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A nearby church chimed Vespers, calling the worshippers to reflect on the hours gone by, and thank God for those to come. Grantaire didn't hear the call of the bell, neither did he hear the call of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. His ears weren't attuned to such melodies. Instead, he lit another candle and sharpened his charcoal. Inspiration was a fickle mistress, one he never seemed to hold tight enough. She was constantly eluding him, slipping between his finger, trickling out of reach like a gentle rain. Her visits were few and ought to be celebrated. Grantaire blew gently on the wove paper and straightened his back to dominate the page. Slowly, the sharp tip of the charcoal resumed it's careful dance and, for a good while, it was the only melody filling the air.
It was Compline when Grantaire raised his head from the desk, grunting at the stiffness of his shoulders. He had heard the bells this time, and he had recognised the pattern of the chime. He had missed the ABC meeting. It was too late now, it must have ended. He ran a charcoal-covered hand through his hair, pondering on the gravity of his desertion. It sure wasn't the first time he was mission in action, but he could console himself with the knowledge that he wasn't an isolated case. If memory served, only Enjolras had been irreproachable on that point. No surprise there.
It didn't matter, Grantaire reckoned with a yawn. There would be other meetings. If he hadn't been with them in body, Grantaire had kept them close in spirits. He looked closely at his work. Joly, dressed as Ascelpius, was brandishing an elaborated staff in the air while a snake was winding along his arm. The toga would have to be redefined, but Grantaire was satisfied with the sketch. Next to Joly, Bossuet was nothing but lines, still waiting to be dressed. The artist had not yet decided on his fate or, rather, had fallen short of ideas.
Grantaire pulled back his chair. If the muses themselves wouldn't whisper in his ear, he'd let wine slur some designs into him. His lodgings had gotten darker with the loss of the Sun, and Grantaire lit up a handful of candles around the room to chase the darkness away. His knees cracked when he squatted in front of a wooden case, looking for a suitable poison to wash away his artist's block with. Any plonk would do, as long as the bottle was his. Problem was, most of the bottles weren't. Enjolras had once designated him as the Keeper of the Wooden Case, months ago. The title came with no riches or rewards, just the express order not to drink its precious cargo, under any circumstances. Grantaire didn't know what had possessed Enjolras that day, but he had sworn and stored the case ever since, staying dry of its content. Thinking about it, mixing his own unlabelled bottles to the forbidden ones had not been the most enlightened idea.
Grantaire let out a contented hum when he finally got hold of a suitable elixir. He remembered this one, bought at the Corinthe, just after a meeting. Hucheloup swore by the vintage, but Grantaire knew her stuff wasn't worth a dime. Still, he had bought a couple of bottle for a reasonable price, though more than they were worth. He had gone to fetch a corkscrew in his poor excuse of a kitchen when he heard a knock on the door.
"Grantaire?" he heard. His heart jumped in his throat. "It's Enjolras."
Oh, he knew. As though his voice ever left him! Grantaire put the bottle down onto the nearest table and tiptoed to the door. Surely Enjolras had come to lecture him about his absence. Surely, a bolt of righteous lightning was about to strike him down where he stood. Perhaps he should have drawn Enjolras as Nemesis, the goddess of retribution.
Bracing himself for the reckoning, Grantaire took a resigned breath and opened the door.
"Consider my unusual absence as a French leave," Grantaire announced loudly, leaning against the door frame.
On the other side of the threshold, Enjolras furrowed his brow in incomprehension. How did one's features managed softness and sharpness at the same time? Grantaire could have willingly cut himself against those graceful curves.
"That is not why I'm here," Enjolras said gravely.
Grantaire blinked, confused. If not his lax attitude, then what? Grantaire couldn't fathom Enjolras had walked to his door for the sheer pleasure of conversation, especially not with him. The stern tone wasn't to reassure him either. Perhaps had they taken advantage of his absence to finally kick him out of the ABC, once and for all. Could they do that? Grantaire doubted a trial could be carried out without the accused, but he felt his fingers tense on the wooden panel nonetheless.
"What do I owe the pleasure?"
"I came to retrieve the bottles I had once entrusted you with," Enjolras answered, casting a hurried glance over Grantaire's shoulder. "If they still exist, that is."
Grantaire felt his body relax at the simplicity of the request and stepped aside with an exaggerated bow and a twirl of his hand. He heard a slight huff from his visitor but paid it no mind. If anything, it amused him.
"By the bed," he indicated, pointing at the case.
Soon, Enjolras occupied the spot Grantaire had just left, knelt by the bottles, counting them gingerly. His arms crossed against his chest, Grantaire looked at him, trying not to think too hard about the oddity of the situation. Enjolras had never stepped foot in his humble lodgings. Had Grantaire known, he would have dusted of the floor a little and picked up the abandoned linens. The rest of the mess was under the cover of darkness, thank goodness.
"They're all here," he supplied, seeing that Enjolras was counting for the second time.
