"Sit still," Grantaire growled, using the back of his brush wielding hand to push his dark curls from his eyes.
"How long does this process usually take?" Enjolras questioned, resuming his former position. His back was beginning to ache and he longed to stand and stretch.
"You cannot rush art," Grantaire replied, a small smile of concentration gracing his lips. He narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing his work. "Who knew sitting still would be such trouble for the marble man."
"There are much more useful ways for me to spend my time than being your subject," he muttered.
"You must learn to appreciate the beauty in life, my preferred model. Painting the angles of your face is most precious work for me."
Enjolras swallowed hard and vainly tried to restrain the blood that flooded to his cheeks and neck at Grantaire's words. He gazed softly at the man from across the room. His bright blue eyes danced across the canvas as he worked diligently, alternating between gnawing on and pursing his lips endearingly as he worked. The dark mop of curls fell peacefully around his face, framing his high cheekbones and narrow chin. His eyes suddenly glanced up to meet Enjolras' own.
"What catches your attention, Apollo?"
"Watching you work so attentively is rather mesmerizing," Enjolras admitted.
It was Grantaire's turn to blush. It wasn't often that Enjolras uttered words of approval; he erred towards the critical side and was much quicker to inform people of their misgivings than offer compliments. As a man with high standards, he was not easily surprised or impressed, but Grantaire somehow managed to continuously catch him off guard.
"I hope you're as pleased with the result as you are with watching me produce it," Grantaire murmured, returning his brush to the canvas.
"I don't doubt your abilities," Enjolras sighed. "In fact, I believe you have much greater potential that has thus far, been left untapped. If you would just-"
"Forget it," Grantaire cut him off swiftly, without looking up from his work. "I have no desire to push myself to the point of perfection. Art is not about exactness. It is my form of expression, it is not meant to be clinical and precise."
Enjolras just shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn't understand the need for frivolous forms of expressing oneself. Sure he appreciated a quality piece of art or a thoughtfully written poem, but he had never experienced the desire to put brush to canvas or pen to paper to write any thing other than an essay or letter. He was a practical man with no need for things he deemed excess -pragmatic and altruistic rather than conjectural and indulgent. Conversely, Grantaire delighted in the soul enriching experiences in life possibly to alleviate the cynicism that was often his most dominant personality trait.
He found himself addicted to Enjolras' fire for it was the exact opposite of his icy manner –where his heart was consumed by flame, Grantaire's was rigid with frost. Though Enjolras was almost universally venerated, Grantaire was captivated by his very presence and often felt drawn in by some imaginary force. It almost as though the marble man had his own gravitational pull and Grantaire was merely a floating piece of debris swept up in his magnificence and power. Like the sun, he provided life and light in Grantaire's grey world.
Enjolras cleared his throat, bringing Grantaire back to the present situation. "You musn't waste time daydreaming, we have a meeting to attend in a few hours."
"If you never close your mouth, I will never be able to capture it correctly," Grantaire teased. "But maybe that is fitting; a two dimensional image would never be able to do you justice."
"Why is it that you think so highly of me, Grantaire?" Enjolras asked, suddenly serious.
"Everyone sees you as a valiant friend and fearless leader –anything, but foolhardy- and unbreakable as stone. You are so driven by passion, yet none of that enthusiasm is left for your personal life. One might say you do not even have a personal life. It is a shame that you focus so much of yourself on everyone else's problems while you are left to sleep alone every night. We've all had lovers, but you… you are not so selfish as to indulge in that way. I find it commendable, foolish, but commendable."
Enjolras went silent for several minutes as he processed Grantaire's view of him. "Why would you deem my lack of promiscuity as foolish?"
"Not your lack of promiscuity –your lack of affection. It is the people, not the things, in our lives that make them worth living. You keep everyone at arms length and spend your nights making love to patria. Perhaps, having a real person be an intimate part of your life would open your eyes."
"Open my eyes to what exactly?" Enjolras demanded, feeling defensive.
"To the many pleasures of life," Grantaire murmured simply, a small smile curling up the corners of his lips. His eyes never left the canvas, but he could imagine the haughty look on Enjolras' angelic face and it only made his smile broaden further.
Instead of wasting his breath to refute Grantaire's ridiculous opinions, Enjolras simply huffed and changed the subject. "Are you about finished?"
"Finished my analysis of your personality or finished my painting?" Grantaire joked.
"The painting," Enjolras growled his response.
"It will take time to complete all the details, but yes the essential outline is nearly finished."
"Good, so I can leave?"
"Be patient with me for just a few moments more, Apollo."
Enjolras grumbled, "You're wearing on my patience."
"And you on mine," Grantaire said, his voice still light in spite of Enjolras' argumentative tone. "Sit still please."
