The sex was always the best part. Really, it was all their relationship (if one could even call it that) consisted of, but it was something. Grantaire didn't know where this started; he didn't know why he continued this either.
With Enjolras' body writhing beneath him, shining with sweat and open to him, Grantaire could pretend there was nothing wrong with this, that he wasn't being used as nothing more than an item for sex, functioning only as a form of relief for their fearless leader. He could pretend Enjolras came here just to be with him, not just for a rough fucking in his ungiving mattress. He could pretend the hollow praises Enjolras was moaning and all but shouting against his lips were hearty and filled with genuine adoration, not just shells of ecstasy freed from the blond's throat. He could pretend this wasn't about lust and wanton, but about love- as if Enjolras came to Grantaire for Grantaire, and not to sate his own sexual hunger with a man he knew wouldn't refuse.
He'd thought about doing so before. He always told himself he would too. That when Enjolras came marching through his door, fearsome eyes blazing with flames of sexual want, he'd be able to look away, out the dirt-smudged panes of his window, and tell him he didn't want this, tell him he should find someone else to whore themself out to him.
He knew Enjolras would understand. Though demanding and piercing in stance and words, he never proceeded with anything unless given a sign from Grantaire, whether that sign be from his voice or body. He'd even stopped a few times, when cracks in Grantaire's words and self made it clear that he should. He did what he wanted, but only if Grantaire told him it was what he wanted too. If Grantaire uttered a simple 'no' and told him to leave, to stop coming back, he knew the other man would listen, and part of him didn't want that, because while it meant he'd no longer be using Grantaire for his willingness, it also meant he'd find another, maybe even more willing.
Sometimes knowing that he could be replaced so easily scared him, and it hurt more than what they had now, this repeat of meaningless sex. But there were still times when Grantaire decided he still needed to say something, show some self preservation, feign a little dignity. He'd decide to be unpassing then, on those rare times he thought he didn't deserve to be treated in such away, but to be loved with as much passion as he loved, even if Enjolras couldn't be the one to give that to him.
The resolve always left him when he had the blond all but charging through his door, eyes asking and waiting for permission to be given what he came for. He just couldn't refuse him, couldn't refuse himself of this.
Even if it was for a only a short while, Enjolras was his during the time they spent in the bed (and occasionally on the wall or floor), needing and begging to have all of Grantaire, to be filled and ravaged, as if Grantaire were the only person he could be satisfied by.
Enjolras didn't stay long. He used to, those first few nights when the air was heavy with their panting gasps and the smell of sex and sweat. Sometimes Grantaire would collapse on top of him, tired and elated from his orgasm, and Enjolras' hands (those ethereal, porclain hands) would linger on his body, a feathery touch on his hipbone. Then he would roll onto his side, because his bed was far to small to fit two men laying on their backs, and watch Enjolras stare with a studious and harsh gaze toward the splintered ceiling.
There was a spot in the corner where rain would find its way in when it fell too hard outside. It'd been leaking like that since long before Grantaire started living there, and he had neither the money to repair it, nor the money to move.
Enjolras was always quiet when they finished, looking like he was contemplating something as he stared heavily at the wood above, eyes flickering to the occasional drip in the corner on rainy nights. Those were the nights he stayed the longest- to wait out the pouring storm- and it was a night like that when Grantaire, being the foolish man he was, decided to break that silence.
He'd watched Enjolras as his breathing evened out and deepened, ribcage rising and falling with each breath. Grantaire had his back pressed to the wall, with a wool blanket offering as a buffer, and one of the blond man's shoulders against his chest. He propped his head against his arm, so he was looking down at the man's expression. Across Enjolras' chest, his arm was drapped, fingers splayed loosely on his aforementioned shoulder. Both reeked of sweat, and the dripping in the corner was especially persistent. Grantaire would need to invest in a bucket.
With the rain falling against his roof and window (and occasionally, his floor), Grantaire spoke low and bluntly, almost confidently, when he made his mistake.
"I love you."
He didn't know what he'd expected that to bring him. A returned confession mixed with idle kisses; a relieved laugh and wary press to his hand; some hashed promises of unity and love, lines that normally Grantaire would think shouldn't leave storybooks for all their overly-wrought cliches? Whatever he expected, it wasn't the reaction he got.
