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The summer is hot and heavy when Enjolras comes to him, knocking furiously at Grantaire's door. Grantaire opens it without a second thought, knowing that only debtors or Enjolras could want to get into his apartment in such a hurry, and Grantaire does not owe any debt, except for a hefty tab at the Corinth, but the men and women who work there do not doubt that Grantaire will be back before long.
He opens the door to Enjolras, whose face is far from it's usual carefully concealed savagery. Instead it runs rampant, hectic spots of red high on his cheekbones, his hair wild, escaping the single back ribbon that usually holds it back. For a moment Grantaire is speechless; Enjolras never looks quite so beautiful as he does when he is robbed of all control, when passion has overcome him and he is no longer human, but truly divine, and truly frightening.
But as Grantaire looks him over, eyes sharp (for he does not miss anything when it comes to Enjolras) he catalogues the shaking of Enjolras's hands, the heaving of his chest, the way Enjolras's pupils dilate and contract, over and over again. This is not passion, he realizes, this is mania.
Grantaire ushers Enjolras in and sits him on his bed, unmade, and pushes a flask into his hands. It is a testament to how far gone Enjolras is that he does not wrinkle his nose or voice a complaint, just tosses it back and swallows with a grimace. It is lucky that Grantaire had brandy on hand- brandy is the more calming of alcohol: it caps off a night, eases pain, makes way for a relaxing slumber. It does it's work on Enjolras almost immediately, as his taut shoulders fall the tiniest bit, and he breathes but a little easier.
Grantaire keeps his distance and frowns, if only to stave off concern. He had known this was coming for quite some time. They are so close. It is May and summer has come early, and with it, fervor and sickness. Lamarque is ill but that only gives Enjolras strength. But Enjolras, though Grantaire would hold him to divinity, is still human, and he has been overworking himself. It was only a matter of time, Grantaire knows, before he either bent or broke under the weight of the pressure he set for himself.
"Enjolras," Grantaire chances, and Enjolras jerks up, startled. He has not been sleeping, Grantaire knows from the bruises underneath his eyes and the pallor of his skin. He most likely has not been eating either.
"There is so much to do," Enjolras mutters, "So much and we have so little time for it. And I cannot, I cannot help but-" Enjolras gasps, only he gasps on a sob and Grantaire's heart breaks to hear it. It is like the cracking of marble and it is a sound no ears should ever know. Grantaire takes a step forward as if to comfort Enjolras but he doesn't know how.
Enjolras makes the decision for him then as he gets up and crosses the room in two, long strides, causing Grantaire to take a step back automatically.
"You must lie to me, Grantaire." Enjolras says, and Grantaire blanches. "I begin to think I will not be able to complete this task, that my body will wear down while my mind continues to run. I am mad, Grantaire, I am mad with the possibility of change and I want it more than I have wanted before, I would gladly give my life for it, indeed I plan to, but I am," and there it is again, that painful gasp-sob, "I am beginning to think I cannot do it all, I cannot do it at all."
Enjolras's hands come up to grasp at Grantaire's shirt, clenching and unclenching repeatedly. "You must lie and you must make it sweet and easy to swallow, as if you are feeding me an unpleasant tonic." Enjolras begs. "For once I am in need of your blind faith and adoration."
"But," Grantaire is bewildered. He still does not understand; he functions quite well under the impression that he is at best a minor irritation to Enjolras, that his reverence is more of a hinderance than a help. That Enjolras could need something only Grantaire can provide is unfathomable to him. "Why come to me in a moment of doubt? Why seek me over Combeferre or Courfeyrac?"
Enjolras shakes his head. His desperation starts to wane as he is forced to explain himself.
"Combeferre is far too rational to lie to me. He would tell me to calm myself, to sleep, to think about it tomorrow when my heart is not so burdened. He would approach this with sense. Courfeyrac," Enjolras says with a fond smile, and Grantaire feels a pang of jealousy until Enjolras shakes his head. "Courfeyrac would but hold me, offer me a smile or quip, and not understand why I faltered so. I have never shown anything but infallible strength to either of them. They have seen me struggle, yes, but not doubt. And as doubt comes so easy to you, it is you I seek. It is you who can give me what I need."
