Chapter Text
Grantaire stared in disbelief at the screen of his laptop. Mask 21was closed for relocation, and wouldn’t reopen for another three months at least. He could barely appreciate their plans for expansion – all he could think of was the hassle of having to go somewhere else this weekend to find someone to beat him.
“R!” Marius rapped on the door and popped his head through. “Time to go, come on.”
“Right, yeah.” Grantaire put his laptop aside and got up, leaving it on his bed while he found his shoes and grabbed his jacket before following Marius out. Monday evenings were often the highlight of his week, and his heart lifted as he and Marius made their way to the Corinthe, to the backroom where their friends would be waiting.
Official ABC meetings were fortnightly, but informal gatherings congregated on the Mondays in between as well, with plenty of other meetups here and there springing up for some occasion or another. This Monday was a formal one, and Grantaire cheered up when he saw that Joly had saved him a seat near the front, against the wall.
While the others debated ideas to raise money for some cause or another – “I refuse to bag shopping again, I’m sorry, I won’t do it.” “Could we volunteer at an animal shelter again? That was great.” – Grantaire sank low in his chair and alternated between staring at his phone and glancing at Enjolras. The latter pastime was unremarkable, but the former was less common. None of the others bothered him, thankfully, so he was free to browse other club options for his weekend with increasing trepidation.
It had taken him long enough to pluck up the courage to go to Mask 21, and that had only been because they’d held a newbie night, specifically inviting clueless hopefuls in for a taste of the scene at a discounted price. There had been workshops, explanations, and a great party. All the newbies had worn blue wristbands, and the sight of so many others had bolstered Grantaire’s confidence enough that he’d signed up for a membership that very night.
He’d been to two other clubs, both with friends, but Mask 21 was his favourite, the place he knew best.
He couldn’t hold off for three months though. He needed to find somewhere else.
He texted a few of his closer friends from the scene, commiserating with them over the club’s sudden disappearance and asking where they’d be headed. None of them gave conclusive answers, so Grantaire kept scrolling through other club homepages in another tab.
All the time, he sneaked little looks at Enjolras, tasting just enough to quench his thirst.
Enjolras never looked anything less than composed, but he was on especially fine form tonight. He’d re-bleached his hair since the last time Grantaire had seen him, pale peroxide blonde to the roots now, a bright contrast against his dark skin. His usual maroon jacket was undone, his gaze focused on Courfeyrac and Feuilly as they argued playfully about something or other. He rarely smiled, but Grantaire knew from his posture that he was happy. A relaxed Enjolras leaned back in his chair the way he was doing now, one hand resting on his thigh, the other spread across the back of the chair next to his.
Grantaire looked up only occasionally, glancing around as he did to make it look as though he wasn’t searching out any face in particular.
Cosette was gossiping with Joly and Bossuet next to him, Musichetta was talking about something sciency with Bahorel and Celine, Combeferre and Louis were looking over Jehan’s shoulder at something on their phone, Lise, Marchelle, and Henri were trying to convince Courfeyrac of something. Those Grantaire was less familiar with were all in their little groups, all talking away (the backroom was hardly big enough to hold them now, and the question of moving to another, perhaps more permanent location was raised at least once a month).
And Enjolras sat alone, watching with the barest hint of a smile on his beautiful lips. Grantaire let his gaze linger for just a moment before looking down again as if stung. He was careful not to be caught, ashamed of his obsession. For anyone else he might have risked rejection years ago, or at least tested the waters with some harmless flirting and a few inquiries to Enjolras’ closer friends. But something about Enjolras struck him dumb, made him too conscious of his own ridiculousness, his own failings.
Better to watch from afar. He was happy enough as he was, resigned to Enjolras’ occasional frown and lofty pity. It was better by far than rejection and exile, and he had a balance. He kept his fantasies in his head, didn’t do anything creepy, and made sure he had a life outside of the ABC’s sphere of influence. He never wanted for company closer to his own league.
Speaking of, he needed to make a decision on a club. It was either that or try the internet, and just the idea of that made him want to shudder. Never again. Even if he started feeling shitty enough to try beating himself (never a particularly successful venture), he wouldn’t resort to another online hookup.
He left the meeting with Marius, the two of them leaning into each other on the métro. Grantaire had a list of potential clubs now, but he knew which one he’d pick – Le Grande was the one that seemed to be the most like Mask 21, if bigger and maybe a bit swankier.
Come Saturday, Grantaire was standing in the line outside, feeling horribly exposed even though he was surrounded by people wearing much more extreme things than him. Le Grande had a stricter dress code than Mask 21, and he barely made it in even though he was wearing leather trousers, a studded harness, and a sailor cap. For next time he might have to dig out his old underbust, though he hadn’t worn it for years. It probably didn’t even fit anymore: he didn’t exactly have the physique of a twink.
Mask 21 had been scary at first as well, he reminded himself as he dumped his stuff at the cloak room. He was just jittery because this was an unfamiliar environment, and he wasn’t as keyed into the rules of the place yet. He’d been here a few times before, but not for at least a year.
Le Grande was definitely bigger than Mask 21, with more than one stage for displays. One had already begun, ticket-holders only, so Grantaire went down to the dancefloor and slipped through to the bar. He’d had a couple of drinks already, but he was feeling a serious need for something extra. He should have come with someone he knew. The dancefloor was thick with bodies, all done up in fetish gear much more elaborate than his own, every one of their expressions telling him how much more fun they were having.
There was sweat already prickling under the straps of his harness, a tingling sensation buzzing under his skin that had nothing to do with the alcohol. If no one approached him after ten minutes, he decided, he’d go and see one of the house doms, see if one of them would either take him or point him in the direction of someone who would.
The lights blazed blue and purple overhead, the bassline thudding through his bones and urging him to leave the bar, to get up and dance, to see if there was anyone he knew hidden out there in the dark. Opposite him, a woman was dancing with a man in a muzzle, the leash attached to his collar wrapped tight around her fist. She used it to direct his movements, yanking his neck back so she could run her tongue up the underside of his chin. Grantaire’s fingers twitched as the man’s hips did, and he saw the woman laugh and twist one of the man’s nipples as punishment.
Fuck waiting.
He knocked back the rest of his drink and left the glass on the bar, heading back upstairs to the balcony. He knew all the house doms and slaves back at Mask 21, but here the faces were all unfamiliar. Still, he only hesitated for a moment before going to a woman he recognised from her photograph on the website. He’d done his research for a reason, after all. Madame Phoenix was done up in purple latex from spiked shoulders to very, very pointy boots, glitter dusting her high cheekbones and neatly outlined eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“Mmm? Hello.” She smiled, half-predatory, half friendly. Like a curious animal deciding whether or not to attack. “What can I do for you?”