"I can see that," Enjolras agreed. "I take you added your own vintage? I remember leaving twelve bottles under your care, not fifteen."
"Hucheloup's vintage," Grantaire corrected. It wouldn't be said under his roof that he had anything to do with the poor quality of the product. "Take them. I have no use for them."
It was a lie. As long as he'd have a mouth, he'd have a use for them, but Enjolras already complained enough about his habits for him to lay it on thick. His guest lifted the case onto the bed, trying to sort the bottles in haste.
"Neither do I," Enjolras sighed, holding each bottle by a candle to determine their content.
Grantaire watched the long fingers with interest, tracing them in his mind, sketching them with envy. Enjolras' movements were too quick, never leaving him enough time to outline his hands completely. Catching himself staring, Grantaire focused on the bottles instead and saw their content gleaming by the flame. What he had taken for white wine now glistened with a bronze twinkle. Brandy? He had been storing brandy? Enjolras set the three additional bottles of wine aside.
"Are you relieving me of that torment of Tantalus for any particular reason?" Grantaire asked as Enjolras lifted the case once more.
Though he had intended it as a joke, he didn't see the hint of a smile on Enjolras' lips. If anything, he looked preoccupied, working at some great heoric scheme in the privacy of his mind. He had not even noticed a blonde lock had escaped his ponytail, blocking the corner of his eye. Grantaire, on the other hand, was very aware of it.
"Have you finally forsaken Rabelais's precepts? You no longer wish to be a healthy mind in a healthy body?"
Once again, no smile welcomed the flash of wit. Sure, Enjolras had always been a tough crowd, but there was no huff, no scold either. The leader of the ABC strode agitatedly towards the door. Grantaire felt his good humour shift into a dull ache in his stomach. Something was wrong.
"Alcohol consumes the minds of good men and flames alike," Enjolras finally declared, painfully earnest.
Grantaire furrowed his brow, lost at that answer. He tried reading between the lines of Enjolras' features, but his expression was illegible. He was at once excited, grave, confident and pensive, a mix Grantaire couldn't piece together in a sensical picture. Consumes... Flames... Fire?
"Are you going to burn those? Are you going to start a fire?"
A triumphant smile found its way to Enjolras' lips, at last. What fire? What was going on? What was he missing?
"We're going to bring light to the people of France," he announced proudly. "General Lamarque is dead."
By the candlelight, the smile cast the shadow of a sinister grin. General Lamarque was dead. Grantaire felt his knees weaken. He knew all too well what that meant. He had been there during previous meetings, he had listened. Not matter what Enjolras and the others could think, he always listened.
If Lamarque was to succumb to the cholera, the black drapes of mourning would be joined by the red flags of Revolution. As if, in coughing his last breath, the General had lit a rebellious fuse that had been waiting for a spark. Grantaire could see it, burning in Enjolras' eyes.
"No..," Grantaire whispered in disbelief.
He felt dizzy, but not in a way he was used to. He felt nauseous, but not in a way he was used to. Oh how he longed for the familiar dulling sensation of wine. He was far too lucid to handle this. Something had shifted in the cosmic fabric of the universe. Nothing would ever be the same. Grantaire needed to hold on to something not to be swallowed whole by this new and disorienting order.
No!" he repeated, louder this time.
Enjolras scowled at him, unloading his busy arms on a nearby chest of drawers.
"I don't expect you to understand," he declared coolly.
Oh, Grantaire understood completely! It was crystal clear to him. He knew Lamarque's death heralded the end of an era, and nothing terrified him more. Where Enjolras saw opportunity, Grantaire only saw ruin, an endless circle bound to repeat itself. They had had a Revolution, yet a new monarch was sitting on the throne. They had had rebellions, yet the people was still starving. Why rebel, then? Why spatter the cobbles with blood and feed the ogress of human greed, all for nothing?
"So this is how it ends?" Grantaire asked, his voice suddenly low and grim.
"Grantaire, this is how it begins!" Enjolras retorted firmly. "You sat amongst us for years! What did you think we were doing? Playing a game? We all knew this day would come!"
And yet Grantaire had always hoped it wouldn't, that their fire was just youthful foolhardiness, that Enjolras and the others would become scholars, defending their ideas with a quill, rather than a gun. Deep down, he knew it had only been wishful thinking.
"What if you're wrong? What if the rebellion fails, what then?"
If he had dared, Grantaire would have held on to Enjolras, anchored himself to him, but the fear of rejection kept him from doing so. Enjolras pushing him away would have left him on the floor, unable to get back on his feet.
"The people is ready! All they needed was a unifying force, someone to lead them, to help them to rise! The king is but one man! What can he do against thousands?"
"The National Guard is hardly one man!" Grantaire argued, trying to hide his distress behind a raucous voice. "They are trained! They have weapons by the thousand! We can't fight them all off!"
