Work Text:
The thing about being devoted to a cause is that you don't have much time for a personal life. Ever since he assumed this position (and even before that, if he's honest with himself), Enjolras has suspected that he'd make an incredibly inattentive boyfriend, at best. The work hardly ever stops, and almost none of the regular staff get to leave once they close the phone lines at five o'clock. Even when Enjolras finally does make it out of the office, there are a million projects that will never get done unless he does them from his laptop on his own time. Between this and Grantaire's schedule, they hardly get to see each other apart from the weekly ABC open meeting.
Grantaire's newfound boyfriend status doesn't keep him from making disparaging comments about progress, but he keeps it to a minimum. He stares at Enjolras more than he used to—or maybe Enjolras simply notices it more now. The only thing that's really changed about meetings is that they usually go home together afterward.
Bahorel has been back in town for a couple of weeks and has been attending meetings sporadically. Ever since his arrival, the general atmosphere has become rowdier and generally more radical. Everyone (except, of course, for Grantaire) is twice as amped up as usual and Enjolras loves it. Bahorel's basic philosophy is simple: smash the kyriarchy—literally, if need be. While Enjolras isn't a big proponent of reactionary violence, he appreciates the energy he brings to the group and his cavalier attitude toward bigots, which is as empowering as it is contagious.
He's only ever with them for a couple weeks at a time, but Bahorel is like a chameleon among them. In the space of a single meeting, he's talked very seriously to Enjolras and Combeferre about what to do if you get arrested at a protest to teaching Jehan and Joly how to throw a punch without breaking your hand. One second he's regaling Courfeyrac with tales of how he slept his way up the coast to San Luis Obispo and the next he's explaining the difference between a transgender woman and a drag queen to Marius—"Which reminds me! Has Feuilly told you about the—?"
"Oh, oh god, that," Feuilly half chokes. Whatever it is, it's evidently hilarious, because he's giggling too hard to even start the story and Bahorel won't stop grinning.
"Is this about Poland?" Grantaire teases.
"For once," he concedes, "it is not. But oh man, the other day me 'n' Bahorel went to this drag show, so naturally I wore a three-piece suit and let my cosmetologist roommate go to town on my hair and makeup."
"Naturally," Bahorel punctuates.
"And this girl—this cis girl comes up to me and is like, 'oh, I love your drag outfit!' and I had to be like no, actually I'm a dude and she says—" he pauses to laugh "—'well if you're a dude, why are you wearing makeup?'"
The room explodes with laughter at the sheer fucking irony.
"But that's not even the best part!" roars Bahorel.
"The best part," Feuilly wheezes, "is when I explain to her again that no, I'm not in drag as a dude, I am a dude and her boyfriend blows me off and calls me a transtrender. And—no, you guys, it's okay to laugh, because I sure fucking did."
Those of them that know Feuilly really well do laugh, while the rest of them shoot him sympathetic glances.
"I'm sorry you had to put up with that, though," Combeferre says somberly. "What were their reactions to you laughing...?"
"Well they got a little aggressive, and the dude was kind of drunk and he came got in my face about it and—well…" Feuilly trails off and gestures to Bahorel, who raises a hand, casually displaying the medical tape on his knuckles. This is met with a round of gasps and applause from the rest of the group.
"Oh, man, are you okay, though?"
"Yeah, no, I'm fine. I mean, I'm glad I wasn't there alone, otherwise I don't think I would've laughed in their faces, but on the other hand, it's like. I've done it. Someone called me a transtrender—I've reached Real Trans Dude Tier. Fucking incredible."
"So, wait, um," a timid boy in his late teens pipes up. He's been to a few meetings, but they never bother with name tags and Enjolras doesn't think he's ever talked to him properly before (something he intends to fix before tonight is over). "What does that even mean, 'transtrender'?"
"Well basically," Feuilly begins, "some people decided that the sudden availability of transgender topics via the Internet has absolutely nothing to do with the 'sudden increase'—" he uses air quotes for this "—in self-identified trans people, so clearly transgenderism is a trendy teen phase. Because, you know, we're just in it for the laughs, or something."
Nearly everyone in the room nods in agreement—or, in Bahorel's case, shouts Amen!
"That entire concept is some fucking nonsense, though," says Cosette. "I've heard it used with 100% seriousness in queer spaces and that's just—it's bullshit!"
"Yeah, it's like that dried up old stereotype that girls only say they're bisexual in order to seem interesting," Eponine says bitterly. "And then bisexuals would scapegoat girls they thought were 'undermining their authenticity' or whatever. Not the kind of 'community' a struggling young person needs." She glances apologetically at Feuilly. "Er, not to hijack the conversation, or anything."
Feuilly nods to show that he doesn't mind. "And in the trans community, too—you'd be surprised. You're expected to feel dysphoric, and bind all the time, and your ultimate goal has to be surgical, and if you don't pass—" he grimaces "—forget about trying to be recognized out in regular society, even trans people will reject you. If the Internet knew that I didn't pass at my full time job—where I work for a living in order to have food and pay my rent…" He shakes his head. "This story started out funny but now I'm kind of pissed off."
"You're right to be pissed off," says Enjolras. "No one should have to live up to the bizarre 'model minority' expectations of the straight, cis kyriarchy. And using those expectations to validate your own identity while simultaneously putting down anyone who doesn't meet them is fucking shitty. Queer people internalize enough self-hating bullshit—we don't need to do it to our own.