Step on me, Grantaire very nearly blurted out. Those boots looked wickedly painful. “Point me in the right direction, I hope.” He pulled up what he hoped was a half-decent smile. “I haven’t been here for a while, and I was hoping to be taken down tonight. I just thought you might know any regulars who’d be interested?” Hopefully she couldn’t tell he’d rehearsed the lines on the way over.
“May I?” she asked, lifting her hand to his cheek. At his nod, she traced long fingernails down his jaw, thumbnail resting for a moment on his lower lip. “What are you interested in, darling?”
He had to swallow before his voice would work. “I…ah, you mean…in a scene, or in a dom?”
“Let’s start with a scene. That’ll narrow it down.” Her hand slid down, brushing tantalisingly over his neck – what he wouldn’t give to be choked by a woman like this – and came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing just a little.
He took a breath, coming back to himself. “Bondage, mostly. Rough play, pain’s good. I wouldn’t say no to a good beating. Worship, um…some humiliation, but that usually gets a bit tricky if I don’t know who I’m playing with.”
“Ooh, you’re quite the prize,” she purred. “What sort of dom then, sweetheart? Any gender preference?”
He shook his head. “I usually go for men though,” he had to add. “Someone experienced.”
“I’ve got just the one. I don’t think he’s picked anyone up tonight, if he’s looking. Come with me, pet.” She took his hand, and he let her lead him along the balcony, behind the tables by the railings. He usually went for men because he liked the feeling of being physically overpowered, but if Madame Phoenix had asked, he’d have bent over backwards to lick her boots. Some people just radiated dominance like that.
“Enjolras!” she called suddenly, and Grantaire’s heart jolted, mind whiting out. There was no way, no way, it couldn’t be… In the time it took his brain to catch up, Madame Phoenix had tugged him over to a small table at the back where three people were seated. “This boy’s looking for someone to take him down,” Madame Phoenix said. “Any thoughts, darling?”
Oh god. Grantaire stumbled as the people came into full view. A woman and two men, one of whom was unmistakably Enjolras. Enjolras in a red, ripped lace top with makeup around his eyes, several heavy-looking necklaces against his collarbone. Oh god. When he stood up, Grantaire realised distantly that he’d stopped breathing – Enjolras was wearing tight, black pvc trousers and boots with small heels. His bleached hair practically glowed under the lights, his expression tight as Grantaire stared, stared and stared as though not blinking would somehow make this make sense.
Fuck. His heart was thudding in his ears louder than the music, and he was only partially aware of Madame Phoenix letting go of his hand. When Enjolras took his elbow it was like an electric shock pulsing through Grantaire’s whole body. He couldn’t do anything but follow as Enjolras led him to a niche by the top of the stairs where the thudding music from below was slightly blocked off, mind still white with shock. Enjolras was here, Enjolras was touching him, Enjolras was…was…fuck, he couldn’t even think it.
“What are you doing here?” Enjolras hissed, as soon as they came to a stop. He squeezed Grantaire’s elbow hard before releasing it, and scowled when all Grantaire did was gape. “Well? Grantaire, what are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” Grantaire shook his head and took a deep breath, drawing on deeper reserves of strength than he’d known he possessed. Sweet Jesus, Enjolras was a regular at a fetish club. The Enjolras he stole looks at in tiny sidelong peeks was dressed in red lace and pvc, was wearing makeup, was staring back at Grantaire with the intense fury that Grantaire had always shied away from before. Did Combeferre and Courfeyrac know? Did anyone?
He couldn’t stop staring. It was like all the longing to drink in the sight of Enjolras had flooded out at once, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Enjolras glared at him, eyes burning. “Did you know I would be here?”
“Do I look like I had any idea?” A hysterical giggle bubbled up behind his lips and Grantaire clapped his hand over his mouth to keep it there. It was like he’d stepped into an alternate reality – this couldn’t be Enjolras, chaste, upright Enjolras who hadn’t had a boyfriend since university. “I usually go to Mask 21,” he said, once he was sure he could speak without breaking down. “I swear, I had no idea you’d…I didn’t even know you…” He gestured at Enjolras, who was looking distinctly flustered now.
(Enjolras flustered. Grantaire had never seen him like this before.)
“What did you ask Madame Phoenix?” he snapped. “Why did she bring you to me?”
Because fate was infinitely cruel, apparently. Grantaire shrugged with his whole body, arms lifting into the air. He was cold despite the heat of the club, goosebumps on his arms. “I don’t know, she just said you might be interested.” Which was incredibly flattering, now he thought about it. Someone like Enjolras could have his pick of the club, especially looking the way he did tonight. Grantaire looked like a second-rate military wannabe who couldn’t afford a proper outfit and wouldn’t have looked good in one if he could.
He was horribly aware all of a sudden that he was standing in front of Enjolras wearing nothing on his upper half but a leather harness and body hair. Too late, he lifted his arms to cross his chest, trying in vain to cover himself.
“What did you come here for?” Enjolras asked, eyes narrow. Grantaire had seen him angrier than this before, but there was an edgy quality to his body language now he hadn’t seen before – his fists were clenched, his feet shifting on the ground, shoulders and arms tight with tension. Embarrassed, Grantaire realised. This was obviously a secret for both of them, and if it would set him at ease, Grantaire could give him honesty.
“I was looking for someone to grind my face into the dirt a bit,” he said, gripping his elbows a little tighter. “That’s all. I don’t know this place that well, so –”
“You asked a house dom,” Enjolras finished, nodding. For a long moment, they just looked at each other. In his heeled boots, Enjolras was even taller than usual, and this close Grantaire could see they were several inches apart in height.
God, Enjolras was a regular at a fetish club. Stone and steel, single the whole time Grantaire had known him, as remote as the deepest oceans, highest mountaintops. That Enjolras came here on club nights and…was apparently amenable to picking up subs for a night of fun. Christ, did he do it here or did he take them home? Did he fuck them? Did he take care of them afterwards?
It was that last thought that had him stepping back, self-preservation instincts finally kicking in. “I won’t tell anyone,” he said, words running into each other as he hurried to say them. “I swear, I’ll forget I ever saw you, you don’t have to worry about anything –”
“Wait.” Enjolras grabbed his arm as he went to leave, and Grantaire almost flinched. That was the problem, right there. That was why he didn’t play with people he hadn’t met through the scene, and why letting this go on would be a terrible idea, quite probably the worst idea of all time. But Enjolras’ grip was strong, and his gaze was clear when Grantaire met it. “You wanted to be taken down,” he said. “I could do that for you.”
Grantaire’s knees actually wobbled.
Surely this was some form of divine punishment? There was a name for choices like this, choices so impossibly difficult they should never actually come up, but he couldn’t remember what it was. His mind was static, despairing at the entire situation. On one hand, being dominated by Enjolras was quite literally a dream come true. On the other, being exposed like that in front of Enjolras was a nightmare made real. Hell, being exposed like he was right now was agonising enough.
