A/N: My conception of Enjolras is a healthy mixture of Hugo, Michael Maguire's beautiful voice, and Aaron Tveit's beautiful EVERYTHING. My conception of Grantaire is mostly George Blagden, but again, filled in with Hugo and Anthony Crivello. I don't quote from the text or anything, but my current copy of Les Miserables was translated by Julie Rose and published by Random House in 2008, and as this is the translation I've read most recently, it has been the strongest influence on my characterization.
An Argument in Favor of Sobriety
There were some definite downsides to being a drunkard. For one, your friends never took you as seriously as you might have liked, even when you were being perfectly sincere, and even when you were mostly sober. That was only a minor irritation though. Grantaire knew he was a bit of a caricature to the Friends of the ABC and he played his role in comfort.
The physical effects, on the other hand…Grantaire wasn't as fond of those. More often than not he began his mornings later than most young men his age, having experienced a restless sleep, with his head aching and feeling weak as a kitten.
Our story finds him on one such morning.
Grantaire woke slowly, with his mouth hanging open and his lips chapped from the noisy exhalations of the previous night. His curly dark hair was a tangled nest, much of it in his eyes. His throat was raw, and dry, and craving a drink, and the encroaching light of day was making a most unwelcome entry into…
Someone's room. Hm. He was pretty sure he'd never seen this particular one before. He'd never managed to coax his way home with someone so apparently well read (there were more books in the small room than furniture to accommodate them), which was an odd detail for him to fix on when all he wanted to see was a pitcher of water (or a bottle of something less innocent).
Grantaire sat up on his elbows and noticed that he was nude under the bedding. He had little memory of the previous night. Well, he remembered heckling Marius a little, and heckling Enjolras a lot, but after a certain point the details swirled together into a fog of drink. At any rate, an innocent night with his friends at the Café Musain rarely ended in successful romantic conquest.
Curious about whom he had fooled into taking him to bed, Grantaire forced his eyes open, despite the cursed light, and turned to look at his bed partner.
The other young man was facing away from Grantaire, towards the wall. He was a bit surprised to identify his slumbering partner as male, but only a bit. Grantaire had a bit more luck with men, but he rarely appealed to them when he was too drunk to use proper discretion. And he was almost sure he'd never bedded a man this attractive before; though he couldn't see the man's face, he could tell from the naked back facing him, the strong shoulders, the abundant golden hair, the slender neck, and the smooth, creamy skin, that this man was something special.
It was little wonder Grantaire had been drawn to him though. With those abundant golden locks, he must have looked something like Enjolras…
The sleeper shifted, and Grantaire let out a startled gasp that, thankfully, didn't wake the other man.
It was Enjolras. Though how different he looked in repose! Despite having spent many an idle hour mentally cataloguing the breathtakingly beautiful features of his friend's face, those same said features looked remarkably different in sleep than while giving a fiery oration. Asleep, Enjolras was still beautiful, but more in the likeness of a marble statue than his usual luminous godhood.
Enjolras. What was Enjolras doing in bed with a scoundrel like him? Not that Grantaire hadn't longed for this moment, quite the opposite. He'd just never expected to actually experience this. Enjolras. Beautiful, idealistic, passionate, determined Enjolras.
Ignoring his aching head and traitorous body, Grantaire leaned up a little more in bed and took advantage of this rare opportunity to study human perfection unclothed. He'd only been able to guess how exquisite Enjolras' body might look underneath his fashionably cut suits in the past, but with a thin sheet slipping down his waist, it was easy to confirm his previously cherished beliefs. A sculptor of the highest ability would be hard pressed to replicate such a figure in mere stone. The most carefully cast bronze could only hope for pale imitation. He was breathtaking, and accordingly he stole Grantaire's breath.
Grantaire cursed the particular bottle that had brought him past the point of coherence the night before. Try as he might (and battling with his tired head for the faintest of recollections was a painful ordeal) he couldn't remember much more than hurried, disjointed moments and fragments of encounters.
He'd kissed Enjolras. Oh, and Enjolras had kissed him! But which came first? Who initiated contact? Grantaire kissing Enjolras without being pushed away seemed just as unlikely as Enjolras initiating the romantic proceedings, and yet, one of those events must have happened to lead to this very morning.
That led to other conjectures. Grantaire did a quick catalogue of the particular aches he was feeling and tried to assess whether they were all related to his drinking excess, or whether some of them might have originated from a passionate bout of love making. His ass wasn't bothering him anymore than usual, so if they had engaged in the longed for and most intimate of embraces Enjolras must be the one with an aching backside…
And Grantaire couldn't remember it. Well. Clearly he was going to have to give up drinking.
Or, he'd try. Possibly.
His head was throbbing. Trying to force coherence from his fragmented recollections wasn't working, and beyond that, it was unpleasant. The night would undoubtedly come back to him in good time. It was no use chasing down memories that were remaining stubbornly hazy.
Grantaire lay back against the mattress, eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling a sense of wonder.