"I'm sorry that happened to you," he says gently, before turning his attention to the rest of the room. "But as for the rest of us—it's our responsibility to make sure this doesn't happen to anyone. We're not the fucking HRC, here."
Bahorel raises a flask (Grantaire leans forward in his seat, suddenly interested) and says emphatically, "Not just Lesbian, Gay, Bacon, and Tomato!"
"To alphabet soup!" says Courfeyrac.
By the end of the meeting, they're all singing the alphabet song, everyone has patted Feuilly on the back, and Grantaire has weaseled a couple of hits from Bahorel's flask.
Enjolras fucking loves these people.
```
They go back to Grantaire's loft that night.
Enjolras loves it there; loves the space, loves the way everything echoes inside it, loves the faint scent of turpentine and fixative. The bed is just a queen-sized mattress on the floor, but he loves that, too—possibly because Grantaire is usually in it.
If the meeting doesn't run too late, they'll get take-out and eat it standing up in Grantaire's meager kitchen or on the couch. They had decided one time to eat in bed and had managed to spill the chow mein—Enjolras is still finding noodles in the sheets, which is disgusting on multiple levels. If it's too late for a meal, they'll have popcorn or Grantaire will make grilled cheese sandwiches. They follow up with some harmless, nonsexual activity; they might watch something on Netflix, or Enjolras will do some work on his laptop or read a book while Grantaire scribbles away furiously in a pocket-sized sketchbook. He flat-out refuses to show him any of his drawings, but Enjolras suspects he's been an unwitting model for whatever it is Grantaire is working on. They kiss, they cuddle, they fall asleep.
Tonight, it's popcorn in bed and a pirated copy of Legally Blonde ("Objectively the best movie ever made," says Grantaire). Enjolras saw it once when he was twelve but hasn't seen it since—Grantaire had insisted he watch it again.
Enjolras does honestly try to pay attention, but as soon as Elle Woods gets kicked out of her first class at Harvard, Grantaire starts to nuzzle his hair and it's incredibly distracting. He kisses Grantaire in hopes that it will placate him, but it seems to have the opposite effect. He grows bolder, pressing kisses to Enjolras' ear and down his jawline to his throat.
"We can turn this off if you want," Enjolras says, equal parts amused and annoyed. Grantaire hums his dissent against Enjolras' collarbone and okay, that feels pretty nice, he supposes he can allow it. Then he feels the scrape of Grantaire's teeth against his skin and inhales sharply. "You know I have to go in to work tomorrow…"
"You could button your shirt up, for once," Grantaire says candidly before pressing a light kiss to the mark he's just made.
"Ha ha." He can only imagine the knowing looks Eponine and Courfeyrac will give him. "I ought to bite you back."
Grantaire looks up at him and gravely says, "Anywhere you like."
Enjolras smiles at that and kisses him in earnest. Grantaire has been teaching him what to do with his tongue—his technique is still a little messy, but he thinks he's getting the hang of it. Judging by the way Grantaire tries to push Enjolras back against the mattress, he approves of the effort. He pushes back at Grantaire's shoulders rather than let himself topple over, which only makes Grantaire kiss him harder. He'll beat himself up for this later, thinking that maybe it's part of what makes Grantaire try to slip his hand down the front of Enjolras' jeans just then.
Enjolras immediately pulls away and makes a strangled noise that's half protestation and half apology—at the same time, Grantaire remembers himself and recoils, looking downright mortified.
"Oh my god, I'm sorry, I—"
"No, I—"
"Sorry," Grantaire mutters again, pushing himself off the mattress and getting to his feet. "I—sorry. I can't do this, I need a drink." Without another word, he practically flies down the stairs to the tiny kitchen.
Enjolras sits there numbly for a moment and then flumps backward onto the bed. He realizes they hadn't bothered to pause the movie; Elle is driving through Harvard in tears and very nearly causes an accident as she pulls up in front of a nail salon. He closes the laptop and lies there in the dark, wondering what he should do next. He very nearly texts Combeferre (and Eponine, and also his mother), but realizes that while he can rely on his friends for a lot of things, this is between him and Grantaire.
He goes downstairs mechanically, thinking of things he could possibly say and summarily throwing them out. Most of what he comes up with are apologies, which irritates him, because really, what does he have to apologize for? He's almost angry—until he thinks of the look on Grantaire's face and feels overcome with guilt.
He doesn't know what he's going to do, but then again, he never does when it comes to Grantaire.
"Hey," he says uncertainly as he walks into the kitchen, eyes on the shot glass that's sitting unused on the table—Grantaire is drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. It takes Grantaire so long to respond that Enjolras isn't sure whether he didn't hear or whether he's just ignoring him and almost goes back upstairs to sulk.
"You were incredible tonight," Grantaire says finally, looking idly at the bottle in his hand. "At the meeting, I mean. You were practically breathing fire. It scared me a little. And I thought to myself: this is why you love him." He shakes his head and laughs a little bit. "And, I don't know, I thought—I thought that if I loved you, it meant that I could take it, you know? That if I really loved you, I should be content to have you every other way without it mattering that you don't want me."
"I want you," Enjolras says, carefully ignoring the rest for now.
"Not the same way I want you, though," Grantaire says acridly. "Anyway, I thought it wouldn't matter, but it does."
Enjolras shakes his head in frustration. "You're not really giving me a chance, here. You startled me up there a little but then you ran away, and now you're saying all this and—god, do you think I don't already feel shitty enough that you have to make this compromise in the first place, like I don't feel like I owe you something?"