The blond man heaved a sigh and once again straightened his stiff back, his tension visible. No one had ever given him such a truthful and unsympathetic evaluation of his character like that before and he felt admittedly taken aback by Grantaire's opinions of his personal life –or lack thereof. Why should he care so much that he spent his nights in private company? Who was he to question his devotion to country rather than romantics?
"Relax your face," Grantaire instructed, breaking Enjolras away from his thoughts. In his pondering, he had furrowed his brow and pursed his full pink lips to form an expression that Grantaire loved to see in real life, but did not follow the mood of his painting. Enjolras' deep thinking face appeared often and was incredibly endearing to Grantaire who enjoyed watching the lines crease the marble man's forehead, for they had a humanizing effect that contrasted the unfocussed, stony gaze that came along with it. He wished to paint his eyes full of the light and passion they were capable of though because that was when he was truly angelic.
Enjolras shook his head to rid his mind of the questions surrounding Grantaire and plastered a serene look on his angular face. Both men went silent as Grantaire's brush flew across the canvas, but as Enjolras watched him, his mind began to wonder again.
"Why do you care about my personal life?" Enjolras blurted out.
Grantaire paused for a moment, staring at his work, before setting down his paintbrush and walking around the easel to sit just across from the blond man. "I believe you deserve to be happy," he murmured, "and fulfilled. You have deluded yourself into thinking that pouring your heart and soul into helping others has made you content, when really all it has done is distract you from what is desired by each and every one of us."
"And what is that?" Enjolras asked genuinely unsure what he was referring to.
Grantaire leaned in dramatically. "Love," he stage whispered, a teasing smile playing at his lips and a twinkle in his blue eyes.
Enjolras was suddenly painfully aware of Grantaire's proximity to him. His heart rate was inexplicably fast and he wiped his moist palms against his pants, feeling restless. He tore his eyes away from his and swallowed hard. "What is the point?"
Grantaire's expression softened as he examined the other man's profile. Enjolras was staring at his hands, which he was wringing uneasily in his lap. Grantaire reached out and placed his hand over both of Enjolras', causing him to stop their nervous motion and glance up, startled. Electricity flowed between their fingertips. There was a heavy silence for several moments as the two men just stared at each other.
"What time is it?" Enjolras suddenly asked, jumping up from his seat and yanking his hand away from Grantaire's.
"Around 7, I believe," Grantaire replied.
"We're late," Enjolras muttered, pulling his jacket on and opening the front door of Grantaire's apartment before turning to look back at him expectantly.
The dark haired man chuckled softly, shaking his head. He stood and grabbed his jacket, following Enjolras out of the room.
Enjolras lead Les Amis meeting as per usual, while Grantaire sat in the corner, a bottle of wine in his hand, also as per usual. He took a swig and watched as Enjolras waved his arms around erratically as he spoke. As the night went on, the blurrier his vision got and the more the thought of touching Enjolras' hand invaded his mind. The spark he felt all the way up his spine when their skin made contact still tingled through his body as he watched him now, leaning over the table next to his, pointing something out on a map to a group of eager men. He saw the shocked look in Enjolras' eyes and knew he must have felt the same electricity, but he didn't show any signs of being stuck on that thought now.
Grantaire gulped down the last of the wine as the men began clearing out of the café. He roughly shoved back his chair and stumbled towards the stairs. His foot missed the first step and he fell down several steps before catching himself on the railing. Hearing the sound of his body tumbling down the wooden steps, Enjolras ran to him, kneeling next to him on the stair.
"Geez Grantaire, you're going to get yourself killed," he muttered, grabbing the drunken man by the shoulders. "Why do you feel the need to become so inebriated?"
"Love is pain, dear Apollo," he slurred.
Enjolras' eyebrows drew together in confusion and he almost asked for him to elaborate, but thought better of trying to get information out of a man as intoxicated as Grantaire so he just shook his head and pulled the wobbling man to his feet. "Come on then," he grunted as he supported much of the other man's weight, "I'll take you home."
They stumbled into the cobblestone streets and Enjolras suddenly realized the flaw in his plan. He glanced at Grantaire's face; his eyelids were dropped and he looked as though he might pass out at any moment. His place was several blocks further from the café than Enjolras' and if he attempted to make it all the way there, he would probably end up carrying Grantaire most of the way. Enjolras sighed and started dragging him in the direction of his own apartment. The drunk could sleep it off on his couch.