“Madame Phoenix brought you to me for a reason.” Enjolras actually looked him up and down (Grantaire sucked in his belly). “Do you want it?”
Grantaire bit down on his tongue and pulled his arm out of Enjolras’ grip, terror gripping his heart when Enjolras’ eyes went flat and he made to move away. “Wait!” He did want it, so badly he ached, but when Enjolras met his eyes again his courage failed him. “I’m sorry, I’m not…I didn’t expect to see you here. Or anyone I knew.” It was almost like meeting a celebrity face-to-face. Enjolras didn’t look like he could possibly exist in a place like this – he came from the normal world the same way actors came from the screen. He appeared larger than life, startlingly vivid.
Enjolras’ expression was inscrutable; almost completely blank but for a tightness around his lips and eyes that Grantaire couldn’t read in his agitated state. It stayed for a long moment, and then Enjolras let out a breath. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, and Grantaire could have melted with relief. The terror rushed back less than a second afterwards, flooding him like an unstoppable tide.
“Downstairs?”
Enjolras shook his head and nodded along the balcony. “There’s a bar up here too.” Small, almost hidden from view, but it was there. Grantaire just hadn’t seen it on his way over to Enjolras’ table. Once there, Enjolras ordered a rum and coke, and Grantaire whiskey and lemonade. Two voices in his head bickered over the decision, one saying that if he’d ever needed liquid courage, it was now, and the other saying that he’d already had a few, and he didn’t want Enjolras to think he was drunk.
Enjolras checked his phone before leading Grantaire back to the table he’d been sitting at before, now vacant. “Where are your friends?” Grantaire asked. He could do normal. As long as he pretended neither of them were dressed the way they were dressed or that they were in a club surrounded by the people they were surrounded by.
“Dancing.” Enjolras sat, and watched as Grantaire followed suit. Had Enjolras ever watched him do anything before? Grantaire couldn’t remember. “How long have you been doing this?”
Grantaire took a sip of his drink before answering, trying to get his head around Enjolras sitting next to him, almost close enough to feel the heat of his body. He was sure they’d never been this close before. “You mean, in general, or in clubs?”
“Both.”
“What is this, an interview?” Oh thank god, he was still capable of sarcasm. Had he and Enjolras ever even spoken like this? Certainly not on their own.
“It’s a conversation. I wouldn’t have expected to see you at a place like this.”
“Why not?” Grantaire asked, trying to hide how rattled he felt. Amazingly, it seemed to make Enjolras think, looking down and taking a drink before replying.
“I suppose I never considered it.” Enjolras’ eyes flicked back to him. “Am I overstepping?” Grantaire shook his head, and Enjolras’ lips turned up just a fraction. Grantaire swallowed and took another sip of his drink, finally tearing his eyes away. “How long have you been doing this then?”
Grantaire bit his lip, considering. Opening up to Enjolras was never something he’d expected to do, or get the opportunity to do, but he was here now. Who knew if he’d ever get a chance like this again? He took another drink, emboldening himself. “In general, always. In clubs, since…I don’t know, since I came to Paris. So since I was about nineteen, maybe. What about you?”
“In general, since I was twenty. A year less for clubs. You’re a sub?”
“Switch. But I was…I was looking to sub tonight.” A trickle of sweat ran down his back. “You always dom?”
“Usually.” Enjolras didn’t look away, and Grantaire took shallow breaths, pinned in place by his gaze. He hardly dared move, not wanting to give anything away while Enjolras was observing him so closely. Was his desire visible? It certainly felt that way, like it was written on his skin for the world to see. But if his desire was obvious, his trepidation had to be as well.
The idea of the object of his reverence offering to play with him though…
Enjolras lifted his glass to his lips, and as Grantaire watched his adam’s apple bob, he allowed himself to imagine it, just for a second. What would it be like to give himself over to Enjolras? He had to be experienced to have the recommendation of someone like Madame Phoenix, so what would he do? Would he bind Grantaire with rope? With chains? Would he blindfold him? Beat him?
Grantaire shivered, just the idea of Enjolras focusing all his attention on him enough to overwhelm. It would be too much; it would either make him too jittery to let go, or he’d drop so deep into subspace he’d never properly come out again. But if Enjolras offered again, he didn’t know if he’d be able to say no. How many times did chances like this come round?
“What sort of stuff do you like?” Enjolras asked, and if this wasn’t negotiation, it was just a tiny step away from it.
Grantaire shrugged, trying to appear casual. “What sort of stuff do you like?”
“I asked first.”
“I asked second, what’s your point?”
Enjolras huffed, and worry jolted through Grantaire’s chest – had he pushed too much? “Beating,” he blurted. “That’s what I came here for tonight.”
“You like pain?”
“Usually. Not cold, but…it does the job.” He lifted his drink again, forcing himself to sip to make it last. “Other stuff too, obviously.”
“Like what?”
Fuck it. “Being shoved around, gagged, tied up. I’ve tried electricity a few times, but I’ve got to really be in the mood for that.”
“Verbal abuse?” Enjolras asked, as nonchalant as if he was asking Grantaire’s favourite colour. And fuck, that was actually pretty hot. Grantaire nodded. “Marks?”
“Nothing visible, but yes if they can be covered. No bloodplay.”
“Watersports?”
“Um. Again, really gotta be in the mood for it.” He was flushed now, face burning and clothes sticking to his skin with sweat. “It’s definitely your turn now, come on.”
“I like breathplay, whipping, caning, humiliation.” Enjolras tilted his head. “I like making people cry.”
Grantaire finished his drink in two gulps. His stomach was in knots, but his head was buzzing. He’d never cried during a scene before, and the idea of doing so in front of Enjolras was…interesting. He wasn’t sure whether it was hot or terrifying. Both, he decided as he set his glass down a little too hard.
“Too much?” The corner of Enjolras’ lips lifted, and Grantaire shook his head quickly.
“Madame Phoenix sure knows how to make a match.”
“If you think so, why not continue?” Enjolras shifted, his knee pressing against Grantaire’s. “Do you want me to take you down?”
So badly. Probably more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life. Grantaire looked down at their knees, at his hands on the table. “Not here,” he said, almost too quiet to be heard above the music from the dancefloor below. “Yours?”
Enjolras shook his head. “Combeferre’s in tonight. Yours?”
Grantaire hesitated, then worked his phone out of his pocket. “Let me check.” Marius’ schedule was impossible to remember, so he’d programmed it into Grantaire’s calendar. He knew tonight was date night though – he’d asked Marius to make it one, so the apartment would be empty as a back-up plan if he needed to bring someone home.