"You don't owe me anything," mutters Grantaire.
"I know! But I still feel guilty." He bites his lip. "I know that it matters to you. Do you think that's not in the back of my mind every time you touch me?"
Grantaire doesn't answer, doesn't even look at him. Enjolras tries not to feel too disappointed—he knew this was coming, after all. None of his relationships have held on past this point, why should this one? It was a valiant effort, anyway.
"I'm sorry," he says finally, and he shouldn't be, but he is. "I can—I can go…"
Grantaire looks up sharply at that. "You don't have to go. I was going to sit down here and drink until I got so pissed I couldn't get it up anyway, and then maybe you'd feel sorry enough for me to let me come back to bed—because I'm awful, you see." He puts the bottle down on the table next to the shot glass. "And now you know my master plan, but I'm still hoping it'll work even though I kinda fucked it up."
"If this is you breaking up with me, I'm very confused."
"What, over—over this?" Grantaire looks confused.
"It sounded like it," Enjolras says hotly, crossing his arms over his chest. He feels incredibly foolish.
"I said that I love you."
"I heard that part," he says slowly. "It was the rest of it that sounded like you wanted to give up on me."
Grantaire pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fuck. No that—that was me hating myself for—not being strong enough or not respecting your boundaries or something. Oh my god. Fuck, I'm sorry. No wonder you want to go home." He looks up at Enjolras suddenly. "Do you want to go home?"
"Yes. No. I don't know. I want things to be okay," he says.
Grantaire sighs. "I'll be okay. I'm always okay. But can you think about what you want for once?" He looks down and mumbles, "I'll still be in love with you in the morning, either way."
Enjolras weighs his options. He can either drive home and be too neurotic to sleep and probably not see or talk to Grantaire for another couple of days… or he can lie anxiously in Grantaire's bed for a while and probably wake up with Grantaire wrapped around him like an octopus. If he's not upset with him, then the answer seems obvious. And driving home would be a pain in the ass, besides.
"Okay," he says with a sigh. "Okay. I'm going to bed, then. Don't overdo it."
"Overdoing it is my speciality," Grantaire says with a huff.
As Enjolras heads back upstairs, he hears Grantaire hit the bottle again—but at least this time it sounds like he's using the shot glass.
```
Instead of even trying to sleep, Enjolras gets under the covers and texts Combeferre.
You (12:08:34 AM): Please tell me you're awake.
Combeferre (12:10:39 AM): Boy troubles?
You (12:10:56 AM): He told me he loved me.
Combeferre (12:11:14 AM): Oh, lord, what did you say.
You (12:11:37 AM): … WHY DO YOU JUST ASSUME I DID SOMETHING WRONG
Combeferre (12:11:59 AM): Because you're texting me at midnight. what did you do to the poor guy?
You (12:12:19 AM): Well it wasn't like some romantic confession, he made it sound like he was breaking up with me!
Combeferre (12:12:47 AM): But what did you SAY
You (12:13:03 AM): I didn't really say anything. He was beating himself up about the asexual thing when he said it.
Combeferre (12:13:38 AM): He probably would've appreciated a response
You (12:13:51 AM): I was a little preoccupied with thinking he was gonna dump me.
Combeferre (12:14:01 AM): Dude. he just bared his soul to you and you're worried about YOUR feelings?
You (12:14:20 AM): Like hell I am, I went down to talk to him and he's STILL beating himself up downstairs and it's my fault and I hate it.
Combeferre (12:14:37 AM): So you care about him, obviously
Enjolras frowns at the screen before tapping out a reply.
You (12:14:43 AM): Yes.
Combeferre (12:14:58 AM): You need to tell him that, at least
He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. Combeferre is right, as usual.
You (12:15:24 AM): I know.
You (12:15:39 AM): I just don't think it's quite what he wants to hear from me.
Combeferre (12:15:45 AM): Do you love him?
You (12:16:03 AM): I don't know. Maybe. That's why I don't want to say anything yet.
Combeferre (12:16:25 AM): You can just tell him you're not ready, he's an adult
Combeferre (12:16:32 AM): Seriously, he's a really cool guy
You (12:16:38 AM): I know. I just feel like I'm really fucking everything up being. You know. Me.
Combeferre (12:16:53 AM): Well he loves you, so I don't think that's possible. things will clear up eventually if you let them, but it's good that you're taking initiative
You (12:17:02 AM): Thank you.
Combeferre (12:17:24 AM): Any time. holler if you need me.
Enjolras rolls onto his side and closes his eyes, trying to sleep despite the worry gnawing at his stomach. He doesn't feel like he's rested at all, but he must have dozed off a little, because some time later he's startled by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He listens to Grantaire fumble around trying to undress in the dark. From the sound of it, his feet are stuck in his jeans, but after a tumultuous couple of minutes, Enjolras feels him nudge the edge of the mattress with his foot and then crouch beside it.
Enjolras lifts the corner of the blanket for him and Grantaire crawls in beside him, burying his face in his chest. His cheeks and forehead are warm and probably quite flushed, although it's impossible to tell even once his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. Enjolras instinctively puts an arm around him, fingers coming to rest in Grantaire's unruly mop of hair.
"Sorry," Grantaire mumbles into his T-shirt.
"Shhh."