Grantaire suspects there is more to it than that; something rings false in his chest, but who is he to deny his god? That is more than he is capable of. "What would you have me say?" He asks, for he is at a loss. To comfort a man when he stands for nothing at all? How can he reinforce conviction when he has none of his own?
Wildness is edging back into Enjolras's face, and Grantaire is all too aware that his hands are still fisted in the front of Grantaire's shirt. They are so close and Enjolras seems to be asking for something specific but Grantaire does not know what it is, and Enjolras will not say it.
"It is too much, it has become too much to bear, and the others cannot see me waver, Grantaire. But you," and Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head towards Grantaire almost imperceptibly. "You can take my doubts from me, keep me on course. It takes its toll- this path, this revolution. I cannot burn out before it is done. I must appear on fire at the very end, flare brightest right before I am extinguished. Can you do this for me?" Enjolras asks him, as if he is asking a simple favor and not the world from Grantaire. Though it is easy to forget, especially to Grantaire, who venerates Enjolras as though he were endowed with God's holy light, Enjolras is only a man. No man can stand on his own all the time; it is in human nature to need companionship and support, and apparently Enjolras is no exception.
He is asking Grantaire to be his comfort, as if he does not know that Grantaire was born for a singular purpose: to do as Enjolras asked of him. Before he can stop himself, Grantaire presses a hard kiss to Enjolras's mouth, which is inviting for once, lips red and open rather than twisted into a hard and disapproving line. Grantaire is not sure this is what Enjolras wants of him; perhaps he meant comfort of a more innocent nature- not a drink surely, but spoken reassurance, perhaps a hand enclosed in his own. Or even just a willing ear, one to listen and only listen until Enjolras is done speaking, until he has been relieved of all his burdens. But this is what Grantaire gives him instead: a kiss. He breathes harshly through his nose, afraid of rejection, afraid that Enjolras will not let him touch him like this again.
Enjolras is still against him, though his hands have not let go of Grantaire, and Grantaire pulls away.
"I cannot lie to you Enjolras," Grantaire shakes his head regretfully. "I will do as you ask of me, but I cannot lie. This is what I offer, and it is the truth."
Enjolras looks so young and afraid before him, usual mask of determination long since forgotten since he came before Grantaire.
"Why-" Enjolras clears his throat, finally releasing Grantaire's clothes, which are now wrinkled beyond fixing, to bring a hand to his lips, almost unconsciously. "What truth is this?" He asks, startled. Grantaire smiles ruefully, at once reminded of Enjolras's age. Grantaire is older, not by far but by enough years that he has lived harder and more cruelly than Enjolras can ever hope to, with his idealist's heart.
Grantaire almost doesn't want to indulge him, but Enjolras does not look upset, merely curious and a little bit shocked, so Grantaire speaks, encouraged if not emboldened. There is still little space between them.
"It is the sole truth I have in me: it is the love I have for you. Because Enjolras," Grantaire says gently. "For all your love of Patria, I know that you cannot hope to love a woman, or a man, in anything close to the same way. I can offer that to you, and you needn't return it. It shall be here for you, with me, ready and waiting should you ever choose to partake in it."
And suddenly the indignation that usually accompanies Enjolras when Grantaire is near is back in Enjolras's eyes, and Grantaire does not know what he's said.
"You know very little, Grantaire. For all you speak and act as if you are wise with life's lessons, as if your cynicism has made you smart, or better than the rest of us. But that is the lie, Grantaire, and it is a comfort- believing in nothing is easy. You live while exerting the least amount of effort."
"My life is not easy, Enjolras," Grantaire interrupts him. "For the one thing I would like to disregard, yet believe in against all odds and far better judgement, is you." Enjolras's breath hitches in his throat and Grantaire continues on. "I could never lie to you, for you are my sole conviction. I believe in you over my apathy in all other matters. I would learn all the languages in the world if only to never run out of ways to sing your praises. And should you not wish to hear me speak, I would spend a lifetime on my knees using my tongue to worship you in other ways."
