieving by the end.
"Monsieur and Madame Enjolras cordially invite you to their annual charity gala- charity gala? Your parents?"
Enjolras chuckles humorlessly. "Common practice amongst the upper class, I'm afraid. They spend more on the parties than they give to the charities, and then of course they funnel what they can get away with into their own personal accounts. My parents included. It's just an excuse to show off their wealth and delude themselves into thinking they're good people. And they like to invite me to throw it in my face. 'Look how charitable we are, son, how foolish you are, in your voluntary exile.'"
Enjolras runs his hands through his hair. He can feel a headache start to form behind the bridge of his nose. It dissipates almost immediately when he feels Grantaire's hands on his shoulders. They knead his muscles, tense at the best of times but even more so now that it's that time of year again, and Enjolras groans and leans into it.
Grantaire hasn't had a chance to open the beer he just brought home, and Enjolras is infinitely grateful for it. Grantaire smells like paint and sweat, and it's a comforting scent. He bends to kiss the exposed junction where Enjolras's neck meets his collarbone and Enjolras slumps forward.
"Come on," Grantaire says, and he tugs Enjolras up. "Let me make you forget all about your parents, and charity galas, and all that bullshit."
And god, he does. One of the best things about Grantaire is that he knows exactly when Enjolras just needs to have all choice taken away from him, when he needs Grantaire to press him down and take care of him. Grantaire strips Enjolras and lays him back down on the bed. After undressing himself, he takes Enjolras's wrists and crosses them, holding them down above Enjolras's head.
Enjolras arches up and they both know it's just to feel the comfort of not being able to break free from Grantaire's hold. Enjolras's eyes are dark and he licks his lips. Grantaire pins Enjolras's hips down with his own and brings their cocks into teasing friction with each other.
"Please," Enjolras whispers, and he just wants to be held down, to be made to ache all over, a deep soreness in his ass, a little bruising in his wrists. Grantaire knows what Enjolras wants when he's like this, and he's happy to give it to him. Enjolras understands that what Grantaire really likes is knowing that Enjolras trusts and loves him absolutely, to let him be the one to do this to him.
"Don't move," Grantaire says, and it's a command, and he lets go of Enjolras's wrists to reach for the lube in their bedside drawer. When he has it in his hands, he gets off of Enjolras for a moment. "Turn over," he says, and Enjolras shivers but does. Enjolras's cock is hard and trapped between him and the bed, and he instinctively bucks his hips, but Grantaire grabs his hips hard. "Don't." He says, one word and Enjolras stills.
"On your knees," and Enjolras goes. He brings himself up on his elbows and grips his own wrists now, blunt, short nails digging in as Grantaire pours lube over his fingers and presses into Enjolras. Enjolras inhales sharply as Grantaire stretches him quickly and mercilessly. Enjolras tries to push back against Grantaire's fingers, but Grantaire won't let Enjolras take him any deeper.
When Grantaire deems him ready- and it takes much longer than Enjolras would prefer, but he knows that Grantaire doesn't want to hurt him, that if he's going to fuck Enjolras that savagely he's going to make sure that Enjolras can actually take it- he slams in, hips fitting snugly against Enjolras's ass. Enjolras throws his head back, groaning obscenely, and Grantaire takes the chance to fist his hand in Enjolras's hair, pulling him up so Enjolras's back is flush against Grantaire's chest. He turns his head and Grantaire kisses him, wet and filthy, and then pushes him back down, hand now gripping the back of Enjolras's neck, holding him down.
He pulls out almost entirely and fucks back into Enjolras without warning and Enjolras cries out, whether from the pain or pleasure he can't tell. Grantaire keeps up his rhythm, brutal and deep, and the sounds Enjolras is making are not human. He's whimpering and begging and nobody, nobody has seen this side of Enjolras except Grantaire. Grantaire is grunting with exertion, snapping his hips into Enjolras, hitting that spot that makes white-hot pleasure shoot up his spine.
Enjolras needs to come, needs it so badly, and he's begging Grantaire.