This was his last chance to back out. To take what was probably the sensible option and get out of this before everything was changed beyond what he could handle. Seeing and talking to Enjolras in a fetish club was one thing. Taking him home with the intention of submitting to him was something else completely.
“Why are you offering?” he asked, glancing up from his phone.
Enjolras held his gaze as he shrugged a shoulder. “I’m curious. And it matches up – you came here wanting to be a sub, I wanted someone to dom. Why not each other?”
“Because we know each other.” Didn’t Enjolras get that? “Or, y’know,” he amended quickly. “Close enough.”
“I’m not planning on telling anyone about this.” And wow, okay, this was obviously a secret, but that still stung a bit. Irrationally, because it wasn’t like Grantaire would be breathing a word either. “Are you?”
Grantaire shook his head, and Enjolras tilted his chin. “Well then. I’m willing. It’s up to you.”
His mind was static again, panic blurring his thoughts. “Wait.” He closed his eyes, opened them, shifted on his chair so they weren’t touching anymore, but he was facing Enjolras properly. He could do this, he could be professional at least. He’d done it with dozens of other doms, he just had to pretend that Enjolras was no different. “What would we be doing?”
“You wanted a beating. If you have supplies, I can use them on you.” God, he sounded so casual, his normal measured self.
Grantaire had a decent flogger, a crop, and a paddle waiting back at home, and he nodded before he could think it through any further. “Anything else? I mean, what were you looking for tonight?”
Enjolras picked up his drink and looked down into it before taking a sip. “Someone to hurt. Someone to fuck too, but we can take that off the table if you want. Sex doesn’t have to be part of this if that’s not what you were after.”
Oh god, oh god. He couldn’t take too long here, that would be taken as a no, and he didn’t want to say no, but he didn’t want to say yes either. Did he want to have sex with Enjolras? Of course – he’d been fantasising about it for literally years. But the reality of it would be so far removed, worlds apart from his dreams. This would be real. This would be something neither of them could take back or forget.
It was just another physical act, he rationalised frantically, trying to convince himself. He liked sex after a beating, it took the edge off the pain at the same time as driving his submission home, something he was always in favour of. If it was anyone else, he’d say yes in an instant.
Enjolras was just a man, really. Grantaire’s feelings for him didn’t change the facts. “That could work,” he said slowly. “As long as the beating happens first.” Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire added quickly, “I’m not a crier though, so don’t get your hopes up.” Enjolras snorted at that.
“I won’t, don’t worry. What’re your limits?”
“For tonight…” Fuck, this was difficult. It had never been so hard before, but then, he’d never done this with Enjolras, or with anyone he knew outside the scene. He swallowed. “Don’t go too heavy. If I ask for more while it’s happening, fine, but don’t lead with the big guns. You…you mentioned verbal abuse?”
“Not something you’re into?”
“Not tonight.” He knew himself well enough not to dance on that particular sore spot. “No gags, no blindfolds, if you tickle me, I will kick like a fucking mule.”
Incredibly, that got a laugh. “Nice and simple then,” Enjolras said. “What about aftercare?”
Oh Christ, he did do aftercare. Why was he surprised? Of course a conscientious idealist like Enjolras did aftercare. “I don’t need much, if anything,” Grantaire said anyway. Like hell was he going to cuddle Enjolras. Human beings didn’t cuddle the sun and come away unscathed. “Get me to drink something, maybe eat something if I’m wobbly. Remind me to brush my teeth and lock the door on your way out.” He could do this.
Enjolras raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “Okay. Does this mean your place is free?”
The point of no return. Grantaire’s thumb hesitated over the surface of his phone, then he nodded and slipped it back into his pocket. “Yeah. Marius won’t be back till tomorrow.”
Enjolras nodded and finished his drink, putting the glass down with a click. “Shall we, then? Unless you want to dance?”
Grantaire shook his head and got up. “I’m good.”
They didn’t touch as they left the club, and Grantaire called a taxi. While they waited, and during the ride (speaking quietly so they wouldn’t be overheard by the driver), they hashed out the outline of what they would do. Once inside, with the doors locked and the supplies ready, they would begin. Standard traffic-light safewords for both of them. Enjolras would handcuff him and bend him over the bed to beat him, but wouldn’t strip him. That would come only if Grantaire decided he wanted to be fucked. Enjolras didn’t like leaving a key point up to negotiation when Grantaire wouldn’t be fully in control, but Grantaire argued him down.
Beating would be done with the crop and flogger, on back, ass, and thighs. The whole time they were talking, Grantaire kept one of his hands out of sight and flexed his fingers, digging his nails into his palms, pressing his wrist into the edge of the seat and the hardness of the car door. It was the only way he could work his tension out while pretending all of this was totally okay.
He still wanted to be beaten; the itch was even worse now than it had been before he got into the club, but he couldn’t imagine Enjolras doing it.
Except, of course he could. Of course Enjolras was a dom. He inspired devotion in all aspects of life, bedroom and dungeon not excluded. Grantaire had imagined it plenty of times, imagining Enjolras beating him down, either calm or furious, caring or cruel. Both of those and everything between were more than enough to get Grantaire to the edge, and he’d long since stopped feeling guilty about it. What was he supposed to do, stop masturbating?
But this was real. Would he really be able to do this? Bend over and let Enjolras thrash him? Would he ever be able to look Enjolras in the eye again? Would this change everything forever?
Things had already changed, he told himself. They’d come this far, too far to back out now. Grantaire paid for the taxi, arguing that Enjolras had paid for their drinks, and he led the way inside his building, up to the third floor where he and Marius had an apartment overlooking the street below. Startling, that after only half an hour of talking he felt confident enough to argue about money. Perhaps he was more adaptable than he gave himself credit for. He could only hope, at this point.
His and Marius’ apartment was small and untidy, but Enjolras didn’t seem to notice, waiting for Grantaire to show him the bedroom. Grantaire made sure to lock the door and put the chain on first, dumping his coat on the sofa. It would feel like unnecessary delaying to offer Enjolras a drink, so he just went straight into his room, flicking on the light. He tried not to think about the fact that Enjolras was in his bedroom, his private space.
It wasn’t huge, but there was a decent amount of space anyway because there was a dip in the wall where the dresser sat, above which was a railing where Grantaire hung his clothes. He needed a footstall to reach high enough, but it was worth it for the floor space it saved. The only other furniture was a double bed with storage drawers underneath.
Enjolras closed the door behind them. “Supplies?”
Grantaire nodded and went to the lowest drawer in the dresser, bringing out the crop and flogger. Enjolras held out his hands, so Grantaire passed them over and started unbuckling his harness. The alcohol he’d drunk was numbing the edges of his panic – if he’d been sober, he would never have said yes, he was sure of it. But here they were, in his bedroom, Enjolras in lace and pvc giving the flogger a couple of experimental swings. His makeup was more visible under decent lighting, heavy eyeshadow glittering and making his eyes seem even darker than they were.