There is what could be called a blush mantling Enjolras's cheeks, and Grantaire is again struck by the effeminate beauty of his leader, the beauty that makes him no less fierce, but in fact more so.
"You hold me in such high regard," Enjolras manages.
"No less than you deserve," Grantaire replies simply and truthfully.
Enjolras looks overwhelmed, but what else could he have been expecting when he came to Grantaire? It's not as if Grantaire makes a secret of his feelings. Still, he looks almost pleased, as if this admission was his intention all along, though he did not think he would get it.
"You may accuse me of a marble countenance, and a marble heart, but I am not immune, Grantaire, to the admirations which you have made no attempt to hide. There is a reason I came to you. And I would be remiss if I were to say-"
Grantaire surges forward and claps a hand over Enjolras's mouth before he can say more.
"I do not wish to hear it," Grantaire says, and it sounds as if he's pleading. "If you sought me out with a sense of obligation, then I do not want you and I will not have you. You may have asked me to lie to you, Enjolras, but I cannot bear you to lie to me. I offer myself freely, and told you that you needn't reciprocate."
Enjolras removes Grantaire's hand and places it instead on Enjolras's own neck, curving it around his throat, Grantaire's thumb now pressed into Enjolras's fluttering pulse-point.
"Grantaire," Enjolras says, and his voice is gentle- rasping just a little. "Have you ever known me to speak false? To take advantage of another? I have given up so much willingly for France- my time, my youth, my humanity, and I suspect, soon, my life. You are the one thing I want for myself. I want you for your cynicism alongside your irreconcilable faith in me. I want the kindness that you so desperately attempt to hide, the same way that I want you to press me down and take from me. I want you entirely. I came to you begging for a lie but now I pray for the truth, now that I know the strength of your feelings for me. You offer yourself on your knees, and I would take it. But I wonder- would you accept the same from me? If you believe in me as truly as you say-"
"I love you," Grantaire interrupts him, unable to hear more. He is sure that this is a dream, a cruel joke from Morpheus. Dreams are a product of night and darkness, after all, and nothing could be darker than waking up to realize that this was all false. But while he has Enjolras, he will take advantage of it. And Enjolras must know that this is more than just belief, that Grantaire is more than just a devotee who would do anything for his leader. Grantaire loves Enjolras, he loves him, and it is the only pure and good thing Grantaire has to offer.
Enjolras looks impossibly sad for a moment. "I know, Grantaire. And I suspect I feel the same. But this is not a fair bargain. I can give you little in return. Love I may have, but it cannot consume me the same way it consumes you. I can give you some of me, but not all. Not even most of me, but some. A part that nobody else may have but you. The rest is for Patria. Is that acceptable?"
Grantaire breathes out. "Acceptable, he says." And Grantaire is aware that he is speaking aloud and not simply thinking, but he cannot stop. "Acceptable, he says, as if this is not greater than anything I could have hoped for. Acceptable, he says, as if he is not offering me the world and everything that comes after it."
If Grantaire attempts to continue, neither of them realize, because Enjolras is pressed against him, mouth plundering Grantaire's own with a single-minded focus. Grantaire doesn't think, simply tightens the grip he already has on Enjolras's neck, brings the other hand up to cup the other side of Enjolras's face. Enjolras feels boundless under Grantaire's hands; even the smallest part of Enjolras, the part that he is offering, is more significant than everything Grantaire has ever had to give. Enjolras is right, this is not a fair bargain, because Grantaire could not hope to match what Enjolras has just bequeathed to him.
Grantaire's hand moves from Enjolras's neck to wind itself into the long hair at the nape. He twines his fingers into the soft locks until his hand is ensnared, and Enjolras's hair becomes ivy, winding tight around him, erasing the possibility of freedom. But that does not scare Grantaire; he has never been free from Enjolras. Enjolras is the sun, and Grantaire is a lowly rock, too small to even be designated a planet, constantly circling, pulled in by a force that could be deemed gravity but is far more.