"Touch me, let me touch myself, please, please," he's babbling and fuck it's so hot and Grantaire has never been able to refuse him anything. Grantaire takes his hand off Enjolras's neck, finally giving him permission to move, and he reaches down to take hold of Enjolras's cock. It doesn't take more than a few agonizing touches of Grantaire's calloused fingers on Enjolras's dick, thumb swiping over the tip, before Enjolras is sobbing, his orgasm practically wrenching out of him. It's enough to send Grantaire over the edge easily, the way Enjolras clenches almost painfully around his cock, and Grantaire buries himself deep, filling Enjolras up to bursting.
Grantaire just barely stops himself from collapsing on top of Enjolras, and when they can both breathe, when they aren't blinking what seems like sunspots out of their vision, he pulls out and Enjolras can't help himself, he lets out a whimper.
Enjolras is trembling and Grantaire doesn't clean them up yet, just pulls Enjolras to him and Enjolras kisses his face, his cheeks, his neck.
"I love you, I love you," he's saying over and over again and he feels boneless, like he's not even in his own body anymore, and he loves that Grantaire can make him feel this way. Grantaire holds him tight and kisses him back until he's no longer shaking, until Enjolras feels like himself again.
"God, you're beautiful," Grantaire says into his hair, and Enjolras really wants to roll his eyes but he doesn't have the energy.
"Fuck, R," Enjolras is still panting a little, they both are, and he steadies himself with a hand on Grantaire's hip. Grantaire hooks one of his legs around Enjolras's and it's only when they feel entirely disgusting, covered in sweat and dried come, that Grantaire tugs Enjolras off the bed and forces the two of them into the shower. Enjolras lets himself be taken care of for a little while longer, lets Grantaire trail a loofah down his chest, massage shampoo into his hair. But then he makes sure to reciprocate, and he thinks about the fact that so much of his life is a fight. He fought his parents from the moment he learned to think for himself, and he fights the world every single day. Grantaire is the one thing he's never had to fight for, the one thing that came easily to him, that stays. Once he'd gotten over fighting himself, that is. He hates that his parents can still get to him, that they can still make him feel ashamed and worthless.
When they're finally in bed, dried off but naked because neither of them can be bothered to put on clothes, Grantaire falls asleep almost immediately, but Enjolras can't. His body is exhausted but his mind won't stop running, and he gets up, slipping on a pair of white briefs and grabbing the pack of cigarettes on their dresser. He pulls his tuxedo out of the closet and stares at it, sitting on the floor at the foot of their bed and chain-smoking aggressively. It's bullshit, he thinks. Every year, like clockwork, he's reminded of the fact that he is a product of the very thing he hates. He went to expensive private schools his entire life, and his parents paid for his college tuition. He knows how to schmooze and lie like it's instinct, like it's second nature. It sickens him. He doesn't want to feel this anymore, he doesn't want this tie to that world. And he thinks of Grantaire in their bed, inky curls mussed, perpetually sarcastic face smoothed and made innocent by sleep. He loves that wicked red mouth, not just the things it does but the things it says, and the hands that create art but can also destroy, can destroy Enjolras with even trying, but would never.
But the thought of actually going, actually confronting his parents makes his stomach twist because no matter what, they are still his parents, so he just smokes another cigarette and gets back into bed, refusing to make a decision tonight. When he slides under the covers, Grantaire makes a noise in his sleep and reaches for Enjolras, and Enjolras's chest feels tight. He settles Grantaire's head on his chest and turns into the warmth, closing his eyes and falling asleep.
Enjolras pretends to throw the envelope away but instead it ends up tucked under a bunch of papers in the drawer of his bedside table. He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't really want to think about it. It feels different this time, somehow. He gets the invitation every year but it's never quite gotten under his skin the way it is now.
In his freshman year he responded with a polite and distant, "I'm very sorry, but I will be unable to attend. I am taking my studies very seriously and cannot make the trip home." His parents never responded. His sophomore year he didn't respond at all, wondering (hoping) if his parents would notice. They didn't. Junior year he ripped it up before even opening it. Senior year he was so engrossed in his thesis that he was too exhausted to think about it. Last year he got himself arrested at a rally. But this year the stakes are higher. This year he has Grantaire in his bed every night; he has more than just an ideal as protest, he has an actual person. Everything seems to mean to much more now.