Grantaire swallowed and turned away, bending down to get the handcuffs out as well. They clinked in his hands and Enjolras looked up, drawn by the sound. He held out a hand for those too, and Grantaire only hesitated for a moment before giving them to him. Enjolras was in charge now. All Grantaire had to do was obey.
“Safewords?” Enjolras prompted.
“Red for stop, yellow for pause, green for go,” Grantaire recited.
“Non-verbal?”
“Um. I’ll flap my hands about, that’ll probably get your attention.”
“It will now I’ll be checking for it.” Enjolras put the flogger at the end of the bed and tapped the crop against his own calf. “On the bed, now.”
The feeling shivering under Grantaire’s skin as he knelt at the edge of the bed wasn’t foreign – he usually felt a little fear at the beginning of a scene – but it had never been so strong before. He wasn’t scared that Enjolras would overstep his limits or ignore him if he called it to a halt, but all of this was just so unexpected. His brain was still playing catch-up to reality. The rumpled duvet stretched out before him, dark blue and comfortable, familiar as his own face. Enjolras shifted behind him, and Grantaire sucked in a deep breath before bending down and pressing his chest and face to the duvet, grateful that he could hide his expression as he put his hands above his head. The bedframe was against the tops of his thighs, but the mattress was just below the level of his hips. Relaxing left him feeling too open, so he kept his muscles tight, holding his form.
“Good.” The bed dipped next to him, and Grantaire arched his neck and looked sideways under his arm, Enjolras’ leg close enough to touch with his elbow. Before he could shift further away to avoid that, Enjolras took one of his wrists in his hands and snapped a handcuff around it, the click-click-click slow as he tightened it, testing the gap between skin and metal with a fingertip.
Grantaire closed his eyes as his other wrist was enclosed as well, trying to focus on his position, the vulnerability of it. That usually helped, but tonight it left him cold. His handcuffs were cheap – Enjolras surely disapproved. But decent padded cuffs were expensive, and Grantaire was accustomed now to the bite of the metal and the bruises they sometimes left.
Would he be bruised tonight? The next meeting was only…two, three days away, he couldn’t quite remember. Close enough that any bruises from tonight would still be there by then. Would he be able to sit at the back of the Corinthe and press his wrists as Enjolras sat up at the front and ignored him? What did Enjolras look like now? What did they look like, Grantaire kneeling and cuffed like this, asking for Enjolras to beat him?
How would he live now, after this humiliation? As if he wasn’t low enough already in Enjolras’ eyes.
“Colour,” Enjolras said sharply, bringing him back to the present, and Grantaire licked his lips, tensed to prevent himself shaking.
“Green.”
“Good.” The crop’s leather tip touched his shoulder blade, stroking a line down to the base of his spine that made him shiver. “You have marks from your harness,” Enjolras said softly. Unsure whether or not to reply, Grantaire said nothing. Enjolras hummed and touched the crop to his other shoulder, tracing another line down his back. “How much of a warmup do you usually need?”
Ah, practicalities. He could do practicalities – he could be professional. He could do this, though his heart was in his throat and the sound of his unsteady breathing was magnified by the proximity of the duvet. Grantaire cleared his throat. “Not…not much, for the crop. As long as it’s on my back, not my sides.”
“Would you call this hard?” The crop thwacked down across his back, a horizontal line that made Grantaire pull in a sharp breath. This was happening, this was really happening, Enjolras was actually going to do this. It barely stung though, and he shook his head, a jerky movement.
“Hard-harder.”
It came down again in the same place, twice as hard. The sting lingered a little this time, and Grantaire nodded, angling his face away from Enjolras so his expression would be completely hidden. “That’s good.” He squeezed his eyes shut, twisting his fingers together so he wouldn’t clench his fists. “Build up from that?”
The crop came down again, again, again, three neat lines striped across his back, but the angle was wrong and the blows were missing the dip of his spine, the sting not symmetrical across his skin. Still, Grantaire screwed up his face and opened his mouth against the duvet, choking back a gasp as the crop smacked down across his shoulder blades once, twice, three times in the same place before Enjolras paused and tapped it firmly against the backs of his thighs.
“You need to relax. Breathe properly.”
He thought Grantaire was an amateur. Grantaire took several quick breaths and pressed himself into the mattress, letting the muscles in his legs slacken a little. He could do this, even if it left him feeling exposed in the worst way. Enjolras hmph’ed in grudging approval and the crop fell on his back once more, a stripe across the middle that made Grantaire tense up again immediately. “Relax,” Enjolras snapped, and god did Grantaire try.
The crop came down again and he trembled, pressing his forehead to the bed and squeezing his fingers so tightly one of his knuckles cracked. On a particularly hard smack he jerked, knees skidding on the carpet. “Wait,” he breathed – too quiet, and he hurried to follow it up. “Yellow, wait, I just need…fuck, fuck.” He laced his fingers together and pressed them to the top of his head. “Fuck.”
Enjolras was silent, his presence heavy just to Grantaire’s left. “I can’t do this,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet, hands still cuffed in front of him. “Sorry, I can’t, I can’t.”
“What’s the problem?” Enjolras asked, the sharp tone from before gone. He sounded so serious, but Grantaire couldn’t bring himself to check his expression, the humiliation of failure heavy in his stomach, shame twisting in his chest.
“It’s you.” Fuck, that was wrong. “Sorry, not like, you specifically, I just mean, I…” Deep breaths. He slipped a thumb under the cuff on the opposite wrist and looked down at the floor. “I can’t stop thinking,” he managed to get out. “I can’t get out of my head. There’s a reason I don’t do this with anyone I know in real life.” Subbing for anyone could be difficult, but going down for Enjolras? Debasing himself and exposing himself, opening himself up to degradation and embarrassment…he wanted to hide, he wanted to pretend none of this had happened, he’d already disgraced himself enough.
“This is real life.” Enjolras stepped in front of him, just a foot away. Grantaire didn’t look up, fixing his eyes instead on Enjolras’ left hand, which was still holding the crop. “What do you want? Shall we continue, or do you want me to leave?”
He had to choke back an instinctive cry of denial, and he lifted his cuffed hands to his face, digging his knuckles into his eyes. “I don’t know,” he burst out, furious at himself for making such a mess of this. “I’m sorry, I don’t know, I want…I don’t know, I just need…Christ. Fuck, I’m sorry.” He shook his head, dropping his hands with a disgusted sound. What he needed, now more than ever, was to be thrashed out of his fucking mind, but he couldn’t imagine asking such a thing of Enjolras. Even an Enjolras in makeup and red lace was too holy for such a debauched, embarrassing request. “I’m sorry.” His knees wobbled, the desire to fall to the ground at Enjolras’ and beg for forgiveness so strong that Grantaire almost followed it through.