"I'm not asking you to fight, Grantaire!" Enjolras burst suddenly.
Grantaire almost felt the dust tremble on the floorboards. On the walls, the light of the candles flickered. Oddly enough, Enjolras' expression softened an instant after the echo of his voice had faded.
"No man should fight for a cause he doesn't believe in."
His resigned expression hit Grantaire harder than words or fists. Between his aching legs, burning lungs and bruised heart, he didn't know how he was still standing on his feet. Enjolras wasn't cruel by nature, far from it, but his disdain was sharper than a knife.
"All these years, and you still doubt me," Grantaire deplored in a whisper.
"Why wouldn't I? You jest and you mock, you scoff at the very notion of Revolution and you can't be trusted with a task!"
His words rekindled the sour memory of Grantaire's night at the Barrière du Maine, stirring the embers of his shame, still burning there, ever dormant yet never smothered. Grantaire looked away, unable to hold the disappointment in Enjolras' eyes.
"Then why entrust me with your liquid weapons?" he asked bitterly.
"Combeferre suggested they would look less suspicious if they were found in your possession," Enjolras explained.
There was something sheepish in his voice, an accent Grantaire had never heard from him before. Maybe was he ashamed not to have come up with the idea himself. All those months Grantaire had thought he was making Enjolras proud, staying clean of these bottles. He could bet Enjolras had not spared him a thought. His heart sunk lower.
"Then this is it?" Grantaire rasped, fostering a shout in his throat. "In a few days, you'll wake up, a gun in your hand, and you'll leave everything behind?"
"Someone has to!"
"And you will throw your life away?" Grantaire felt his voice raising, his terror coming out as anger. "You call me a gambler but you are no better! How can you be so eager to sacrifice everything? Doesn't your life mean anything to you?"
"If my death helps thousands of lives, no it doesn't! My life means nothing, it doesn't matter in the—
"IT DOES TO ME!"
Grantaire's roar swept away the rest of the world. There was no sound coming off Enjolras' mouth anymore, and it seemed as though Paris had disappeared. Enjolras and Grantaire were the only beings that remained, eyes locked, breaths still, turned into pillars of salt. The silence was ear-splitting. Grantaire could feel his every nerves jolting beneath his skin.
His back suddenly received the cold embrace of the wall behind. Two strong hands were gripping his shirt, tightly pinning him there. Grantaire was expecting a hit, a hand, a fist, whatever Enjolras had in store for him. Of all strokes, that of Enjolras' lips was the one he had expected the least.
His anger broke into surprise, his surprise broke into bewilderment. Enjolras's kiss had bound Grantaire to stillness, his stiff arms hanging limply by his side. Enjolras didn't need any weapons, he thought, if his lips could turn men into stone. As statued as he was, he could still feel the warmth of the body pressed against his, of the mouth greeting its sister. Unable to close his eyes, Grantaire admired the abandon painted all over Enjolras' face, the close lids, the arched, almost focused brows. The grip on his shirt tightened, and Grantaire could have sworn Enjolras was holding his heart.
The warmth took an abrupt turn when Enjolras pulled away. Grantaire's lips, still glistening from the embrace, shivered under their mingling breaths. The quiver ran along his body, bringing it back to life. His heart was throbbing on the brink of his mouth.
"Why must you always make things more complicated than they are?" Enjolras reproached in a whisper.
Grantaire let out a strangled sound, a poor excuse of an answer. The truth was, he was too speechless to come up with one. The ghost of that kiss was still dancing on his flesh, making him dizzy. Yet, he held Enjolras' severe stare. There was something deeper than earnestness, gleaming in those eyes. Grantaire saw an agony he knew well.
Slowly, the hands clutching his shirt loosened their grip. Enjolras lowered his gaze, pressing his lips together in a mortified expression. Fingers lingered over Grantaire's heart before the touch vanished, leaving him cold.
"My apologies," Enjolras said, trying to clear his voice. "I shouldn't have. I—I should go."
Enjolras made a swift turn, already aiming for the door, but Grantaire snatched his wrist in time to hold him back. He couldn't leave, not now, not after this!
"No," Grantaire protested softly. He was still panting from the breath Enjolras had taken away.
He didn't understand. He wanted to understand. He wanted to hear it from Enjolras' mouth and not from his longing heart. His eyes were heavy of long years of yearning, of disillusionment, of believing in nothing but him. Enjolras looked back at him. He appeared fragile by the candlelight, a frightened soul. Fragile and scared had never been words Grantaire had ever associated with Enjolras.
"Please," he murmured, sliding his hand down Enjolras' wrist.
Enjolras could have pulled his arm away easily, but he didn't. Noticing this, Grantaire pushed his luck further and wove their fingers together. Enjolras did not flinch, if anything, his thumb ghosted over Grantaire's knuckles. The lightest of touches could undo the strongest of men. Grantaire didn't count amongst those. He wasn't undone, he was consumed to the very last ember.