Which is why he decides to go. However, his intentions are vastly different from how he ends up.
The morning of the gala finds Enjolras awake at almost noon, having been unable to sleep the night before. As such, he wakes with Grantaire, instead of hours before him.
"Good morning?" Grantaire asks, and Enjolras just groans.
"Make me coffee." Enjolras commands from the bed, and Grantaire responds with a dramatic, "As you wish," and a bow, the dignity of which is somewhat reduced considering he's still naked.
Enjolras is tense and uncomfortable; he's still not exactly sure what he's going to do tonight. Speeches come so easily to him, political fervor racing through his veins, but his parents learned to tune Enjolras out long ago. He takes a shower in the hopes that the hot water will ease his muscles, but it only makes him feel close and claustrophobic. When he gets out, Grantaire calls out that the coffee is ready and Enjolras gets dressed in Grantaire's clothes. It's silly, but he needs all the support he can get, and slipping on a soft, paint-stained shirt and a hoodie that forever smells like Grantaire's brand of cigarettes actually manages to calm him. He wears his own jeans, but that's only because his legs are much longer than Grantaire's, and he's vain enough that he likes the way his own pants fit him. It doesn't matter anyway, he'll change before the benefit.
He doesn't know when he allowed himself to rely so much on another person, especially since he'd essentially had to raise himself for the greater part of his life. He has this coming, he justifies to himself. He deserves this. And how can he not take what Grantaire offers so willingly? Despite Grantaire's claims otherwise, Enjolras is still only human, and he sinks gratefully into what he's given.
Grantaire raises an eyebrow at Enjolras's choice of attire when he finally makes it into the living room, but any words are silenced by the press of Enjolras's lips against his own. Enjolras feels needy and desperate and it's not entirely unfamiliar to him, but he still doesn't like it. Grantaire is ruining him, he thinks. This base need for another person, the way his dignity starts to crumble, the way he gives into his desires more and more, instead of pushing them aside for his causes. Grantaire is making him a little more selfish, a little more human. No, Grantaire is not ruining him, he is making him better, and it is exactly for Grantaire that he is going to confront his parents tonight.
Enjolras has never known Grantaire to refuse him, and like clockwork, Grantaire's mouth opens under his and Enjolras slowly, almost lazily worries Grantaire's lips between his teeth, drags his tongue across Grantaire's, winds his hands into Grantaire's hair and tugs. Grantaire makes a surprised noise and reaches down to palm Enjolras's ass, and Enjolras breaks away, gasping.
"Not that I'm complaining," Grantaire says, and there is a smirk in his voice. "But what's gotten into you this morning? Oversleeping, sex before coffee, could it be that the mighty god has fallen?"
"No," Enjolras says, and he most definitely does not sound petulant. "Make my coffee like you make yours."
Grantaire sputters, and does nothing, so Enjolras takes his and drinks it in one go, and he's never been so glad that Grantaire hasn't quite defeated his alcoholism, because the warmth that trickles into his chest cavity alongside the brandy is welcoming, and for the first time, he relaxes a little bit.
"Enjolras," Grantaire starts, and now he seems worried, though he's covering it up. "Never in my years of knowing you have you ever even touched alcohol before seven pm, not even when we've all gone out for brunch and even Combeferre will have a mimosa. What the hell is wrong?"
Enjolras does not answer and pours himself another cup of coffee with brandy. He's not exactly sure how much is appropriate, so he eyeballs it. He might pour too much, and Grantaire tugs the mug out his hands with surprisingly gentle fingers.
"Talk to me," he says, and his voice is soft and pleading.
"I'm just stressed. I'm trying to work out this proposal for my department heads and they're being obstinate, and I've had to rework it three times already." Enjolras lies, but unfortunately for him Grantaire knows him much better than that.
"You deal with that shit all the time," and his tone clearly implies that Enjolras shouldn't bother, but that's a fight they won't get into now. "What's really bothering you?"