Enjolras mirrors Grantaire's movements and clutches him closer. Grantaire chances opening his eyes for but a moment and stutters in his movements. Enjolras's eyes are closed in desperation, clenching so tightly it must be painful. It hurts Grantaire to see that this is no comfort. Grantaire will see Enjolras to softness, for there is no room for savagery in this moment. Grantaire sees the nights they will have together before the end. Some will be frantic, he knows, and Grantaire will take Enjolras, or be taken, with a frenzy designed to eliminate all other thought from their minds. But tonight will be an achingly slow affair. Tonight, Grantaire will take Enjolras apart, piece by piece as if he is clockwork, and then he will remake him as if he is art- living, breathing, seraphic, terrible, inimitable art.
Grantaire pulls away with a last kiss to the corner of Enjolras's mouth. His often proud and lofty upper lip is now kiss-swollen and sore from Grantaire's ministrations, and Enjolras sucks it into his mouth as if to continue to taste Grantaire though their mouths are no longer aligned. Enjolras makes a noise of protestation but Grantaire shushes him lightly.
"Do you trust me, Enjolras?" Grantaire asks, and it is a question that is supposed to set Enjolras at ease, but the answer will either soothe or ruin Grantaire. When Enjolras nods without hesitation, Grantaire breathes a quiet sigh of relief, and sets out removing Enjolras of every pieces of clothing he is wearing.
First, he loosens his cravat, revealing the flushed skin of Enjolras's neck. It is there that Grantaire presses his lips, setting out stopping the almost imperceptible trembling of Enjolras. He unbuttons Enjolras's waistcoat and lets it fall to the floor, then continues to kiss down Enjolras's chest with each button undone, with each inch of skin exposed. Grantaire's tongue is warm on Enjolras's skin, but ripples of gooseflesh follow in its wake regardless. When Enjolras's shirt hangs open, Grantaire takes the opportunity to push it off Enjolras's shoulders and come back to Enjolras's face. He does look more relaxed now, Grantaire notes. The tenseness leaves him by minute increments, and Grantaire feels irrationally pleased that it is his doing.
Enjolras's cheeks are red, and the flush extends to his chest, which is splotchy with rosy patches. Grantaire has never seen a sight so beautiful. Enjolras's skin is more than the perfect white of fresh cream- instead he seems to be lit from a golden light within, but Grantaire is not sure if it is true or simply a figment of Grantaire's adoring mind. Regardless, it is how he sees him, and therefore it is truth enough.
Enjolras has the barest beginnings of a smile on his face, and his hands, delicate and fine-boned wrists, come up to take hold of Grantaire's still-clothed arms in a reassurance that this is still what he wants. While Enjolras keeps himself balanced on Grantaire (and Grantaire tries hard not to think about the symbolism of that, that he is Enjolras's balance, that he keeps him standing) while Grantaire undoes his trousers and Enjolras steps out of them.
All too soon, though Grantaire has undressed him as slowly as possible, Enjolras is standing naked before Grantaire, and he doesn't look bashful. Instead he stands proud, and Grantaire takes in the sinewy length of Enjolras's body, slim but strong. His cock is jutting up, curved and straining towards his stomach but Enjolras makes no move to give himself pleasure. Grantaire could compare him to Lucifer, or Michael, but there is something in the purple lids that weigh down Enjolras's eyes that mark him as irrevocably human, and it allows Grantaire to touch him. And where before Enjolras was passive, and let Grantaire do as he wanted, this new touch awakens something within him, and he surges to undress Grantaire in turn.
Grantaire helps him along eagerly, unable to stop himself from kissing the vast swatches of skin that are presented to him. He shrugs off his waistcoat, his shirt, kicks off his trousers and shoes. It is not the most graceful Grantaire has ever been, but grace is not the aim of the evening. He and Enjolras clutch at each other, kissing, kissing, frantic then slow then frantic again, but never stopping. Grantaire pulls away for just a moment to hitch Enjolras's leg around his hips, and even then their lips are connected by an almost obscene strand of saliva as they breathe in the hot air between them.