They lie like that for a while, Grantaire murmuring nonsense while Enjolras finger-combs his hair and periodically shushes him. Eventually, Grantaire stops making noise, but Enjolras doubts he's fallen asleep. He knows from experience that Grantaire can outdrink everyone but Bahorel and still speak in complete sentences—this is, by means of comparison, a very manageable level of drunk.
"You know, I'm very serious about you," he says softly.
"You're serious about everything," Grantaire mutters, words only slightly slurred.
"Yes," Enjolras agrees. "I'm not interested in messing around. I care about you a lot." When Grantaire doesn't reply, he frowns and asks, "Are you listening to me?"
"Yeah," mumbles Grantaire, as if he finds it hard to believe.
"Good," he says decisively. He squirms a little bit to find a more comfortable position, ignoring Grantaire's muffled protest. "Now do me a favor?"
"Anything you want," Grantaire says, sounding surprisingly earnest.
"Go to sleep."
Grantaire doesn't find it too difficult to do as he's told for once, and once his breathing evens out, Enjolras falls asleep, too.
```
His phone's alarm goes off at 6:30, and Enjolras has to stretch his arm as far as it can go to turn the damn thing off because Grantaire is lying on his right arm and refuses to budge.
"Five more minutes," he groans, and for once Enjolras is inclined to agree.
"I'm going to need that arm," he murmurs as he silences his phone. Grantaire arches his back a little, leaving just enough space for Enjolras to reclaim his arm. He winces as the feeling starts to return to it and rolls over onto his other side in hopes that it'll be less uncomfortable. It isn't, but Grantaire takes it as an invitation to nestle against the back of his neck, so that's something.
The five minutes are up entirely too fast. Grantaire whines at him to hit snooze again, but Enjolras really has to get up this time. "Go back to sleep, I need to shower and I can let myself out." He doesn't have a key, but Grantaire never locks the front door if he's in the studio, anyway.
Grantaire nods and mumbles something that sounds like the word kiss. Enjolras indulges him with a kiss on the cheek, finds his overnight bag, and goes downstairs to shower. Their arrangement reminds him a little bit of kids going back and forth between divorced parents; they alternate where they'll spend the night from week to week, and though Grantaire never brings anything (not even a toothbrush, which Enjolras tries not to think about), Enjolras always does. He doesn't dare go to work in the clothes he was wearing the day before or, god forbid, borrow something from Grantaire. He does, however, use Grantaire's soap and shampoo and bath towel. It's weirdly thrilling to share toiletries—maybe because, as an only child, he's never had to share anything in his life.
That's probably why he flushes a little when he finishes his shower and walks out into the kitchen with Grantaire's towel around his shoulders to find Grantaire staring blearily at his coffee maker willing it to brew faster.
"You didn't have to get up," he says, voice uncharacteristically gentle. "I'm touched."
Grantaire tries to shrug it off, but his cheeks turn a little pink. "No point trying to go back to sleep in an empty bed."
"You're having that problem too, huh?" Enjolras says casually.
Grantaire presses a hand to chest. "Did I hear that right? Did the golden god Apollo just confess that he's having trouble sleeping without me there to worship him?"
Enjolras wads the towel up into a ball and throws it at Grantaire's head. "I was being serious."
"So was I," Grantaire says impishly.
"You don't sound serious."
"It's part of my rakish charm."
Enjolras snorts. "Well you don't have to mock me."
"I'm not. Or, I didn't mean to, anyway." Grantaire absently folds the still damp towel into smaller and smaller rectangles. "Like I do kind of worship you a little bit. A lot. Maybe."
"Oh." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "You don't have to do that. I'm just a regular human being."
Grantaire simply purses his lips, like he doesn't agree but doesn't think it's worth it to argue. Enjolras has seen that expression a lot at meetings, especially in the couple of weeks that they've been dating. He doesn't really know how to interpret it in this context, and if he didn't have to go to work in a couple minutes, he might try and figure it out. As it is, he'll stay until the coffee is ready because Grantaire was thoughtful enough to make it but he really should get going.
"Are… are you mad at me or something?" Usually, Grantaire is loath to let him out of bed in the mornings and clings and whines and tries to kiss him while he's making breakfast. And sure, they argue (they argue a lot) but they don't normally get so personal or feel so raw, even after waking up. He'd actually thought they were doing pretty alright until just now.
"No," Grantaire says with a sigh after a tense few seconds. "It's just that it's like seven in the morning and I haven't been up this early since high school and I'm kind of hungover."
Enjolras doesn't think that's all it is, but the coffee is done. He lets Grantaire pour some into a mug for him and takes a sip even though he doesn't usually take his coffee black. "Well. Okay then, two things. One, I'm stealing this mug because I have to leave in like thirty seconds, I'll bring it back eventually. Two, can we talk about what happened last night? Not right now, obviously, but…"
"After work?" Grantaire suggests coolly.
"If you're not busy," Enjolras insists. "You can call me, or, or… message me on Skype or whatever. I'm home around—"
"Six, I know."
Enjolras offers him a thin smile. "Okay."
It feels more like he's just set a business meeting or a dentist appointment than a date with his boyfriend, but then Grantaire leans in to kiss him as he's headed out the door and he starts to think that maybe everything will be okay, after all.
```
Grantaire (7:34:12: AM): dont forget to button your shirt up
```
Enjolras is the first one in the office, which is how he likes it. Sometimes Combeferre beats him there, which is almost just as good, but today he sighs with relief as he disarms the alarm system and turns on the lights. He needs a couple minutes to sit in silence and drink his rapidly cooling coffee. (He also checks three times on his webcam that Grantaire's love bite is adequately covered by his clothes. It is—all three times.)