Enjolras doesn't want to answer, and he wonders how long he can hold his silence, but it's clear that Grantaire isn't going to let this one go, so he says, "My parents."
Grantaire nods understandably and hands the mug back, to Enjolras's surprise. "Drink up, then, you'll need it." And he turns back to spreading scallion cream cheese over his bagel.
"I have to work late tonight," Grantaire says over his shoulder and Enjolras's stomach drops, even though he hadn't told Grantaire the benefit was tonight and isn't planning on bringing him anyway. "We're having some big opening and both Feuilly and I were called in."
"Okay," Enjolras says, and fights to keep his voice even. "Combeferre and I are going to stay up working at his place on this proposal anyway." He's lying and he doesn't know why. Grantaire would be there to support him if he asked, so why doesn't he just ask?
"I should probably go, we have to set up for hours." Grantaire says, and he's apologetic, though it's clear he doesn't really know why. "At least there's gonna be plenty of free champagne."
"Should you be drinking on the job?" Enjolras can't help but shoot back, and Grantaire grins.
"Probably not," he says, "But if I have to schmooze with pretentious buyers in a gallery that won't even put up my art, I'll need it." Enjolras can hear the bitterness in his voice, and he sympathizes with it. It's not far off from what he himself will be doing tonight, and he thinks that Grantaire's self-medication might be a good idea, for once. After all, he's never planning on seeing these people again, and what can a couple drinks hurt? They might loosen his tongue, for one.
He kisses Grantaire goodbye, and they're both a little desperate, and Enjolras wishes that he could shut the world off for an hour, pull Grantaire back into his bed, and pull him close until Grantaire seeps into every one of his pores. But they both have responsibilities, and Enjolras is used to the fleeting disappointment of giving up something he wants, so he pushes Grantaire out the door.
He settles himself back at their kitchen table and clutches his coffee (and brandy, though the coffee s strong enough that it disguises the taste almost completely) with both hands. The warmth creeps into him, though he's sure the alcohol helps, and slumps forward, his eyes closed. He still doesn't have a plan and he's close to panicking. Enjolras is used to having everything planned; the only person more meticulous than him is Combeferre. But tonight he feels as though he's grasping for straws. He's so unsettled and he drinks deeply from his mug, wishing for once that he had Grantaire's fortitude when it came to alcohol.
Enjolras finishes the coffee and begins to pace his apartment. He'll get there, he'll seek out his parents and ask if he can speak with them privately for a moment. He imagines how the scene might go.
"Mother, Father, there's something I have to tell you."
But what does he have to tell them? That he no longer wants to be invited to their parties? That sounds petulant. That he no longer wants to be a part of their lives? That sounds dramatic, and he imagines their synchronized scoffs.
"You've always been such a ridiculous boy. Haven't we done everything for you? Haven't we paid for your schooling, despite the fact that everything you've done with what we gave you has been fueled by your childish need to rebel?"
That won't work. He could tell them about Grantaire, try one last time to reconcile, to invite them into his life. But then he thinks about what Grantaire might do if he ever meets them, or worse, what they might do to him.
"This is what you're doing with your time? Wasting your life on an alcoholic with no future?"
Enjolras winces at that, unsure if it's what he thinks his parents will say, or if it's what he thinks, somewhere deep down, where he hides his insecurities away. He thinks about crying, because it's what he feels like doing now.
"For God's sake, Enjolras, try to maintain a little decorum. It's like you just have to embarrass us wherever we go."
This is how he passes the time until it's time for him to leave: he lays on the couch, only getting up to grab a beer (then another, then another) from the refrigerator, and crafts endless scenarios as to how the night might play out. But then he turns his head to the clock on the wall, realizes he should have left half an hour ago, and jumps to his feet, cursing.
He regrets it immediately. The room spins dangerously and he nearly falls back over. He hadn't realized how drunk he was, as he'd been laying back the entire time. Now that he's up, it all rushes to his head and he's no longer thinking straight. How many beers has he had? The empty bottles are lined up on the table, but he doesn't look, just heads straight into his room.