Not finding in himself the strength to pull Enjolras to him, Grantaire took a nervous step forward. Almost immediately, Enjolras' eyes shyed away.
"I have to go," he declared blankly.
Grantaire swallowed the lump in his throat. He could barely believe how close he was standing from the man he ached for. A real ache, that of his pounding heart, never ceased to remind him he was awake, that it was real. How could it be, though? How could Enjolras, beautiful, golden Enjolras have kissed him? He must have lost his mind. Perhaps was he still grieving Lamarque. Death had a strange effect on people. Yet, he clung on to the hand pressed against his, just as hard as he clung to his feeble hopes.
"Please, stay," he pleaded gently.
Grantaire had need of Enjolras, ever since the very beginning. The prospect of Revolution only sharpened the desperate craving. Revolts only gave two outcomes: victory or death. Both would strip Enjolras away from his weak grasp. A new Republic would have no use of a drunkard and Death... Death was void of all things.
"I have to go," Enjolras repeated, staring at their clasped hands.
"Do you want to?"
Enjolras' head snapped up, that pained and serious look back onto his face.
"My duties have nothing to do with my desires."
Desires. Grantaire couldn't ignore the curve of his lips as the word flew out of his mouth. He couldn't ignore the warmth of the hand in his. He couldn't ignore the pulse pumping through those fingers. With his free hand, Grantaire went to cup Enjolras' cheek. Lord, how soft he felt under his fingertips.
"Paris will still be there in the morning," Grantaire promised. "France is asleep. Time holds still for the night. Stay with me.."
Another second and Grantaire was back against the wall, Enjolras resuming the kiss he had abandoned on his mouth. Except this time, Grantaire's limbs weren't made of stone. They were alive, desirous, always craving more to touch. He wrapped an arm against Enjolras' waist, holding him tight against his chest. Their brushing lips were soft and warm, forever seeking to know each other better. For a while, there was no other sound than that of these sweet collisions and peaceful meetings.
Enjolras, surprisingly, broke that steady pace first, his tongue shyly grazing Grantaire's. Emboldened by that audacity, Grantaire retaliated, deepening the kiss further. His mind was so full of Enjolras it was unbearable. All he could think about was the weight of his chest, the melody of his sighs, the ambrosia he tasted on his lips. The flavour was more intoxicating than any liquor known to man. Grantaire had the urge to squeeze him hard, to make him his. If they could merge in one, Enjolras would never have to go, he would never leave. Stay with me. Stay with me. Stay with me...
Grantaire pulled away to look at him, checking that he wasn't kissing a drunken delusion. It wouldn't be the first time. But Enjolras was solidly in his arms, his cheek still soft beneath his fingers, and his warm breath still filling his lungs. Grantaire smiled at the thought, leading Enjolras to do the same.
Black streaks were smudged on Enjolras' cheekbones, faint lines sharpening the smooth angles of his face. Grantaire frowned before remembering the charcoal smeared all over his hands.
"What is it?" Enjolras asked, worried.
Grantaire waved his distress away by running his thumb across the tainted jaw, trying to undo the marking. It only made it worse.
"I've made a mess of you," he chuckled lightly, showing a guilty hand.
Enjolras' smile grew larger. Grantaire had only seen that grin on rare occasions, and never directed to him. It was a nice change, to have a God smiling upon him.
"Make a mess of me."
A delectable shiver ran through Grantaire at the words. Surely Enjolras didn't know what he was asking for. Or was he? A deep blush had spread on his face down to his swollen lips. Another rare sight. Grantaire wondered what colour he'd use, if he had to render it on canvas. Vermilion, perhaps.
He held his breath as Enjolras undid the buttons of his vest, undressing himself in front of his very eyes. Something flared in his abdomen. It wasn't real, it couldn't be...
"Paris will still be there in the morning," Enjolras said, though Grantaire felt it was more of a question than an affirmation.
Grantaire slid a finger under the strap of the leader's suspenders, toying with its resistance. He could feel Enjolras' expectant gaze piercing through him. He swallowed hard. Enjolras was expecting something from him, at long last. This time, Grantaire wouldn't disappoint.
"Paris will still be here in the morning," he confirmed, drawing Enjolras to him.
His mind split into two, one part focused on the kiss, the other determined to free Enjolras of his clothes. Still locked under the strap of the suspenders, his finger slithered along the fabric up until it met a collarbone. The strap fell down. The second soon followed. Freed of those strings, Enjolras' ardour flooded through his lips, his mouth moving south to reach Grantaire's neck. Overwhelmed, the willing victim let out a contented sigh, raising his head to the heavens. Who did he have to thank for this?