He's thinking about the phrase "love bite" and suppressing a shudder when Combeferre comes in, half a croissant dangling from his mouth.
"Morning," he says around a mouthful of pastry. "Everything alright with the beau?"
Enjolras wrinkles his nose at the word beau—what is he, a Southern debutante?—but nods and says, "Okay, I think. If I need any help, I'll show up in tears on your doorstep at two in the morning."
Combeferre closes his eyes and says, "If you must." He has this way of responding to facetious comments with inappropriate gravity, and even after having known him for years, Enjolras still isn't quite sure whether or not Combeferre is teasing when he does that. But he also knows that Combeferre would lie down in front of a tank with him if he asked, so he thinks he's probably serious this time.
"Thanks."
```
It's a relatively smooth day; they're within their budget for once, and Courfeyrac has been working with their accountant to prepare their tax documents. ("Next year," he vows, "we're going tax exempt.") Eponine is drafting a newsletter and three separate letters to congressmen—she has headphones on and has been typing furiously all morning. Combeferre had tapped her shoulder for something and she'd been so surprised she'd actually screamed. Jehan has been steadily updating web content, but when Enjolras checks his RSS feeds, he sees that he's been updating his writing blog, too.
Jehan has written and posted a sixteen-line poem about the loneliness of the human soul—but since he's technically done everything else he was supposed to do, Enjolras decides not to be too harsh on him. And besides, anyone writing about his lonely soul has probably just suffered a breakup. Rather than embarrass him publicly (something Enjolras does most of the time, albeit unintentionally), he starts composing an e-mail.
Lovely poem, he writes, though in reality he has no head for poetry and everyone knows it. As long as you're still getting everything done, I don't mind if you take care of personal things. If you need anything, remember you can always talk to me or Combeferre. - E
Normally, he'd include Courfeyrac on that list, but given the circumstances and the fact that he knows they were romantically involved, he thinks it's best to leave him out.
When Jehan checks his e-mail half an hour later, he makes a muted choking sound and glances in the direction of Enjolras' desk. He hadn't really expected a reply, but now Enjolras is certain he won't get one. After all, it's probably a better idea to discuss things like this with Combeferre than with him, anyway.
This group being the way it is, he gets a text from Cosette, of all people, explaining the situation.
Cosette (2:37:02 PM): Jehan tried to break up with Courf and of course Courf had no idea they were even a Thing in the first place
Cosette (2:37:58 PM): so even so, he's pretty bummed
Cosette (2:38:14 PM): if you attempt to stifle his creative outlet, I swear, with all due respect, I will break your nose
You (2:38:56): You can leave my nose out of this. Thanks for the update.
He manages to corner Jehan at the end of the day when everyone is heading out. "Good work today," he says casually. "Got a minute?"
"Sure."
"I heard about what happened, and I've known Courfeyrac for a long time, I know he can be—"
"A dick?" Jehan says flatly.
"Yeah, I guess that about covers it. But I just wanted to see how you were doing."
Jehan looks puzzled. "How I'm doing? Thanks, but… I'll be fine. I was the one who wanted to break things off in the first place."
"Are you sure? Because if you need someone to talk to—"
"I'll talk to Combeferre. No offense. Seriously, though, a breakup isn't the end of the world. I'm sure we'll still be friends."
Enjolras purses his lips. "Well good, because I'd hate to have to replace my favorite intern." He also distinctly remembers threatening Courfeyrac with violence if Jehan quit working because of him, and tax season is really no time to have a financial coordinator with two broken legs. And as important as the ABCs are to him as an organization, most of the members are also his friends and he cares fiercely about all of them. He makes Jehan promise again that he'll contact someone if he needs anything before letting him make his escape.
As he gets into his car and notices his overnight bag tucked underneath the passenger seat, Enjolras finds himself thinking how glad he is that Grantaire had decided to qualify their relationship so early on. The more he thinks about it, the more galvanized he becomes; suddenly, he's not dreading talking to Grantaire at all. He wants to define their relationship more clearly. He doesn't want any more doubt or confusion. He wants to clear the air, and he definitely wants to stop sleeping alone.
```
Really, he should know better than to leave it up to Grantaire to call. Grantaire is notorious for not calling. Enjolras has had Skype open for two and a half hours and Grantaire hasn't even come online. His vindication from earlier fading, Enjolras tells himself that Grantaire probably hasn't contacted him simply because, well, he never does, not because his loft is on fire or because he's died or is rethinking his decision to date him or something.
By 9:00, Enjolras has eaten dinner, done the dishes, laid out an outfit for the next morning, and has even briefly considered running the vacuum in the living room but decided against it because he's afraid the noise will make it impossible to hear his phone if it rings. By 9:30, he's already dialed Grantaire's number and counted three rings before Grantaire finally picks up.
"Hey. Sorry, I was supposed to call you, wasn't I."
"Can I ask what you were up to?"
"Oh, you know… nursing a hangover and feeling sorry for myself."
"Same old…?" Enjolras says drily.
Grantaire coughs.
"I would've liked to have heard from you," he prods, voice gentle. "Did you hear about Courfeyrac and Jehan?"
"Yeah—Cosette texted me something about you maybe having a broken nose? She was very apologetic and told me that I should coddle you."
"Thankfully that won't be necessary."
"Well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to it a little," Grantaire says with a snort. "But I'm glad your perfect nose is okay."