“Grantaire.” Enjolras’ hand, the empty right one, skidded fingers up his arm before grasping his shoulder. The shock of it stilled Grantaire completely, his eyes fixed on Enjolras’ boots. “Grantaire,” he said again, quietly. “Do you trust me?”
Grantaire had to bite his lip, a yes already in his throat. Of course he trusted Enjolras. He’d always trusted him, even before he knew anything about him. It was one of the many things Enjolras inspired in him – he had only to ask, and Grantaire would obey. He’d just never asked before.
He was asking now.
Grantaire blinked rapidly, then nodded. “Yes,” he whispered.
Enjolras’ hand was warm and dry on his bare skin, and after a moment it slid sideways, slow and certain, and something hot flared in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach when Enjolras spread his hand across his neck and pressed firmly against his throat. His thumb and index finger fit perfectly under the bones of Grantaire’s jaw, tilting it upwards even as his palm pressed forward against Grantaire’s windpipe.
It was uncomfortable, the pressure insistent and harsh, and Grantaire sucked in a shaking breath as Enjolras pushed his head back with just his thumb and forefinger against the hinges of his jaw. His eyes jumped up to the ceiling and skittered around, searching for anything to fix on, anything but Enjolras in front of him, taking up so much of the view.
“Colour.” Enjolras’ voice was deep, and Grantaire swallowed, the motion so much harder than usual with Enjolras’ hand against his throat.
“Green,” he whispered.
“You will either look at me or close your eyes,” Enjolras told him, no room for disobedience. Grantaire’s fell closed immediately, the darkness a relief even as the uncertainty made goosebumps break out over his arms and back. He wanted to please, wanted Enjolras to approve. “Good.”
When was the last time he’d been choked? A long time – he vetoed it usually, because bruises on his neck were too difficult to hide, but Enjolras’ grip was just right. Hard enough that he could feel the restriction of blood flow in his face, under his eyes, but loose enough not to make even the faintest bruise. The pressure was too spread out for that, Enjolras’ fingers tightest against the side of his neck. He swallowed again to feel the discomfort in his windpipe, eyelids fluttering as Enjolras adjusted his grip afterwards, every part of his hand touching Grantaire’s skin.
Enjolras moved, and Grantaire felt his right shoulder brush, then press against what had to be Enjolras’ chest, the lace soft and warm. Enjolras’ other hand pressed his tailbone, something bumping against the back of his thigh – the crop, Enjolras must have looped it round his wrist – and Grantaire straightened at Enjolras’ push. His breathing quickened as Enjolras dragged his knuckles up his spine to his shoulder and pressed down. Grantaire hadn’t even realised they’d been hunched.
“Relax,” Enjolras told him. “Just focus on the sensations, not who’s giving them to you. Colour?”
“Green,” Grantaire breathed, eyes tight shut, fingers twitching at the way Enjolras had phrased the order. He was being given these feelings. They were freely offered, Enjolras wanting nothing but his natural reactions to them. The crop bumped his back as Enjolras moved his hand to the back of Grantaire’s neck and pushed at the base of his skull, forcing his head down. The movement pushed him forward onto Enjolras’ other hand, cutting into his air supply. He had to open his mouth and gasp to breathe, unable to budge an inch with Enjolras holding his head so firmly.
“Colour?” Fuck, he sounded so close, his mouth couldn’t be more than a few inches from Grantaire’s ear.
“Green,” he gasped, barely audible.
“Good.” Enjolras held him there for a while longer, adjusting his grip and the amount of pressure he was exerting in subtle, brilliant increments. Grantaire could feel every shift of his fingers, the heat of his chest against the back of his own shoulder, the crop a cool, thin line against Grantaire’s naked back. Then, Enjolras moved and let go of the back of his head, gripping his neck harder to make sure he didn’t pull away. “Colour?”
Grantaire swallowed a couple of times before answering. “Green.”
“Good. I’m going to use the crop on your thighs. Still green?”
“Yeah, yes.” Grantaire couldn’t let his head loll without cutting off his air supply, but it felt like Enjolras’ was holding him up with the hand on his throat, like he was floating half a foot off the ground and Enjolras was keeping him in place.
The crop smacked into the back of his thighs hard enough to bring him back to earth with a gasp, his chin jerking up and eyes flying open. Enjolras twisted his hand immediately, digging his fingers in and pressing with the ball of his thumb to keep the pressure against Grantaire’s throat as he hit him again. Even through the trousers, it stung. Enjolras let him breathe for two seconds before squeezing his neck to get his attention.
“I’m going to give you eighteen more. I want you to count them for me – can you do that?”
He could do fucking anything. Grantaire nodded as best he could and croaked, “Yes.”
“Good. From three.” The crop whistled through the air and slammed into his thighs, so hard he jerked forward.
“Three,” he whispered, closing his eyes again to concentrate on the pain. Thwack. “Four.” Fuck, this was good, if Enjolras could hit this hard with a crop, Grantaire could only imagine him with a cane. Thwack. “Five.” Enjolras’ hand was squeezing his neck tightly, stopping him from going anywhere. Thwack. “Si-ix.”
“Breathe,” Enjolras reminded him, stern, and twisted further to Grantaire’s side, pressing his arm against Grantaire’s chest, pulling him against his body as he brought the crop down again. Thwack.
“Seven,” Grantaire rasped. Enjolras adjusted the angle again and struck – thwack – and Grantaire had to take a breath before gasping, “Eight.”
On fifteen, his voice broke, but his breathing was steady and his posture was more relaxed than it had been all night, the pain radiating from his thighs and throat. Enjolras didn’t let up for a second. Thwack. Grantaire let out a soft grunt. “Sixteen.” Thwack. “Ah…seventeen.” Thwack. “Fuck – eighteen.”
“Another for swearing,” Enjolras said, voice close enough to make a sound of surprise slip from Grantaire’s abused throat. Thwack.
“Nineteen,” he managed. Thwack. “Ah…ah…” He had to breathe, just for a second.
“Grantaire?”
“Twenty,” he whispered. He felt Enjolras’ huff of approval against the side of his face and gasped at the strength of the final thwack. “Twenty-one,” he croaked. Through his leather trousers, the blows had been muffled, but after twenty-one hard hits, the backs of his thighs were hot and sore, chafing against the material when he shifted.
“Colour?” Enjolras checked, loosening his grip on Grantaire’s throat at last and pushing his face up to look at him. Grantaire kept his eyes closed. Looking at Enjolras now might ruin what good work he’d managed to achieve with the crop. With his eyes closed, he could half-pretend Enjolras was just another dom.
“Green.”