(Maybe a major part of his subconscious mind was encompassed in flashing red, signalling for him to stop, but Grantaire wasn't one to listen to well-placed reasoning, espeacially when it pertained to his own actions).
The steady gaze on the ceiling skewed as its holder jerked upright, into a sitting position.
Grantaire's arm was dumped off Enjolras' chest, and he looked off-balance with no room on the mattress to brace against with his palms. He gaped at the brunet, for too long of a moment, with a look in his eye that Grantaire couldn't place.
Shock was definitely there. Maybe a little bit of fear too? But there was something else mixed in... he settled on horror, because if Enjolras wasn'tutterly horrified, what else could he be? (Grantaire decided that maybe, that look wasn't so out-of-place).
Grantaire was gaping right back at him, from where he still lay on his side, unsure what to do with the placement of his arm now. He followed suit in sitting up, which in hindsight wasn't the best call to action, since Enjolras then ended up falling heavily to the floor. His bed wasn't big enough for two men to lay on side-by-side, so of course it wasn't big enough for the both of them to sit comfortably.
Sometimes he wondered if Enjolras would have stayed a little longer, responded somehow, if Grantaire hadn't effectively spurred him off the thin mattress.
His wonderings didn't matter of course: what was done was done. He'd fucked up, humiliated himself, and that was that.
Enjolras, graceful as he was, stumbled to his feet, muttering that he needed to leave as he stooped to pick up his discarded clothes, hastily pulling on a dark pair of trousers and layering his signature red jacket over an unbuttoned top.
He didn't even put his shoes on when he wrenched open Grantaire's door, leaving both himself, and Grantaire's floor, victim to the onslaught of rain outside. Not that the latter was a case for worry, there being a growing puddle in the corner of the room.
Enjolras slammed the door and braced himself against it, as if steeling in preparation for the walk that was to come. He was heaving, face red and hands holding far tighter than necessary to his shoes.
Grantaire swallowed. Then he swallowed again. "I just thought-"
He swallowed a third time when Enjolras put a hand up to stop him, but he wouldn't have continued anyway. What? What did he think, exactly? That this actually meant something? That he wasn't just a tool to use when the tides of Enjolras' libido lapsed too high?
Maybe his mind had still been clouded from his orgasm that night, because Grantaire had somehow managed to trick himself into thinking that there was a reason Enjolras did this with him, one that didn't have to do with how eagerly he'd bust a stitch to get Enjolras' body rocking beneath his own.
"Thanks. For the sex." And with that, the door was opened again, and Enjolras was gone. He didn't shut the door all the way, and it swung in the high winds, with more rain intruding on Grantaire's floor.
Two weeks later he was back, though at least he had the decency to look unsure of himself before their mouths were on each other, fingers fumbling between hard pressed hips.
/AN: Written for my very best friend, magicsintheair's birthday way back a few months ago 3
Neither one explained himself. Neither one said anything, save for the curling wails Enjolras made as Grantaire pounded into him, or Grantaire's own timely exclamations.
The two weeks between those night were a difficult blur now, overshadowed by regret clenched in the skeptic's gut and up-ended bottles. It was pathetic of him, this he knew, but he couldn't risk creating a bigger fuck up than he did that night, couldn't risk even trying to explain himself out of it through his regular biting jokes.
He was lucky Enjolras came back at all, in a self-deprecating way, but he didn't stay anymore. Only long enough to pull in his energy, gain control over his limbs so he could stride cooly out the door. Sometimes his gate was shaky or stiff, too eager to rid himself of Grantaire's company he was to lay with him in wait for the soreness in his muscles to subside.
Then Grantaire would be left laying on his soiled sheets, his own and Enjolras' cum still wet and thick on his body, muscles feeling worn and made of liquid. He'd stare past the closed door where the other had left, mouth open in as he panted for air, for words. Words asking Enjolras to stay. Asking him not to return.
He never said anything either way as Enjolras took his leave. It was through his silence that their forlorn relationship of casual fucking remained unchanging.