He glares at the tuxedo he laid out after Grantaire had left and decides to not wear it. Why should he play trained monkey to his parents? He won't. He's still wearing Grantaire's clothes and he foolishly thinks Grantaire would be proud of him for this. But Grantaire doesn't know, because Grantaire is working and Enjolras hadn't said anything because he wanted to do this on his own, prove to himself that he can do it. It's only now that he realizes what an idiot he is, but he's also drunk enough (more than that, actually) that he doesn't care. He never showered that morning, and now he doesn't have time. He runs a hand over his jaw, reveling in the stubble there, and thinks that if anything, this will get his parents' attention. If nothing else, the prodigal son showing up to their prestigious benefit drunk and disheveled will draw every eye in the room.
He's still not exactly sure how he gets there. He called a cab, he thinks, but before he knows it he's in front of their home, and fuck, they host it in their home, don't they, Enjolras's childhood home, with it's many stories and bedrooms and parlors that he used to adore before he understood the reason behind the extravagance, how his parents paid for it, who they stepped on and discarded along the way.
In any case, there's nobody to check him off a guest list, though he has his invitation shoved into the pocket of Grantaire's hoodie. And of course, he is their son. Though most likely not after tonight. He can hear the soft chatter of patrons, the occasional clink of a champagne flute. It's not so late yet, they are still milling about, socializing. They haven't yet sat down to dinner or started the auction, or whatever it is.
There is a pair of thick oak doors in front of him, just through the foyer. Everyone is inside, and he wants to make a dramatic entrance. This is certainly the way to do it. He spares a quick regret that none of his friends are here to see this- Courfeyrac would appreciate the dramatics, Bahorel would love to see him throw a punch (though he doubts it will come to that)- and slams the doors open in front of him, feeling satisfied as there are a few startled gasps and the room goes quiet.
Everyone is dressed to the nines, and Enjolras is a stark contrast. He's been told he has a flair for the dramatics and he supposes it's true. It's a necessary trait, to be able to single-handedly hold the attention of a crowd of hundreds, even thousands at times. Usually, however, the crowd in front of him is a mass ready for revolution, not the gilded elite, content in their money and power.
Still, a crowd is a crowd and Enjolras knows how to play to one. He just wishes he weren't so drunk. Or that he were more drunk. He stumbles a bit, but holds steady.
"Welcome to my home," he announces, and his voice carries over the silence, and he doesn't feel like seeking out his parents, so he will bring them to him. There is startled recognition on a few of the faces, but most of them remain blank and scandalized. "Haven't my parents told you about me?" He asks, mock surprise on his face. "No," he says thoughtfully. "I suppose they wouldn't, considering the only things they ever gave me were money and a predilection for cruelty."
"Enjolras!" Comes a sharp reprimand from his right, and he turns to see his mother, golden hair and fierce beauty that turned out to be hereditary, standing there, emerald green dress hugging her body. He narrows his eyes. It's a color he's fond of on Grantaire.
"Mother," he says, with a mocking bow, and his head spins again. He reminds himself to not move so much if he wants to pretend sobriety.
"What are you doing here?" She asks, and Enjolras whips his invitation out. She takes it gingerly, as if she doesn't really want to touch him, and nods. "I didn't think you'd come, considering you've spurned our correspondence for years."
She's playing him, he knows, making herself out to be a victim in front of her friends. He plays along.
"I thought it was time."
His composure slips, however, when he hears another painfully familiar voice behind him. This voice is eerily similar to his own, and how did he become such a carbon copy of his parents in every way except where it truly matters? Still, he wishes he didn't look so much like them, didn't have such an obvious connection to these people.
"Did you finally decide to grace us with your presence, then? It would have been better to stay away, so that we wouldn't have to be confronted with our greatest disappointment."
And Enjolras doesn't know what he expected from his father other than this. He'd always been such a ruthless businessman, and that ruthlessness carried over to his personal life. Enjolras's father has a reputation of sorts, and if he thought that his father would try to save face in front of company, he is sorely mistaken.
"Disappointment?" Enjolras scoffs, surprise now entirely genuine. "I graduated summa cum laude from university. I attend one of the most prestigious graduate schools in the country on a merit scholarship. I run a non-profit organization while being a full-time student. How can I possibly be a disappointment to you?"