“I’m going to put you back on the bed.” Enjolras put an arm around him, turning him around. Grantaire opened his eyes a crack, just enough to watch where he was going. “This time I’ll hit your back. Still green?”
“Very green.” Grantaire knelt without prompting, baring himself with far more ease than he had before. His thighs burned, and he couldn’t wait for his back to be warmed up as well. Enjolras stood behind him and nudged his legs.
“Feet together, knees apart. Hips on the mattress – better. Hold one wrist with your opposite hand.”
“Why?” Grantaire mumbled as he obeyed. His new position forced him to relax and put all his weight on his chest, and he made himself take steady, if shallow breaths. Standing had been so much easier.
“It makes a better picture, and gives you something to hold. Are you ready?”
“Mmhm. Hit me.”
Enjolras snorted, and a tiny smile flickered across Grantaire’s face, hidden against the duvet as he hugged the knowledge tightly to himself. Enjolras was pleased with him. It lasted only a second – Enjolras brought the crop down just to the right of his spine, vertically this time. He must have been standing either side of Grantaire’s legs. “Count out nineteen more,” he ordered, and let Grantaire take a deep breath before lifting the crop again.
Thwack. The point of impact was much smaller than it had been across his thighs, and Grantaire squeezed his wrist. “Two,” he breathed, and so it continued. Eighteen more strikes, with Enjolras getting the hang of angling them to leave longer marks, crossing them either side of Grantaire’s spine to make what he imagined must be V shapes. The pain was stinging and glorious, hot enough to make Grantaire moan on the last few hits, unable to stop them slipping out. His self-control was sliding further and further out of reach with every whack of the crop against his skin.
“Twenty,” he sighed at last, eyes closed and body completely slack.
“Colour?” Enjolras asked, voice low and distant.
“Green.” Grantaire pressed his face against the duvet and let out a long, satisfied sigh. “Will you use the flogger?” he asked quietly, turning his head so Enjolras would hear him properly.
“Do you want me to?” Enjolras moved, stepping to the side so Grantaire could see his legs as he leaned forward, his fingertips pressing into Grantaire’s back a moment later. His nails followed, digging into the flesh, and when Grantaire sighed again, he dragged four stinging lines right down to Grantaire’s belt, making him arch his back and hiss.
“Please,” he gasped, all sense of propriety gone, leaving only desperate greed for more behind.
“Alright.” Enjolras scratched him again, four matching lines down the other side of his back before he stood up again. “I’m going to give you twenty, but I’ll count this time. Colour?”
“Green.” Grantaire’s back glowed, ready for more. His flogger was the only kinky thing he’d splashed out on, one of his few good investments. It was a black, braided cat o’ nine tails that never failed to break him down when he was ready for it. And fuck, had Enjolras prepared him for this moment, this indrawn breath and tingle of anticipation, the instinctive tense as Enjolras stepped back into position and dangled it over his back. The tips danced against his overheated skin, almost tickling, and he pressed his forehead to the duvet and concentrated on breathing.
“How hard do you want it?” Enjolras asked, casual, swishing the flogger in a lazy rhythm back and forth. Grantaire squirmed, digging his fingernails into his wrist.
“Hard, while I’m warm. Please…” He hid his face again, not wanting to beg.
“Colour.”
“Green.” Muffled, but clearly audible. Enjolras lifted the flogger away and swung it. Grantaire couldn’t stop the gasp that slipped out at the impact, the weight and spread so different from the crop. It hadn’t been particularly hard, but before he could complain, Enjolras was swinging again. This hit was harder, and Grantaire let out a shaky breath, arching against the bed. This was what he needed, the bite of the flogger, wielded by someone who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him.
Thank fuck Enjolras hadn’t asked him to count. Grantaire lost himself in the sensation of it, the steady rhythm of whack, hiss, swish, as the flogger slammed into his back, the braids ghosting over the mark as Enjolras lifted it away, and the barely-there swish as he swung it down again. Somewhere in there he started to moan again, gasping after every strike, loosening his grip on his wrist and spreading his arms to feel the cuffs dig into him, anchoring him. His knees slid slowly outwards but met with resistance before he could go too far – Enjolras’ feet against his shins, keeping him in place.
“Fuck,” he groaned, shuddering as the flogger’s tips bit his side. “Fuck, yes, ahhhhh…” Swish, whack. “Ahhhhh! Oww, fuck, ow…”
He was sweating and panting when the rhythm finally ended, and he heard the flogger fall to the bed a moment before Enjolras pressed both his palms against his shoulders, pushing him down. Grantaire went limp, head turned to the side so he could breathe. “Colour?” Enjolras asked, sounding a little breathless but still very much in control.
“Green,” Grantaire whispered. Enjolras slid his palms down, the friction dragging out a groan Grantaire was way too far gone to care about. “Fuuuuck.”
“You took that very well.”
And shit, Grantaire had to hide his face again, praying that Enjolras wouldn’t be able to tell what those artificial words of praise were doing to him. He swallowed, pushing down the odd sensation in his chest. “You can fuck me if you want,” he mumbled, not quite able to thank Enjolras properly.
Enjolras ran his hands down Grantaire’s back again, gentler this time. “Not tonight. We’re done, okay? Can you sit up for me?”
“Mmhmm.” Grantaire took a deep breath and pushed his arms against the bed, shoving his torso up. His back was on fire.
“Do you have anything for this?” Enjolras ran a hand across his shoulders, and Grantaire’s head dropped forward, an instinctive gesture of subservience. “Grantaire.” His fingers pressed the back of Grantaire’s neck. “Do you have any lotion or something?”
“No.” Grantaire closed his eyes, resting his hands on his knees. Fuck, he was light-headed. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Enjolras knelt behind him, hands steady on his shoulders, and Grantaire sighed, slumping under the unspoken permission to relax. It was okay now. The jittery, tense feeling that had been bugging him all day was gone, beaten out of him. All he wanted to do was sleep.
And Enjolras would leave.
Enjolras had dominated him. Grantaire swayed, breath hitching. One of the hands on his shoulders squeezed, both of them letting go as Enjolras got to his feet. “I’m getting you a drink, okay? Do you want something to eat?”
“Water,” Grantaire murmured, letting his elbows fall apart, the cuffs pulling him back to himself a little. “Please.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Grantaire opened his eyes and blinked slowly, head swimming. Everything was so hard and tight, his trousers sticking, his thighs aching, his back throbbing. He just wanted to skip ahead to pyjamas and bed, and not think about why Enjolras didn’t want to fuck him.
Enjolras returned with a glass of water, and he uncuffed Grantaire before handing it to him. Grantaire couldn’t look at him. He was a hair’s breadth from subdrop as it was. The last thing he needed was to focus on the fact that Enjolras had just flogged him hard enough to make him moan and swear, hard enough to make him writhe in desperation.