The exploration of his hands still daren't venture under Enjolras' waist. Grantaire had never considered himself to be a shy man, or even a delicate one, but the body he was holding wasn't to be rushed. It was to be worshipped. Thus he studied his waist, detailed his back. He could make out muscles under the fabric. He had an unquenchable thirst of knowledge for Enjolras' body. Eager to map it better, Grantaire pressed himself against him and was overcame by a sudden rush of pleasure. Hips against hips, he could feel Enjolras' hardened cock against his inner thigh. Judging by the sharp gasp that followed, Enjolras had felt his.
The pair shared a knowing look, a lengthy conversation condensed in a glance. Promptly, Grantaire guided Enjolras to the bed, almost lifting him off the floor. Their bodies collided on the mattress, desperate for proximity. They were nothing but bites, tongues, hips bucking, flesh seeking flesh. Stifling under his shirt, Grantaire took it off, shoving it to a corner of the room. Enjolras took advantage of that moment of distraction to tip Grantaire off balance, gripping his arm before rolling on top of him. The shock emptied his lung, leaving him breathless and at Enjolras' mercy. The thought was painfully arousing.
The poor lighting cast a shadow over Enjolras' face, deepening his eyes, outlining his lips. He was a charming chiaroscuro, standing halfway between light and darkness. Grantaire watched as Enjolras sat up astride him, his fingers hastily looking for the hem of his shirt. The piece of clothing came off after a bit of struggle, though Enjolras threw it aside gracefully. Taking a strangled breath, Grantaire lost count of his blessings.
It wasn't the only garment to hit the floor. Lifting his hand to his ponytail, Enjolras released a tide of long blonde hair, locks trickling on either side of his shoulders. Grantaire was mesmerised. In four years, he'd never seen the leader of the ABC without a ribbon taming his hair, not even once. He had pictured it, for sure, but some things were beyond man's grasp. Grantaire passed a careful hand through the threads of gold. Enjolras might not know it, but he had made him the richest of men.
They revelled in the heat of the other's skin, bodies flushed against each other. The thigh brushing softly over Grantaire's cock was driving him mad, making it hard to control his urges. His only consolation was knowing Enjolras was delightfully hard under his hand. As an orator, Enjolras had always had a beautiful voice. How pleasing it was to hear it waver, whimper under Grantaire's touch. The latter took a wicked pleasure in slowing his hand, making Enjolras arch his hips as a silent plea to get more. Thankfully for him, Grantaire was a generous man.
Wishing to hear more of those sweet sounds, Grantaire rolled Enjolras back onto the mattress. His lips promptly travelled down his neck, leaving a wet trail behind their passage. Enjolras' nipples were hard under his tongue, but Grantaire did not linger there. He had other things in mind. His hands carried on with their study. They sketched the furrows of their subject's ribs, the valley of his stomach, the well of his navel. They felt every hitch of the model's breathe, every frantic heart beat. So did Grantaire's lips. Who knew marble could tremble?
His chin settled on Enjolras' abdomen, he looked up, waiting for approval. Awkwardly lifted on his elbows, Enjolras frowned indignantly, his chest heaving in anticipation. Taking this as approval enough, Grantaire began tracing the demanding bulge with his mouth through the fabric. He felt a leg twitch under him and he fastened his lips harder, letting out a controlled hum. There was nothing controlled about Enjolras' moans however.
"Grantaire... Please..."
Eager to please, Grantaire left a cheeky kiss on the hump before pulling down the britches and undergarment restraining it. He heard a small gasp overhead, probably due to the sudden chill. It did not matter. Enjolras wouldn't be cold in a second. Grantaire couldn't help but take the sight in. Naked, Enjolras was both a discovery and an evidence. Grantaire had guessed the shapes and curves of his body, but was still pleasantly surprised by the reveal. He took him in hand and gave a gentle stroke. He made sure Enjolras was watching as his tongue flicked on the head on his cock. Grantaire felt him tense and shiver. Good. Above him, Enjolras kept strangling his pleasure, keeping it hidden in the back of his throat. Grantaire could hear him choke on love sounds. Determined to unknot the selfish tongue, he slid his own along the firm shaft and swallowed Enjolras down. A gasp of surprise echoed through the room. It only took a few bobs of his head for it to grow into an angel's chorus.
Enjolras was squirming and whining, subjected to Grantaire's touch. The latter took his task with utmost earnestness, using of his tongue, his lips and his fingers to conquer this foreign body. How he loved listening to the lustful whimper, how he revelled in the quivering thrill accompanying his name. He tightened his lips around Enjolras' cock, only getting started.
"Grantaire!" Enjolras cried, helpless.
Something warm flooded into his mouth, mingling with his spit, and Grantaire understood his work was done. Taken off guard, it took a second for him to regain composure. He straightened his back slightly and swallowed before wiping his chin with his hand.
"You've never done this," he observed, trying to catch his breath.
Enjolras glared at him, no doubt expecting a mocking remark, but there was nothing derisive in Grantaire, only surprise. Surely when Courfeyrac said Enjolras was indifferent to the pleasures of the flesh, he didn't mean―or did he? Grantaire contemplated the body laid bare in front of him, blushing slightly.