"Thank you," he says, unconsciously reaching for his nose just to make absolutely sure it isn't broken. "Anyway, it got me thinking—I don't want that to happen to us, you know? I want us to be on the same page. So let's just be frank, here, okay?"
There's a pause on the other end of the line and then Grantaire says sarcastically, "Would you like to start?"
"Um. Okay. I really like you," he says deliberately. Grantaire huffs, like he thinks it's a joke. Enjolras frowns and sits down heavily on the couch. "Would you be serious, please?"
"Sorry."
"I don't think you are," Enjolras says petulantly. "In any case, I don't know what you expect from me, which makes me nervous. I know we have different, uh… needs? So I want to know if we can work something out."
"That was not vague at all," Grantaire replies sourly. "'Needs'?"
Enjolras sighs. "I'm trying to work with you, here. I want to try things out with you because I'm into you and I want you to make you happy, but if you're just going to—"
"I've been in love with you since the first time Feuilly dragged me to a meeting," Grantaire says candidly. "We're talking like a year and a half's worth of impossible sexual fantasies, like—I definitely want to blow you until my throat's so raw I can't even talk. I want you to throw me down and just use me and not even look me in the eye and then send me on my way even if I can't walk in the morning."
"I—uh," says Enjolras once he's regained the ability to form human speech. "That wasn't really… what I meant…"
"I was being frank."
"Ah. Well. Um. That second scenario is weirdly specific and is probably not going to happen in real life," he says breathlessly. He thinks he might be blushing, but he's not sure. "But we could work up to the first one."
"W—really?"
"Yes, really. Also, remind me to punch you the next time I see you."
"Given what I just told you, I could be into that," Grantaire points out.
"You could be," he agrees. "Somehow I don't think you are. You should tell me what you like."
"Oh boy, get a fucking pen."
"You're kidding, right?"
"If you think you can remember," Grantaire says casually. "I like to be pushed around and told what to do and just generally be roughed up—"
"Ah, suddenly everything makes sense."
"Bite me. … ooh, actually, that, too. Biting is good."
"I could do that." Enjolras actually rather likes the idea.
"Oh god, okay." Grantaire sounds a little faint. "Have you ever…? With anyone else, I mean."
"Whatever the rest of that question is, no, I definitely haven't," he says, mouth dry.
"Okay well you sound like you're about to pass out so I'm not gonna ask you to fuck me in the ass—"
"Oh my god." He can't help it—could Grantaire at least try to be delicate?
"—but I'm just throwing it out there because you asked what I was into."
"That's fair," he says with a sigh. "Thank you."
"Yeah. I love you," Grantaire reminds him, and Enjolras isn't sure if it's a statement or an explanation.
"I know."
"Did you just… Han Solo me?" Grantaire asks after a long pause. "God."
"I did."
"Well, do you have anything to say to me?" Grantaire says doubtfully.
Enjolras bites his lip and remembers what Combeferre told him the night before. "I don't think I'm ready to say that yet."
"Of course."
"Hey," he says sharply, "I'm already way out of my comfort zone. Be patient with me. Please."
Grantaire sighs. "Yeah, you're right, as usual."
"Yeah, I know I am. So can I expect to see you this weekend?"
"You don't waste any time, do you," Grantaire says with a resigned laugh. "Your place?"
"Sure. Or we could go out, whatever you want to do."
"Whatever I want, huh?"
Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Are you actually twelve years old? Yes."
"Okay. Saturday? I'll call you."
"No," Enjolras says curtly. "No. I am going to call you. Or better yet—we're talking right now and we could set the date right now."
"I love it when you talk like a Catholic school teacher, it gets me all—"
"I'm hanging up," Enjolras threatens.
Grantaire laughs in earnest and Enjolras feels something in his chest swell up like a balloon. "Okay, uh, how about I'll come by at four and I'll make dinner."
"If that's what you want," he says gravely. "Will you be staying over?"
"I'll stay until you get tired of me."
"Bring a toothbrush."
"You'll put your tongue in my mouth but you won't let me use your toothbrush?"
"Bring a toothbrush," he repeats firmly. "God, I'm ready for bed."
"It's like ten."
"I've had a rough day."
"Oh, my darling Apollo, lay your laurel-crowned head on my lap and I'll—"
"Good night, Grantaire."
```
Saturday comes and Grantaire makes a nice breaded chicken breast on a bed of spinach. They don't have sex; Grantaire doesn't push, and Enjolras of course doesn't offer. Grantaire does not bring his own toothbrush.
After Grantaire goes home on Sunday, Enjolras considers texting Courfeyrac (because it is a widely known fact among them that Courfeyrac is something of a sex god, for lack of a better term) but thinks better of it almost immediately.
Wednesday comes and goes in much the same way; he spends the night in Grantaire's loft, relaxed and anxious by turns until they finally go to sleep. He appreciates that Grantaire doesn't pressure him—because Grantaire has made it abundantly clear that he wants him—but Enjolras had meant what he'd said about trying to please him, and being on edge is starting to wear him out. If he just knew whether or not they were going to have sex on any given day, he thinks he would be fine, even if thinking that makes him feel kind of awful. He thinks that maybe Grantaire is waiting for him to want it, which makes him feel even worse. And he thinks that he loves Grantaire but he can't bring himself to say so, which is just the icing on the Terrible Boyfriend cake.