Monsieur Enjolras's face remains impassive. "You refused to study business and carry on the family legacy. You mock our way of life, try and destroy everything I built."
"That's because you built your company on practices that keep those less fortunate than you oppressed! All you care about is deepening your pockets, no matter the cost. You, along with everyone in this room, poison our society," and Enjolras stops himself because this is not what this is about. This is not a rally or a protest. This is about him, for once.
His father rolls his eyes. "Spare the speeches, son. If this is all you came here to do, I don't know why you came at all."
"Really, Enjolras, you could have at least dressed up. You look ridiculous and you smell like a liquor store." His mother purses her lips, and a laugh bubbles out of Enjolras before he can stop it. "Do you have something to say?"
"These clothes," he starts, and god he is still so drunk and he feels vaguely like he wants to vomit, so of course he presses on. "Belong to someone very important to me."
"Christ, you haven't taken home a stray have you?" His dad says, and it's not a question. "Some sad, pathetic thing? Whoever they are, they're probably just using you for your money. Don't flatter yourself."
Enjolras wrenches a glass of champagne from the nearest person and upends it on his father's face before he even realizes what he's doing.
"His name is Grantaire," he says icily. "And you don't have the right to talk about him. You don't know him, and I don't ever want to hear you speak about him again."
His father doesn't grace him with an answer, just jerks his head, still dripping, at the two large men in suits that are standing by the doors. Security, of course. They come up behind Enjolras and each grip an arm. But Enjolras isn't done yet. He tries, futilely, to wrench away.
"I'm in love with him, don't you understand that? Have you ever loved anything in your life?" He screams at his parents, but neither of them will look at him, though the rest of the room is staring unabashedly. The security guards start to pull him out of the room and Enjolras only struggles more fiercely. "We're fucking," he spits out, and is rewarded with a proper flinch from his mother. "Or actually, he's fucking me!"
"Get out," his mother says to him, and it's a victory, because he got a response, because he has closure. He never wants to see them again, and the feeling is mutual. "Don't come back," she warns, and Enjolras laughs.
"I've been waiting to hear you say that since I was ten years old, when you decided I was too much trouble and shipped me off to boarding school for the first time."
He is promptly and unceremoniously thrown out of the house, and in his intoxication, ends up flat on his back before the grand mansion, and the door is slammed in his face. He lies there for a few moments more, and he doesn't know what he's waiting for. His parents don't come out, not even to yell at him, not even to make sure he leaves. He just lies there on the ground, gravel of the long driveway having scored his palms where he tried to catch his fall, until he hears footsteps behind him.
"Looks like I've been a worse influence on you than I thought." Grantaire says, and Enjolras tilts his head back dumbly. Grantaire is dressed in all black, looking sharp and professional. He crouches down next to Enjolras and smoothes his hair back from his face.
"What are you doing here?" Enjolras asks, and lets Grantaire pull him up into a sitting position.
"You know, I had wondered why you were so upset about your parents this morning," Grantaire remarks as he inspects Enjolras's skinned palms. "Couldn't place why it sounded so familiar. Then as I was listening to some haughty something or other talk about some charity event she was doing, I remembered that invitation, that I thought you threw away-"
"I didn't," Enjolras says softly and Grantaire looks up to meet his gaze. Grantaire's eyes are impossibly kind and Enjolras feels very sober all of a sudden. The feeling passes though, and he sways, only to be kept up by Grantaire.
"I figured. I promised Feuilly I'd keep him in cigarettes for a whole month if he covered for me, called Combeferre to get your parent's address, and got here as soon as I could." He says it so flippantly, so nonchalantly, like he hasn't just dropped everything to get here when he knew Enjolras needed him, when Enjolras was too stubborn to tell him himself.
Enjolras wants to say something, wants to cry or throw up but he doesn't, just continues to sit there until Grantaire hauls him to his feet. Grantaire smells clean, a little like other people's perfume, but not at all like alcohol, despite his earlier claims.
"You haven't been drinking," he murmurs, leaning heavily on Grantaire as they begin to walk down the long, winding driveway.