He got up to Enjolras' level, his head full of uncertainties.
"Never with men?" he croaked.
"Never with anybody," Enjolras panted out, turning his head away from Grantaire.
Being the first to worship Enjolras sent a shiver down Grantaire's spine. He could hardly believe it. There wasn't a girl in this world who wouldn't swoon at the sight of those blonde curls and, from his experience, there were many a man who would have lusted after the thought of Enjolras in their beds. The sudden fit of passion made Grantaire sickeningly suspicious.
"Why now, then? Why this? Why me?"
Perhaps Enjolras wasn't after him. Perhaps the fear of death had awaken something in him and led him to crave intimacy with someone, anyone. Grantaire had perhaps merely being caught in his lustful yearning, regardless of who he was.
"It's easier to push you away than pull you closer," Enjolras whispered solemnly, staring at a dancing flame at the other end of the room. "It's easier to brush off your compliments as drunken nonsense than to stay awake at night, wondering—"
Grantaire's rib cage struggled to tame his throbbing heart that was plunging against his chest over and over.
"On the balance of my life, my duties will always outweigh my desires, always," he continued.
"Then what changed?"
Enjolras finally looked at Grantaire. So much pain and seriousness shouldn't be so marked on such a youthful face.
"You're right. I may die, it is true. The rebellion shall succeed, but I may fall nonetheless."
He nudged closer to his lover. Grantaire could feel his eyes detailing his face, and he wondered if Enjolras saw in him as much beauty as he did, gazing at him.
"But if I am to die, I don't want the weight of my regrets to pull me down."
The atmosphere had lost its lightness. Something deeper reigned in its stead. Grantaire could feel a sharp sword of Damocles dangling over their heads. It only urged him to hold Enjolras closer. He would not convince him to stay forever, but he still had this night. Enjolras' taste was still lingering on his tongue when they kissed softly. Neither of them seemed to mind.
Enjolras shifted on top, half of his body lying on Grantaire's, lacing their legs together. The kiss was not broken that Grantaire felt a feather-like touch on the bulge of his cock. Muffling a gasp, he leaned into the hand cupping his crotch, cursing the presence of his britches. Enjolras' hand grew bolder and his touch more insistent.
"Do you think about me when you're alone, Grantaire?"
The latter gave a surprised whimper at the question. Enjolras' voice was shy yet dripping with lust.
"Yes.."
He wouldn't let Enjolras play this game on his own. Grantaire gave him his thumb to suck, watching mesmerised as it disappeared between swollen lips. They had turned crimson from their kisses, petals of a rose he couldn't wait to pick. The hand on his cock and the tongue around his thumb was enough to strip his sanity away from him.
"What do you imagine?" Enjolras asked as Grantaire pulled his finger away.
Grantaire held his gaze as he lowered his hand down Enjolras' back, fingernails grazing his skin.
"I close my eyes and I see you," he purred of his most lascivious tone. "I imagine you on my bed, waiting for me, already hard at the thought of me. Of us."
His fingers skimmed over the tender flesh of Enjolras' ass. Still damp of spit, his thumb slightly brushed the rim of his entrance. Immediately, Enjolras clenched at the touch, a wet sound escaping his lips. His hand, however, kept stroking Grantaire.
"I imagine how you feel," Grantaire continued, planting kisses on the neck of his shivering lover. "How you taste." He flicked his tongue on the hot skin. Under his thumb, he felt Enjolras relax into the feeling. "What you look like when you come."
He pressed his finger lightly against the entrance and saw Enjolras biting his lip expectantly, swallowing back a moan.
"Will it be as good as what you imagined?" he asked, struggling against his own pleasure.
"It'll be better," Grantaire assured.
"Take me, then," he urged in Grantaire's ear. A supplication more than an order, which, coming from Enjolras, felt both odd and alluring.
If words could strike a man down, those were it. Heart pounding, Grantaire gave his angel an avid kiss, biting the flesh at this disposal. He leant on the side of the bed, his arm swung over the edge. His hand groped under the frame for a few second before it closed around the bottle of oil he kept there. A few years of licentiousness had taught him the ins and outs of pleasure, and how to achieve it. Fully aware of Enjolras' inexperience, he knew how to proceed to make it smooth and as painless as possible. He handed the bottle to his lover, who looked at it in confusion. Free of his movements, Grantaire pulled down his britches and kicked them off, giving Enjolras another subject of contemplation. Staring at his parted lips, Grantaire vividly envisioned them wrapped around the head of his cock, sucking and licking, but promptly waved the thought away. It was greedy of him.
With an experienced hand, he gently pressed on Enjolras' shoulder to settle him on the mattress, as an artist settles his model for a painting. Enjolras would have made a excellent subject, lying there, his blonde curls spread on the pillow, his cheekbones ablaze, his body exposed. Grantaire would have had an excuse to look at him for hours. The artist spread his sitter's legs and laid a kiss on his inner thigh. He uncorked the bottle and coated one of his hands with the oil, the excess dribbling on the sheets. Once his fingers slick, Grantaire lay against Enjolras, his lips looking for his neck. He felt a blooming erection as his hand brush his lover's cock, but his continued his movement between his legs.