To Enjolras's surprise, they do not move to the bed that occupies the corner of the small room that Grantaire inhabits. Instead Grantaire slips a hand under each of Enjolras's thighs, gripping tightly and lifting him up, and Enjolras takes the hint, hooking his legs around Grantaire's waist. Grantaire maneuvers them so that Enjolras is pressed up against the wall, and some of Enjolras's is weight is taken off of Grantaire.
They do not speak, not anymore. Enjolras trusts Grantaire implicitly, and though Enjolras clearly does not have much experience in the more carnal of arts, Grantaire does, and he needs no guidance as he trails a hand down Enjolras's side. The newfound leverage Grantaire has attained by pressing Enjolras into the wall allows him to free a hand to dip into the melted tallow of the candle Grantaire had burning before Enjolras walked in. It's not too hot, Grantaire makes sure of that before he would allow it to touch Enjolras's skin. It's just warm enough that it will not shock Enjolras, and still makes a sufficient lubricant.
Grantaire must make sure once more that this is what Enjolras wants, and with a questioning look that Enjolras answers with a long and unbearably sweet kiss, Grantaire nudges a finger between the cleft of Enjolras's ass. Slick, it slips easily toward it's intended target, and there is no hesitation, only surety in Grantaire's movements as he pushes one finger inside. Enjolras mewls then, a tiny sound that is not yet colored with pleasure, but holds potential. Grantaire keeps still for a moment, not only letting Enjolras get used to the feeling, but also giving himself time to not be overcome by the thought of his own length sheathed in Enjolras's tight heat. When he thinks enough time has passed, Grantaire begins to move his finger slowly in and out, just beginning to crook it inside of Enjolras. Enjolras is hefted so that he is raised above Grantaire, and his arms are crossed behind Grantaire's neck, each hand gripping the opposite shoulder, mirroring the placement of his legs. When Grantaire pulls his finger out entirely and replaces it with two, Enjolras's grip tightens on Grantaire, and his nails dig deep into the tanned skin.
Grantaire scissors his fingers deep inside Enjolras, prompting a groan, a sound now saturated with pleasure, as Enjolras drops his head back against the wall. Enjolras opens so easily for him, like Grantaire's fingers were made to plunder the deepest recesses of Enjolras's body. Grantaire can envision giving up holding a paintbrush or charcoal in his hands ever again if it means he does not need to give up this feeling. He removes his hand and slicks his fingers with more tallow before pushing in with three fingers, not missing the way that Enjolras clenches around him.
Grantaire leans back just enough to look long and hard at Enjolras as he stretches him open, and must stop his jaw from dropping at the sight. Enjolras's head is still tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat and the corded tendons that are thrown into sharp relief. He is sweating, and his hair sticks to his neck and sides of his face, curling where it's wet.
Enjolras seems to be biting back words, and Grantaire encourages to him to speak.
"Tell me, Enjolras," Grantaire urges, pressing in deeper as Enjolras grinds his hips down on Grantaire's fingers. "Tell me what you feel."
"I feel," Enjolras pants, and his voice is thick with suppressed moans. "Full."
"Come, Enjolras," Grantaire says, and he cannot quite bring himself to be as honeyed as he would like. He is too eager, feels his cock aching and waiting to be inside Enjolras. "Does that mean you are too full to have me inside you?" He tries to tease more words from Enjolras, who just just shakes his head and whimpers, trying to draw Grantaire's fingers deeper inside him.
"Enjolras, this is meant to be freeing." Grantaire assures him, nosing at Enjolras's jaw. "Tell me what you want, tell me what you need and I will give it to you without a moment's delay. I want only to please you, it is all I have ever wanted."
"Grantaire," Enjolras moans, and that is almost enough for Grantaire, hearing his name as if it is a prayer. "Please, take me, take me, fuck me."
It is all Grantaire needs to hear, and he slicks his cock up with more tallow than is probably strictly necessary. But he does not want to take chances with Enjolras, does not want to hurt him, so he hefts Enjolras a little higher and pushes in impossibly slowly. Enjolras exhales unsteadily as Grantaire enters him and Grantaire doesn't breathe at all, not until he is fully seated inside Enjolras.