"No," Grantaire agrees. "I figured you did enough drinking for the both of us."
Enjolras groans, and Grantaire stops.
"Do you need to throw up?" He asks, and Enjolras nods, and Grantaire holds him steady as he retches into the grass. It does make him feel better, and his head isn't spinning quite as much as they continue trudging on.
"I don't think I'll ever see them again," Enjolras says into the quiet, and doesn't miss the way Grantaire's hands tighten around him. It's comforting, and his throat feels contracted. "I made quite the scene."
Grantaire throws his head back and laughs, and it echoes around them. "Fuck, I wish I could have seen that. The mighty Apollo spurns Zeus on Mount Olympus itself. Did all the other gods and goddesses titter on their golden thrones?"
"More or less. Hera was especially displeased when I told her I took it up the ass."
Grantaire chokes and looks at Enjolras with something akin to wonder and respect in his eyes.
"Are you serious?" He asks, and lets out a low whistle when Enjolras nods. "I could kiss you right now, I don't even care that you just threw up."
Enjolras stops them with a hand on the small of Grantaire's back, and when Grantaire stills, Enjolras winds his arms around him, closing his eyes when he feels Grantaire clutch him back.
"I love you," he whispers fiercely into Grantaire's neck. "I should have told you about tonight. I wanted you to be there but-"
"You had to do this yourself, I know." Grantaire's voice is soft, and Enjolras loves him all the more for understanding. Grantaire has parents of his own, just as bad as Enjolras's, though in different ways. "I just thought I could be here for the aftermath." And Enjolras hears the conditional in his phrasing, like it's not a sure thing, like he doesn't already know that Enjolras can never untangle himself from Grantaire now.
"I always want you here," Enjolras says. "You're always here."
Grantaire sighs, but it's not a weary one. It's not even resigned, it's relieved and Enjolras spares a little hate to direct at himself that he ever made Grantaire doubt that.
"Let's get you home," Grantaire says, and kisses Enjolras's forehead. "As much as I like seeing you in my clothes, you need a shower. And then I'll run a bath, and read you one of your history books."
"You're making fun of me," Enjolras deadpans, because he's not entirely sober yet and it actually sounds like a good idea to him.
"Yes," Grantaire confirms, and Enjolras huffs. "Come on," Grantaire lets go of Enjolras but keeps their hands entwined, and pulls him along. "The car is up ahead. I really am going to make you shower though. And brush your teeth."
Enjolras falls asleep in the car, waking up when they arrive at their apartment building. He showers and feels much more awake, and his burgeoning headache fades as he gulps down the coffee that Grantaire has made for the two of them, sans brandy this time. They end up in bed, Enjolras still dressed in Grantaire's clothes, but now clean sweats and a wifebeater. Grantaire presses openmouthed kisses up the exposed skin of Enjolras's arms, tracing the tendons in his neck with his tongue. They're curved towards each other like parentheses, and their legs are tangled together. It's warm enough that their blankets remain shoved down at the foot of the bed.
Enjolras's eyes are closed; he doesn't need to see anymore to tip Grantaire's head up so he can nose at his jaw. He simply feels his way as he ghosts his lips over Grantaire's cheekbones, and eventually finds his mouth, which is already open and waiting. They trade unhurried kisses; Enjolras feels the low heat of arousal in his stomach but not enough to do anything about it. He's just so comfortable where he is, and Grantaire has his hands under Enjolras's shirt, broad palms sweeping across the taut muscle.
He will fight for Grantaire, if he has to. He will fight his parents and anyone else who might try to keep them apart, but he's glad that he doesn't have to. That Grantaire goes willingly to his bed and his heart, even to his parent's house to make sure that Enjolras comes back to him in one piece. Enjolras very rarely feels entirely content. There is always something to do, and he is constantly dissatisfied with the rate he is able to accomplish things. But right now, in this moment, with Grantaire's fingertips pressing reminders of Grantaire's love into his skin, he is. He is perfectly content, and he falls asleep somewhere between one kiss and the next, taking in each breath from Grantaire's lungs.