Enjolras quickly eased into the soft caress of Grantaire's fingers, his thighs shuddering deliciously against him. Grantaire revelled in the heavy sighs he could get out of him. His tongue followed the movement of his index, drawing circles on Enjolras' skin. Slowly, he pushed a finger in. He heard Enjolras inhale sharply. The oil smoothed the motion of his wrist, making the rocking of his digit easier. It took a short moment for Enjolras to start whining softly, his nails digging into Grantaire's shoulder. Amused, the latter slipped a second finger in him, curling them slightly. Under him, Enjolras squirmed, escaping a lewd moan. A stifling wave overcame Grantaire at the sound. He wanted to hear him cry out. To make him cry out.
Once he felt Enjolras relax into the feeling, Grantaire quickened his pace, working him harder. His head thrown back, his eyes closed, his lips parted, Enjolras looked out of this world, ready for rapture. Grantaire pressed a third finger into him, circling them lightly, making sure the flushed angel was ready for him. The nails on his back left a stinging scratch, but not out of pain. Enjolras was nothing but sheer pleasure.
Grantaire pulled out gradually, panting with anticipation. Enjolras was breathing heavily in his ear, making his movement hasty. He wanted him, he wanted all of him, always had and always would. He took another shot of oil and spread it on himself, the coolness of the liquid clashing with the feverish warmth of his flesh. Grantaire settled between Enjolras' legs and brought their foreheads together, burning gazes drowning in each other. Then, as softly as he could muster, his hand cradling Enjolras' hip, he pushed himself into him.
Enjolras's body grew tense beneath his touch and Grantaire saw the hint of a frown drawing on his forehead. Trying to put aside the overwhelming heat and enticing pressure he was feeling, he whispered:
"Do you want me to stop?"
In return, Enjolras shook his head slightly and pulled Grantaire closer, wrapping his arms and legs around him:
"No," he panted out. "Stay with me."
Hesitant, Grantaire gave a shy thrust, barely moving his hips. Still, the sensation flooded through him all the same. Enjolras' ragged breathing echoed his sigh. The second push was as gentle, though deeper, sending tremors in his hands. He felt eyes on him, detailing his face. It was a whole new kind of naked, to be observed like this. He kept his pace slow as to let Enjolras adjust to it. There was yet another thrust and Grantaire felt him tense around him, but not from discomfort, this time. The lovely whimper that followed was proof of it.
The timid embrace grew more confident and their movements more eager. Grantaire let his hips regulate his pace. His mind was too far gone to keep track. Enjolras hands never ceased to explore his back, over and over, fingers digging into his skin when he hit a sensitive spot. The heat of their bodies was unbearable, yet impossibly addictive. Breathless, Grantaire pulled himself out. The need to hold Enjolras closer was too great for him to keep that position any longer. Pins and needles were running along his arms.
"Grantaire..." Enjolras called, in a demanding, distressed sigh.
"I'm here, I'm here," he purred.
Grantaire shifted next to his lover, his chest pressed against his back. In the blink of an eye, he had wound his arm around Enjolras' leg and lifted it up slightly, easing his next roll of hips. He rammed harder into Enjolras, muffling his pleasure against the hot, flushed neck hanging under his lips. He could feel it vibrating under Enjolras' ecstasy. A few vowels, barely words, were dripping out of his lips, forming an incoherent mess Grantaire had not trouble to understand: "Yes", "Fuck", "R". As basic as it was, that vocabulary felt universal.
Enjolras' skin was shining with sweat, exuding lust and warmth. Grantaire could see the muscles rolling underneath his shoulder, the shoulder blade sticking out beautifully. He kissed it avidly, seeking to etch it onto his lips, to carve it there forever. His hands when to do the same, mapping thighs, cock, arms, stomach, chest, everything and anything Enjolras was. Grantaire felt a hand clasping his, and he held on tight.
The heat flaring in Grantaire's abdomen was eating him raw, firing his senses. He was going to come, he could feel his body craving release, screaming for it. If he was to believe the tremors shaking Enjolras, he wasn't the only one. Swiftly, Grantaire withdrew for the second time and rolled back between Enjolras' legs, taking him hard, escaping a carnal moan at the sensation. He gripped his hips firmly, his thrusts deep and rough. He watched Enjolras writhe and arch in frenzy, his lids fluttering, his body begging for mercy. It only took a brush of Grantaire's fingers over his sensitive cock for him to cry out. Enjolras spilled on his belly, his features tense for a second before fading into blissfulness. The angelic sight got the best of Grantaire, who came undone with shout.