Enjolras does several things at once then, once he becomes used to Grantaire's considerable length inside of him: he drops his head down to bury his face in Grantaire's neck, overcome, and cants his hips down onto Grantaire's cock, all while letting out the most exquisite noise to ever grace Grantaire's ears. He keens, and then he keens over and over again as Grantaire thrusts up into him. Enjolras keeps his head in the crook of Grantaire's neck, clutching him tight and making no attempt to stifle his moans. It's as if he moaning deep into the core of Grantaire himself, and Grantaire can feel the sounds reverberate within him, rebounding inside his ribcage, compounding on his own pleasure.
It is far better than Grantaire could have imagined as he fucks up into Enjolras's heat. Grantaire has always been one for hyperbole, but he cannot hope to put into words what he's been graced with. He thinks he might be able to paint this later, when Enjolras is lying spent in his bed, but for now there is only this moment, and it is all Grantaire can do to be lost in it.
Completion comes too soon. Enjolras's cock is trapped between the two of them and it leaves sticky smears of precome across their abdomens. Grantaire dreams about his mouth upon that cock, but for now he must content himself with taking it in hand, stroking it in time to his thrusts, which are becoming increasingly erratic. Enjolras rocks his hips down in a barely contained rhythm, fucking himself onto Grantaire's cock, and then grinds down hard, coming over Grantaire's fist, biting down hard onto his shoulder.
Though he is spent, Enjolras continues to roll his hips onto Grantaire, whimpering and moaning and clutching even tighter until Grantaire finally comes inside him with a long groan. He must work to keep them both up as every muscle in his legs now feels unsteady. Still, he manages to walk the two of them over to the bed, all the while softening inside Enjolras, and deposit him gently upon a surprisingly soft mattress, pulling out and apologizing at Enjolras's wince. He cleans them with care, and kneels beside Enjolras on the bed.
"Are you alright?" He asks, brushing strays hairs from Enjolras's forehead. Enjolras is sprawled bonelessly, and he looks at ease, relaxed, and every line and groove in his face has been smoothed out as if no worry had ever crossed his mind in the first place. Grantaire swallows hard against the feeling in his throat, at how much he loves Enjolras, for surely there is no precedent for a feeling like this. Nisus, Hephaestion, Patroclus- Grantaire stands apart from his predecessors in more ways than one. Where they stood proud and equal beside their better halves, Grantaire stands behind, below. Yet Enjolras picked him out from the depths regardless, and that is all Grantaire was never able to bring himself to ask for.
So when Enjolras smiles up at him from the bed (up at him, up at him) and nods, bringing a hand up to cup Grantaire's cheek tenderly, Grantaire cannot stop himself from leaning down to kiss him. Enjolras pulls him down to lay beside him and Grantaire goes willingly.
"Thank you, Grantaire," Enjolras says, and Grantaire shakes his head, smiling.
"I could argue that I should be thanking you instead." Grantaire counters, but his heart isn't in it. He is too happy. So happy that when he says, "I suppose you must leave me now? There must be matters to attend to," he is not even a little rueful.
But Enjolras surprises him and says, "No, there is nothing tonight that must be done that cannot be attended to tomorrow. I will not let you think this will be a regular occurrence, but for this once, I may stay the night."
Grantaire bites his lip against his grin and kisses Enjolras's shoulder. "Because?" He asks, and he knows that he is being leading, and playful, but lighthearted nights are in short supply, and Grantaire will take advantage when he can.
Enjolras pulls at Grantaire's hair. "Because I wish to, you fool." And then he pulls Grantaire's hair a little harder, to bring him up for another kiss, and Grantaire smiles into it. "Now quiet. If this is the last full night's sleep I will get in a long time, I want to enjoy it."
And Grantaire doesn't say another word, simply situates them so that Enjolras's head is on his chest, and Grantaire's hand is in the perfect position to stroke his fingers through Enjolras's hair until the two of them are asleep.