"I don't know why you put up with me sometimes," he says with a sigh. It's Friday and Grantaire had shown up unexpectedly at the office to take him to dinner (nothing fancy—Enjolras had insisted that he not spend too much money and really he'd been craving a cheeseburger all day) and now they're back at his apartment enjoying the last vestiges of a milkshake.
"Yeah, well. You're lucky you're cute." When Enjolras doesn't try to elbow him in the ribs, Grantaire stops chewing on his straw and leans forward a little. "Like incredibly cute. Excessively cute, even. Not that looks are everything, of course. Hey…"
Grantaire kisses him and he tastes like chocolate ice cream instead of cigarettes and alcohol.
"Would you let me paint you?" he asks between kisses, fingers sliding up beneath the hem of Enjolras' shirt. Grantaire likes to tickle him there sometimes, but Enjolras is fairly sure that isn't what he's doing now. "You'd make a fantastic marble, but I'm a shitty sculptor."
"Of course," Enjolras answers, a little breathlessly. "Do you have something in mind?"
"A tasteful nude…?" he muses. "Or maybe a distasteful one."
Enjolras bites him just hard enough for it to hurt. Grantaire draws back sharply and rubs his jaw where Enjolras had bitten him, an appreciative look in his eye.
"Ow," Grantaire says playfully. "Careful, there. Someone might think you were trying to leave a mark."
"If I were going to leave a mark," Enjolras begins deliberately, surveying his handiwork, "I would leave it somewhere only you could see it."
"You're that ashamed of me?" Grantaire asks, resigned. Enjolras looks up at him and realizes that Grantaire really believes this.
"No," he says evenly. "I'm that possessive."
"Doesn't that normally entail… I don't know, marking your territory?"
"Animals do that," Enjolras retorts, frowning. "Insecure ones. You're not some tree for me to piss on."
Grantaire makes a face. "That… that is a really weird image."
"We can't all be Jean Prouvaire," he says indignantly. "Anyway, the point is, I want everything about us to be about us, not about—I don't know, showing off the fact that someone sucked on your neck? That's why it'd be somewhere you could see it without a mirror. I'd rather you thought about me and no one else."
"I think about you all the time."
"Only me?"
"Only you," Grantaire breathes. "Always you. And being with you is—I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want everyone to know."
Enjolras thinks but doesn't say that apparently all of their friends did know. "Well hickeys are tacky. Just tell people you have a cruel, terrible boyfriend who tortures you and you love it."
"That's not far from the truth," Grantaire says with a crooked smile.
Enjolras ignores him and rubs a circle with his thumb on Grantaire's hip, right above the waistline of his jeans. "Right here," he announces, and Grantaire actually shivers.
"I have a cruel, terrible boyfriend who tortures me," he says with a groan. "And I love him, god dammit."
"Do you love him in spite of his terribleness, or because of it?" asks Enjolras, tapping the spot contemplatively.
"Both," Grantaire says before kissing him so hard he has to brace himself against the counter to keep from falling over.
Suddenly he gets it. Grantaire wants him part and parcel and Enjolras wants nothing more than to let him have what he desires. Furthermore, he's discovering that, disinterested as he is in the act of sex, he wants to know Grantaire, and he wants to be the only one who knows. This could be as close to "sexually excited" as he ever gets, the thought of which is simultaneously exciting and terrifying—but less terrifying if Grantaire will love him anyway.
"I'm so turned on right now," Grantaire half whines, clearly embarrassed. "You're so—"
"I know," he says softly.
Grantaire looks him squarely in the eye and asks, "Did you mean it? What you said before?"
"Yes," he answers, knowing without having to ask that Grantaire is talking about their awkward phone call from the week before. "Do you want to take this somewhere else?"
"Are you honestly saying—"
"Yes."
"Oh god."
"Don't sound too enthusiastic," Enjolras says as he pushes himself off the counter. He starts to walk toward his bedroom but Grantaire insists on grabbing him around the waist from behind and pressing kisses to the back of his neck, which makes it very hard to walk. It's actually kind of cute, but he still threatens to step on Grantaire's feet.
```
Enjolras had guessed that Grantaire would be reverent.
He is downright worshipful.
It might be unnerving if it weren't so intoxicating. By the end of the night, there isn't an inch of him that hasn't been kissed and caressed and individually praised. The physical sensation is pleasant enough, but Enjolras loves being adored more than anything else.
Grantaire confesses that he loves giving head. Enjolras is relieved to tell him later that he doesn't mind getting it. When Grantaire kisses him, he can taste himself in Grantaire's mouth. Something about that strikes him as particularly wrong, and Enjolras takes it upon himself to kiss him until Grantaire tastes like Grantaire again.
Grantaire tells him for fifth time that he loves him; Enjolras responds by shoving him onto his back none too gently.
"You remembered!" Grantaire remarks, astonished.
Enjolras doesn't know what to say, for once. Honestly, being cruel to Grantaire comes shockingly easy to him. Instead, he pretends to be annoyed and says, "I don't understand how you still have so many clothes on."
Grantaire undresses shyly—weird, Enjolras thinks, for a guy who just had someone else's cock in his mouth. It occurs to him that Grantaire may be more self-conscious than he lets on.
"Let me see you," he urges gently. Grantaire turns toward him somewhat reluctantly; he still has his ridiculous Batman briefs on and his erection is embarrassingly apparent. Enjolras kisses him soundly and presses him back down into the mattress.
