One day more. The words echoed through Grantaire's head as he made his way up the stairs of the Musain to the upper levels where many of the Amis lived in little apartments. Although the night was quieting down, there was still a low level of activity amidst the excited students and their followers. Combeferre, looking grave as always, was still scribbling away at some papers, while Courfeyrac alternated between darting around to keep spirits high and keeping particularly close to Jehan, quieter than usual. In one corner, Grantaire was almost certain he saw Marius's friend Èponine, trying to blend in by dressing as a boy. Grantaire paused on the steps to watch his friends and the bustle down below, an eerie sense of finality to the action.
One day more- but til what?
At the landing, Grantaire turned the corner, only to be met with a surprising sight: Enjolras, whom he'd assumed was somewhere in the hubbub downstairs, standing on the first stair and leaning up against a wall, eyes closed and body slouched. And yet, the onetime drunk mused, he was still the most beautiful thing in the world. Grantaire paused for a moment, not sure whether or not to make his presence known, but the other man saved him the trouble.
"Grantaire, is that you?" he asked, powerful voice rough with exhaustion and with the day's rallying cries.
"Who else?" Grantaire replied, tentatively stepping closer. To his surprise, a warm hand reached out to take his, smoothing a thumb over the callouses. Then Enjolras's eyes opened, wearily meeting Grantaire's. With his hair mussed from where the splinters of the wall had caught it, and the righteous anger gone from his eyes and posture, he looked for once not like some god of light but simply a man, barely more than a boy. Grantaire glanced furtively over his shoulder, checking to be sure they were alone.
"Enjolras?"
"Hm?" The leader was now engrossed with Grantaire's hand, turning it this way and that, frowning as if trying to figure something out or recall some fragment of memory just out of reach.
"We could die tomorrow, couldn't we?"
"Yes." The word was simple, matter-of-fact. Grantaire stopped in his tracks, caught off-guard by the frank reply when he had been expecting some grand, emotional little speech.
"Does that not bother you, Apollo?" Grantaire asked, pulling back slightly. Enjolras frowned at him, but not with any real anger.
"Of course it does, R," he said, the faintest note of irritation tinging his voice. "But we cannot live in fear. We cannot be defined by what we are afraid to do. Let others fear. We shall live while we can." With that, Enjolras took one more step forward, closing the gap between the two men, and pressed his lips to Grantaire's. Caught by surprise yet again, Grantaire couldn't stifle a rather undignified squeak of surprise. Enjolras pulled back slightly, smirking. The difference of one stair's height meant that Enjolras could look squarely in his eyes. "Speechless for once, R?"
"Putting my mouth to better use." This time, it was Grantaire who moved forward, forcing Enjolras to step back against the wall. He braced himself in place with one hand on the wall and the other behind him on the banister, while the leader in red cupped his face with both hands, pulling Grantaire in so they could be as close as possible. The kiss only lasted a few moments, but gave each man infinite joy.
This was the first time they would kiss like this, a desperate, quick, secretive expression of passion and love, wedged up against a wall with a battle brewing. But it would not be the last.
Each version of the moment was a little different from the last. Sometime Enjolras was blond; sometimes, dark-haired. Sometimes they were childhood friends; sometimes strangers until adulthood. Sometimes they wore simple civilian clothes; sometimes, formal dress; sometimes, military uniforms. One time, it was not a wall against which Grantaire held his love, but the wall of a dirt trench, which itched at Enjolras's back and coated his golden hair in a faint layer of dust that dulled its gleam (although he didn't actually mind). Once, it was Enjolras who did the leaning, pinning Grantaire against the wall for one final kiss before the men in brown burst in to take them away for their twin crimes of love and belief. And in another, Grantaire's hand rested on the side of a military vehicle in the middle of a war-torn former colony. When they broke apart, the challenging glares Enjolras shot at their comrades-in-arms could have turned a man to stone.
Every time, though, there was conflict and danger and even death awaiting.
Until there wasn't.
Until the day the clothes were the same, but the stairwell was not. Until the day there were not shouts of strategy and militaristic preparations going on below, but music and laughter. Until they did not fear being caught, but instead cheerfully continued as they were even as a friend pulled out his smartphone to snap a picture (and until one of them reached over to flip him off seconds after the sound of the camera click).
Until the lifetime in which every moment felt like their infinite reward.
A/N: I pretty much never write stuff like this, but yesterday an actor decided to completely melt the LM fandom with a series of pictures. Including the one that inspired this. If you're reading this, you know the one I mean. I'm usually a big advocate of keeping actors and characters separate, but that picture was an E/R prompt waiting to happen, and I couldn't resist. Hope it wasn't too awful!