He'd been in love with Enjolras almost from the first moment of catching sight of the man. And Enjolras had remained stubbornly elusive, reserving his passions exclusively for his ideals. The Friends of the ABC mused about him in hushed voices sometimes; after all, the presence of a healthy young male endowed with incredible good looks who'd never so much as flirted with a young lady was a fascinating spectacle. They all reckoned Enjolras was celibate, and that much of his fire and energy was related to that disastrously unappealing lifestyle choice.
The more improbable courting his interest had seemed, the more Grantaire had been driven to do just that. It wasn't just a matter of looks, though looks had been what initially drew Grantaire Enjolras' way. Grantaire respected the young idealist. Enjolras had a sense of purpose and a way of sharing it that made even the drunken cynic, for short moments at a time, believe…
To put it simply, there was something magical about Enjolras.
Aware that the majority of men didn't seem to share his inclinations (in that, excepting beauty of some quality, Grantaire didn't have any preferences at all), at first Grantaire had been subtle about his feelings. He engaged Enjolras in conversation and did his best to catch his attention through flattery, irritation, provocation, or a mixture of the three. When they were alone he was less guarded in his attentions, but typically indirect, so as to keep what little dignity he possessed intact should Enjolras prove to be romantically traditional, or unromantic entirely, as was supposed. And, when he was sure no one would see, he found small excuses to touch the object of his intense fascination. Whether it was an innocent brush of fingers while passing Enjolras a glass or a book, or a positively indecent squeeze while being not quite as intoxicated as everyone supposed, Grantaire seized on any excuse he could find for physical contact with his unrequited love.
How perfectly fitting that he couldn't remember their night of passion, given how he'd abused his position of friend and confidante for caresses that never should have been his.
What had he said, what had he done to change Enjolras' mind about him?
He'd once suggested, while again using drink as a potential excuse, should his compliment have unintended consequences, that though Enjolras cut a fine figure in a recently acquired waistcoat, that his own figure would be Enjolras' equal if they were both observed unclad. He'd followed this up by asking Enjolras if he'd like the opportunity to confirm or deny this. Enjolras had actually struck him, and did so while believing Grantaire to be too drunk to be entirely responsible for his lewd behavior. As Grantaire had still been wincing from the blow a week after the fact, he'd opted to be less forward in future. He'd yet to hit on the proper strategy for wooing his love.
What in the blazes had he said? No doubt he'd need to say it again, daily if not hourly, to keep whatever regard he'd engendered in the brilliant but coldly aloof young man.
Grantaire was interrupted in his torturous and ultimately futile musings by his companion stirring, and making some soft little breathy noises as he woke. As odd as it had been to watch him sleep, it was odder still to see him wake. Blond lashes still resting delicately on soft, pale cheeks, Enjolras stretched a bit, and the sheet barely serving to preserve his modesty failed in the task entirely. Grantaire's eyes greedily drunk in the sight of his friend's impressive manhood, and he cursed his habits once more for rendering the memory of fondling that delectable flesh stubbornly obstructed.
Enjolras' eyes finally opened, and before they'd clearly fixed on Grantaire's troubled countenance his perfect pink lips were quirked in the barest and most uncharacteristic of chaste smiles.
If Enjolras looked at him like that every morning maybe Grantaire really would find the strength to quit drinking.
However, Enjolras' smile was short-lived, as he took note of his companion's unease. "Grantaire?" his voice was thick from sleep and, Grantaire noted with a pang of regret, raw from strain. Enjolras could deliver moving orations to the crowded streets of Paris and even be heard ringing out over the sometimes rowdy and bawdy catcalls of the Musain. Grantaire had never heard his throat sound the least bit strained.
What had they done last night?
"Grantaire, what's troubling you?" Enjolras asked. He leaned up on his elbows, so that they were more or less eye level. It was fortunate for Grantaire that Enjolras' eyes were just as lovely as the rest of him, otherwise he'd have had a job keeping his gaze fixed on them. As it was, it was an uncomfortable task and he would much rather have liked to look at the entrancing figure stretched out beside him.
"You don't…regret last night, do you?" Enjolras continued.
"Not at all," Grantaire blurted out, though truth be told he regretted aspects of it incredibly, chief aspect being his inability to vividly recall what must have been the best night of his life. "I just, well, that is…"
Enjolras leaned close and clasped one of Grantaire's hands in his own strong, deceptively slender one. His gaze was so focused, so intent. Grantaire's incoherence increased tenfold with that gaze fixed on him.
"Grantaire, you haven't changed your mind, have you? You still meant what you said to me last night?"
In blind panic, Grantaire struggled to the utmost for even a hint of what he might have said, but no recollection came.
Regardless, there was really only one answer to give.
"Of course not."
Appeased, Enjolras smiled that rare, heavenly smile once more, leaned up for a chaste kiss, and then dropped his curly blond head on Grantaire's chest. He was a warm, secure weight, and Grantaire could only stare at him in wonder as he reverently stroked the luxurious golden locks.
Whatever he'd said, he must have meant it at the time. Besides, he couldn't argue with the results.