Grantaire was dead to the world the second his head hit the pillow. Enjolras on the other hand, stayed up several more hours to work on the speech he would deliver at the next rally. Losing sleep over the rebellion was something he had grown accustomed to. He was incapable of doing things halfway and once he began an argument against the monarchy, he couldn't remove his pen from the paper until he'd thoroughly completed his entire thought. When he finally retired to his bed it was nearly four in the morning. He threw his clothes haphazardly onto the floor –his room, much like his mind, was scattered, yet somehow cohesive and had piles of books next to piles of clothes next to piles of documents and papers. He slumped into his bed, wrapping his bare body in the scarlet sheets before finally drifting off.
"Merde," Grantaire muttered, rubbing his pulsating temples. The feeling of being hungover was not foreign to him, but it was still unpleasant to say the least. Carefully, he sat up and took in his surroundings. Flabbergasted, he realized he was in Enjolras' apartment. He had only been there once before, but the memory of it was imprinted in his mind forever. It was the only time he had seen Enjolras intoxicated.
"I can walk," a clearly incapable Enjolras insisted, weakly pushing Grantaire away, but as soon as he did, he stumbled and had to catch himself on a table to keep from falling.
"No you can't, Apollo," Grantaire informed him patiently putting his arm around the blond man's waist again to support him. He led him home in silence. Drunk Enjolras was clearly put off by the whole thing, but required the help and did not want to end up passed out in an alleyway so he let the man who was atypically sober half-carry him home.
When they arrived at his place, Enjolras fumbled in his pockets in search of the key, but his hands were clumsy and his mind wasn't working at its usual capacity. Grantaire chuckled and helped him out, patting him down before finding the key in his inside jacket pocket. He let them into the apartment and guided Enjolras to his bedroom. Upon entering, the drunk man seemed to forget about Grantaire's presence and began stripping off his clothes right in front of him and throwing them in every which direction. His broad, muscled chest was bare and he was about to pull off the rest of his undergarments when he suddenly glanced over at the dark haired man still standing in his bedroom doorway. He looked confused to see him. Grantaire swallowed hard and forced his eyes to stop their thorough examination of the marble man's sculpted body.
"Well goodnight then, Enjolras," he murmured, feeling his cheeks redden. He turned and walked back towards the front door.
Just before he closed it behind him, he heard a slightly slurred, "thanks, Grantaire," in Enjolras' sleepy voice. He smiled to himself.
"Anytime, Apollo," he replied, shutting the door.
That was the first time Enjolras had needed him for anything. He never did find out why Enjolras had gotten drunk that night, but he didn't need the details. He just knew that the man who was always so strong and decent was coping with things beyond his grasp and that he could never leave him stranded. He had never seen Enjolras so exposed. Not just physically, but on an intimate personal level. He was typically respectable and proper, but drunk, he was just as sloppy and uncouth as anyone. It was the first time he'd seen him act so human and it was both fascinating and unnerving.
The door to Enjolras' bedroom suddenly opened and a sleepy looking Enjolras wandered out into the hallway. His golden curls were thoroughly mussed from his habit of thrashing in his sleep and he was rubbing his weary eyes. The man was only wearing his underwear as he stumbled into the kitchen. Grantaire could still see him from over the counter, but he made no move to stand up or draw attention to himself. Enjolras clunked about for several minutes, apparently brewing coffee. When he finally turned around to face the living room, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Jesus Christ, Grantaire!" he yelled. "I thought you would still be asleep."
"And miss this show?" Grantaire joked, "never." He blatantly looked the other man up and down and Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest, his cheeks reddening. He stalked back down the hallway and slammed his bedroom door behind him before emerging several minutes later fully clothed. Grantaire felt a pang of disappointment that he could no longer admire Enjolras leanly muscled frame, but he knew it was for the best that he not spend too much time looking when he would never be able to touch. Seeing the dimples in his back would only drive him wild with desire.
"What are your plans for the day?" Enjolras asked, clearly uncomfortable with the company.
"I suppose I'll finish painting your likeness," Grantaire replied sleepily.
"Do you need me?" Enjolras inquired uncertainly.
"No," he said shaking his head, "it's just the finer details left. I should be able to unveil it in a few days time."
"Ah," he sighed, "well, good."
"Perhaps you could pose for another portrait some time," Grantaire ventured, gauging the other man's reaction.
"Possibly," Enjolras replied coyly, a smirk on his angelic face.
"I want to try my hand at nudes," he told him. Enjolras' smirk immediately disappeared and his cheeks flushed red. An awkward cough sputtered from his mouth. "No pressure, of course," he continued, taking great enjoyment in Enjolras' shyness. "But you have nothing to hide. No flaws to be ashamed of."
Enjolras could not believe what he was hearing. Was Grantaire really shamelessly complementing his physique while requesting to paint him in the nude? Though he was strangely intrigued by the idea of baring all for this other man to capture on canvas, he knew he could never go through with it. He couldn't even look him in the eye because of the suggestion alone. "I couldn't," he mumbled, preoccupying himself with pouring two mugs of coffee.