He’d never even suspected this. Enjolras was always so disapproving of the time-wasting aspects of sex and dating, so upright and chaste. And here he was, on the floor next to Grantaire, making sure he finished his water before helping him to his feet and undoing his belt for him. Grantaire’s fingers were too weak, his strength completely drained, and he closed his eyes again as Enjolras unbuttoned his trousers and unzipped his fly.
This was unreal.
“I’ve got it,” he managed to whisper before Enjolras could go further. He’d invited the guy to fuck him not ten minutes earlier, but suddenly the idea of Enjolras seeing him any more naked than he was already was unbearable.
“I’ll be outside.” Enjolras squeezed his wrist and left. It took a full minute for Grantaire to struggle out of his trousers and into his pyjama bottoms, and he had to sit down afterwards, too drifty to stand.
“Enjolras?” he called, distantly aware that he couldn’t fall asleep yet.
Enjolras came back in – he really had been waiting just around the corner. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Grantaire tipped his head back and finally opened his eyes to look at Enjolras properly. His makeup was smudged, but he didn’t look any less beautiful. Tall and stern and patient, waiting for Grantaire to speak again. “I’m good,” he muttered. “Thank you.”
Enjolras nodded. “Do you need anything else?”
Grantaire shook his head. “Tired,” he breathed, no energy to even talk properly. “Just tired. I’m good.”
“I’ll lock the door on the way out. Is Marius back tonight?”
“Morning. Not an amateur,” he reminded Enjolras, eyelids drooping. “I’m fine, I promise.”
“Okay.” Enjolras waited a beat, then dipped his head. “See you later then.” He turned, and Grantaire watched him leave. The living room light went out, and the front door opened, then closed. Grantaire took a fortifying breath, then forced himself to get up and close his bedroom door, hitting the light switch with his forehead and plunging the room into darkness.
Falling into bed hurt until he shifted to lie on his front, bare back uncovered by the duvet. It was so sore, hot to the touch, and he wished distantly that he’d thought to set up a camera. Usually he asked whoever had dealt the marks to take photos, but the idea of asking Enjolras that was enough to make him press his face into his pillow and groan.
He was too tired to think anymore, which was exactly what he’d wanted. His brain was too busy focusing on the ever-present pain of his back to do much else, and Grantaire drifted off to sleep not long after.
In the morning, he was woken up by Marius knocking on his door, then opening it and looking in. He knew Grantaire rarely let anyone stay the night. “Hey, I just got back. You okay?”
“Mmmm.” He’d rolled onto his back during the night, and it chafed against the sheet as he sat up, wincing as his thighs also made their bruises known. “Owww, fuck. Yeah, I’m good. How was date night?”
Marius broke into a huge smile – his Cosette smile, as Grantaire had taken to calling it. “Wonderful. That Italian place you told us about was perfect, by the way. The pizza was incredible.”
“Right?” Grantaire grinned, waking up a little. “What else did you have?”
“Cosette had some sort of seafood spectacular.” He pulled a face, and Grantaire laughed.
“Feeling sorry for the shrimps again?”
“They look so alive,” Marius sighed. “Anyway, I’m making coffee – do you want any?”
“Yeah, please.” What would he do without Marius? He’d been worried when they first moved in together, sneaking around in the hope that Marius wouldn’t notice what he wore sometimes when he went out, hiding his gear away so that Marius wouldn’t ever see it and ask awkward questions. All wasted effort made obvious when Marius had expressed his confusion over Grantaire’s lack of reaction to the record-breaking sales numbers of the French translation of Fifty Shades of Grey.
“Shouldn’t you be more upset?” he’d asked, frowning. “I mean, I thought people who actually did this stuff hated the way the book portrayed it.”
Grantaire had almost died choking on his coffee. Apparently he was not as subtle as he thought.
It was better that Marius knew though. Whether it was through instinct or because he’d researched it, he was always more present in the days after Grantaire had been subbing. He tended to work from home a lot anyway, but it was always in the living room if he thought Grantaire might need him close by.
Usually it was unnecessary, but it never failed to make Grantaire smile. He dreaded the day when Marius inevitably moved in with Cosette and left him to find another flatmate even half as decent.
Today, however, he was feeling a little shaky. After he’d showered, he changed into his softest t-shirt and curled up on the sofa with a book. He always read the most on days like this, his brain able to actually focus for once on something for longer than an hour. Marius sat in his usual place at the kitchen table, tapping away on his laptop with his dictionaries a fort around him. Weak sunlight pooled in narrow rectangles on the floor as the sun rose up, and Grantaire dozed off again before it was gone.
The drop finally came that night in the bathroom as he examined his back in the mirror. He hadn’t bruised at all on his thighs, having been beaten through his trousers, but there were good marks on his back. Enjolras had obviously figured out that he liked the force concentrated on his shoulders, and the bruises there were turning dark blue, spots of it blooming amidst the paler yellow and greens barely visible through Grantaire’s tan.
He stared and stared, drinking the sight in, remembering the way he’d shuddered under every blow and moaned for more.
Enjolras had done this to him.
He shivered, suddenly cold, and his chin trembled as he thought of Enjolras – the normal Enjolras, not the strange, new version he’d met at the club. Enjolras in his usual jeans or dark trousers, t-shirt and maroon jacket. Enjolras wrapping his long fingers around the ceramic travel cup he always arrived at meetings with. Enjolras’ small smile as he listened to his friends talk, voice steady and unwavering when he joined in.
That Enjolras had come to Grantaire’s bedroom and wrapped a warm hand around his throat. Enjolras had watched Grantaire come undone, made him breathless, made him desperate.
Grantaire’s chin trembled, and he sank to the floor, suddenly unable to bear the sight of his own body in the mirror. What would Enjolras do, the next time they saw each other? Would he say anything? Would he smirk, raise a knowing eyebrow, rake his eyes over Grantaire’s body and ask a pointed question about sitting down?
He wouldn’t, not Enjolras, but he would still know. He would still know what Grantaire looked like when he was at his most pathetic and disgusting. He knew, and there was no taking it back.
Grantaire covered his face with his hands and stifled a sob, chest shaking. What had he done?
It didn’t last long, maybe ten minutes at most, but he went to bed cold and miserable, shame crawling under his skin. The meeting was tomorrow evening, and he had no illusions about his attendance. Even if he could conjure up an excuse at such short notice, he had no real desire to. He was too much an addict, craving an evening of companionship and friendly chatter. And he always looked forward to basking in Enjolras’ warming company, however distant it was.
His last thought before he drifted off was of desperation. If what he and Enjolras had done had ended the way Enjolras’ mere presence lifted him up, he was ruined. He would have traded what tragically amounted to the highlight of his week for a night of indulgence. He would have disgraced and humiliated himself for nothing.