Blinded by pleasure, Grantaire found refuge in the crook of Enjolras neck. He could have stayed there until the end of time, but then again, the end of time might not take too long, considering. The thought got him shivering. A hand began to stroke his back, as though Enjolras had sensed it. He leant into the softer embrace, letting delicate fingers paint invisible lines all over him.
The summer air may have been warm, but it wasn't without its nocturnal chill. A cold breeze soon caught up with the thin sheen of sweat covering them, making them retreat under the sheets. The linen was threadbare, but at least it was clean. Or, rather, it had been, before the two of them had interfered. Lost in each other's arms, the pair spoke only with the beating of their hearts and the heaves of their chests. More than speaking, they were composing together. It was a quiet, yet tender melody.
"Grantaire?" Enjolras called after a while.
Deft fingers pushed back a curtain of dark hair, uncovering Grantaire's eyes. He wasn't sleeping. He was keeping a close watch on the light.
"Mmh?"
Enjolras looked hesitant, his mouth pouting and parting only to close a second later.
"You once said that life was hideous, that you wished to forget it. Was it you or the wine talking?"
Grantaire frowned , trying to remember those exact words. They did bear his signature, no doubt, but he couldn't remember when he had uttered them.
"I did not know you took such great notice of my spiels," he teased gently, offering Enjolras a genuinely surprised smile.
He received a nudge in response.
"Has life been cruel to you?" he asked, suddenly earnest, as though he would demand accountability from life itself. "Is everything really so loathsome to you?"
Grantaire drew Enjolras silhouette with the back of his index, his caress rolling from the hill of a shoulder to that of a hip.
"Not everything," he answered simply, his affectionate gaze trailing the other way, parting from the sight of Enjolras' hip, gliding over the line of his stomach, up to his eyes. No. Not everything was loathsome to him. On the contrary.
Enjolras fell asleep against Grantaire, his golden crown lolled against his shoulder. Still, Grantaire kept watching over him. His lover was Eurydice's obverse; if he glance away, just for a mere second, his beloved would be taken away. So Grantaire gazed on, taking in the peaceful beauty of the sleeper and the calm rhythm of his breathing. For once, he did not wish to forget life. He wanted to suspend it, to keep it still. Enjolras sighed in his sleep and buried his head in Grantaire's neck. He still had a few hours before dawn.
The nearby church chimed Lauds. Grantaire needn't be told, he had watched the sky cloaking itself with its morning clothes. Enjolras stirred in his arms and he felt his heart ache.
Enjolras got up promptly, slipping on the clothes he had worn the previous day, the whole outfit scattered on the floor. Sat up against the headrest or, rather, the wall, Grantaire followed his movement with ill-concealed sorrow. Unfortunately, Paris was still here.
Recognising the look on his face, Enjolras sat next to him, giving Grantaire the task to tie his hair. Grantaire did beautifully, knotting the ribbon into a delicate bow, stroking the waves of the golden ocean one last time. Their kiss had the sour taste of goodbyes.
"I have to go," Enjolras whispered against Grantaire's lips.
"I know."
He forced a smile onto his lips. This shouldn't be a sad moment, he didn't want it to be. He rubbed his nose against Enjolras', seeking a bit of mirth left in those precious minutes.
"Go to your duties," he continued, assuming a light tone. "You've left them for too long. They must be worried about you. Can't you hear them calling? Enjolras? Enjolras?"
The latter huffed with a smile, his hand settled above Grantaire's. But as it was often the case with Enjolras, his joy often hid a serious air.
"Grantaire, if I die, y—"
The rest of his words crashed against devoted lips.
"It is too early for such follies. Stop this at once and go live another day."
Enjolras pressed a kiss onto Grantaire's forehead and left the bed. His arms were then loaded with the case of brandy that had sparked their encounter, and that would soon spark a whole different kind of flame. He looked back at Grantaire as he lingered by the door. He seemed to look for words, something meaningful to say but nothing passed the barrier of his lips. Silence is golden, as they say.
Alone in his lodgings, Grantaire laid on the spot Enjolras had just left for a while, as though looking for print, a spectre of warmth. With every curve, detail and muscle of the cherished body in mind, he got up and sat at his desk. He sharpened his charcoal.
He didn't draw Enjolras as Apollo. He wasn't Nemesis either, no more than Medusa, turning him into stone. Poor and sweet Eurydice did not appear on the paper either. Enjolras was Prometheus, bringing light to humanity. He was selfless and sacrificial. Grantaire couldn't keep him in his arms, but he could keep him close, alive and vivid on paper. It would never be enough, but it was all he had.
Enjolras was right, no man should die for a cause he did not believe in, but it was assuming Grantaire didn't have a cause worth dying for. He did. One he could reach and embrace. One he could lay on paper.
The sun was high in the sky went he finished his work. Exhausted, Grantaire just had the strength to sign it before plunging back into bed.
1er Juin 1832
Prometheus Burning
R.