Enjolras leans over him and pauses—he's out of his depth here and Grantaire knows it. Luckily, Grantaire is happy to guide him, or else he'd be laughing nervously and making both of them uncomfortable. (He does laugh a little bit, but Grantaire graciously ignores it.)
He doesn't do much—it apparently isn't difficult to push Grantaire over the edge. He does make good on his threat to leave a mark on Grantaire's hipbone, which makes Grantaire writhe and rut against his palm. Grantaire finishes, breathing heavily while Enjolras contemplates the stickiness on his hands. He has a hard time reconciling his desire to wash his hands with how much he wants to lie down next to/on top of Grantaire and kiss him until he falls asleep. Grantaire tries to pull him in for a kiss but he refuses to get this mess all over the sheets.
"I love you, but I need to get a tissue or something," he says with a laugh.
"What?"
Enjolras realizes what he's just said and softens a little. "I love you," he repeats. "Really. But also. Like I said. Tissue."
"Go on, then," Grantaire says dramatically as Enjolras carefully rolls off the bed. "Leave me. It's alright, I can die here in peace now that you've said that."
"Shut up," Enjolras snaps from across the room. He wipes himself down and brings the box of tissues back with him to the bed, helpfully dropping it on Grantaire's stomach.
"You're like the only dude I know who doesn't just keep them by the bed," Grantaire complains. "No—the only one. Literally the only one."
"Go sleep with one of them, then," Enjolras snaps, climbing back into bed. "That was a joke. Don't do that."
"I couldn't possibly," Grantaire says. "Anyway. How was it for you—better than a sharp stick in the eye?"
"It was fine," he says simply, resting his head on Grantaire's shoulder. "Except… well, never mind. I guess it's not important now."
"Except what?"
"It's just—I never really worried about it, but I always told myself, 'when I start having sex, I'm gonna be smart about it, I'm gonna get tested, I'm gonna make sure I use a condom,' and, well." He shrugs. "I'm a little disappointed in myself. I didn't even ask you about it."
"Ah, well. I'm clean, and there's like a 99.9% chance you are, too, but—"
"You know, that kind of language can be very alienating to people with STIs, especially in the queer community, we should—"
"But we can go get tested together, if you want," Grantaire says, rolling his eyes. "'Fine,' he says. Like I was asking about a steak."
Enjolras jabs him in the ribs. "Well what about you? Was I—adequate?"
"Perfectly adequate."
"It took you like ten seconds to come," Enjolras says flatly.
"Yeah, well."
"I liked touching you," he confesses. "I liked seeing you react to me. That was—satisfying."
"Really? Not the part where I sucked your dick?" Grantaire asks, managing to sound both offended and touched at the same time.
"That was nice, too," Enjolras says defensively. "But I mean—what did you expect, I wasn't just suddenly going to start not being asexual—"
"No, I—"
"—which only happens in media all the damn time, and really you're wasted on me because what the hell, that was a lovely blowjob, I just don't—"
"Stop," says Grantaire, covering his mouth with his hand. "I wasn't expecting to, like, fundamentally change you as a person, or anything. I just wanted you to say something nice."
"Oh." Enjolras closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted. "Would you get the light?"
"Me? I'm the one still coming down from a mind-blowing orgasm!"
Enjolras refuses to move so Grantaire does it anyway.
```
Courfeyrac (3:12:32 AM): CONGRATULATIONS ON THE SEX
Courfeyrac (3:12:54 AM): I'm baking you a cake
You (8:53:02 AM): How the fuck
You (8:53:14 AM): You know what. I don't even want to know.
You (8:55:28 AM): Easy on the frosting, I won't eat it.
Courfeyrac (9:03:18 AM): is that what you said to R ;)
You (9:03:31 AM): That innuendo doesn't even make sense. Go back to sleep.
Courfeyrac (9:05:47 AM): blowjobs
You (9:05:52 AM): REST.
```
"You didn't seriously tweet that you got laid, right?"
"What? No." Grantaire looks concerned. "I was under the impression that you didn't want me to."
"Courfeyrac just texted me a picture of the cake he just baked for us, it says 'congrats on the sex' in green frosting."
"That's horrifying. Why is he psychic." Grantaire checks his phone. "I don't have any—oh…"
"What."
"Well you know how I sometimes don't answer my phone…"
"Yes," Enjolras says flatly, unamused.
"Well usually it rings out, right? It only goes straight to voicemail when it's off, and I only turn it off when I'm—"
Enjolras shakes his head. "The fact that Courfeyrac knows this about you is frankly disturbing."
"Courfeyrac is an excellent wingman, I'll have you know."
"Wow, please do not tell me about this."
"Anyway, I didn't tell him. He surmised."
"Whatever," grumbles Enjolras. "I'm not even going to eat the cake."
"I thought asexuals loved cake."
"I want to set that stereotype on fire."
"I love you," Grantaire says fondly. "Apropos of nothing."
Enjolras eyes him suspiciously. "If this is an attempt to get me to bring you breakfast in bed again, I swear…"
"Well that would be nice, but it's too early to be alive, anyway."
"It's not that early," says Enjolras, though he hasn't bothered to get dressed.
"Stop arguing and come back to bed."
Enjolras has to admit that the offer is tempting. "Half an hour," he concedes, dropping his phone—on the floor, Courfeyrac be damned—and crawling back under the covers. "I love you, too, or whatever."
"We'll make a proper boyfriend of you yet," Grantaire says with a smile.
They end up sleeping until noon, but no one's really counting.