"Do not turn down the request just yet, Apollo," Grantaire replied easily. "At least wait to see the first painting."
Enjolras' head bobbed up and down in an awkward nod. He usually felt in control of the situation and full of self-confidence, but Grantaire was beginning to unnerve him and throw him off his game. He had never felt so uncertain of his interactions with another person. In the past he had often been angry with Grantaire or irritated by his drunkenness or constant refuting of his opinions, but the more time he spent with the man, the more he questioned his judgment of him. Maybe there was more to the dark haired, tortured artist, cynic than he initially though.
Grantaire took one of the two mugs from Enjolras' hand, their fingers touching briefly in the process. He then retreated back to the couch followed by Enjolras. They sat on opposite sides, sipping the piping hot beverage in a weighted silence. Energy seemed to flow between them despite the physical distance and it was something neither of them had experienced before. "Will you be at the café tonight?" Grantaire asked, finally disrupting the quiet.
"Of course," Enjolras said as if it were obvious. He spent nearly every night there even when there was not a meeting scheduled. He worked well in the familiar environment and the noise from other patrons kept him awake until the last of them left and then the walk home in the brisk air of a Parisian night woke him up enough to get several more hours of work done upon returning home until he either passed out fully-clothed with his face in a book or managed to make it to his bed for a still inadequate amount of rest.
"Perhaps I will see you there then," he informed him. After downing the rest of his coffee, he decided it was time to leave. He would return home and finish the painting as he had planned and maybe if he put a few solid hours of work in he would be able to show Enjolras by tonight.
Enjolras went to class as he normally would, but he could not seem to focus. Was Grantaire serious about painting him naked? He wondered, unsure of the answer. He seemed to be sincere in his request, but he was probably only joking with him, trying to get a reaction. He thought back to that morning and the way Grantaire's eyes raked up and down his frame, a sort of yearning unmasked in his deep blue eyes. He did not recall any hint of humor there other than his obvious enjoyment of Enjolras' discomfort.
Time dragged on until he finally got to the café around six o'clock that night. He really tried to throw himself into his schoolwork, but he never wrote more than a sentence before his thoughts began to wonder again. He ordered a whiskey from the bar trying to drown out his thoughts and then another when the first did not have an immediate effect. He could barely carry the fifth one back to his table. He suddenly felt an unwelcome understanding with Grantaire. "What is wrong with me?" he growled out loud.
"I cannot imagine any faults in the marble man," Grantaire's voice suddenly came as he appeared at the top of the steps. He slipped into the chair across the table, careful not to touch the impressive spread of textbooks and paper laid out in front of Enjolras. He did not know how one man had managed to carry all of it here on his own.
Enjolras glared at him, his eyes filled with disgust and hatred. "I did not know you were 'ere," he spat venomously.
Grantaire was hit by the strong scent of alcohol on the other man's breath. "I used to think you gave me that look because I was drunk and argumentative, but now the tables are turned and you are still glowering at me as though I'm the most vile atrocity you have ever witnessed," he replied. His words were harsh and cold, but the pain behind them was unmistakable.
"Yer observation of my views tow'rds you is abs'lutely correct," Enjolras told him, his words becoming more slurred with anger.
"Why do you deem yourself to be worth so much more than myself?" Grantaire sputtered, filling with anger himself.
Enjolras sighed as if the answer was painfully obvious. "You do not attend school, you do not make any attempts to improve yerself in anyway, you offer nothing but cyni-cynicism and sarcasm to Les Amis meetings, and you think you can solve all dis fault and uselessness with alcohol," he said calculatingly, careful not sound as intoxicated as he was.
Grantaire felt as thought he had been slapped across the face. He never expected such cruelty from this man. Sure, Enjolras was ruthless when it came to things he deemed necessary, but he was never one to attack people on a personal level. He insisted that all people were created equal and should have equal opportunity, but clearly Grantaire was the exception. "Are you really blind to your own faults, Apollo?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. "All you have is school and work. You do not speak to your family, you treat your friends like employees and therefor you have no personal life –no love or passion there. Your life is an empty void that you try to fill with books and knowledge and plans for your precious rebellion, which will kill all of us and have the tiniest of impacts on Paris alone. Most of France won't even hear about it-"
Enjolras leapt to his feet, knocking his chair backwards. "Do not say that!" He yelled, cutting him off, but Grantaire ignored his protest, rising to a standing position and walking over to Enjolras' side of the table as he continued to speak.
"You are a brave man and a great leader, but you are throwing your life away to fix something that you do not have the power to change. Don't you want to experience love, Enjolras -real, romantic love? Don't you want to actually earn your law degree and put it to work serving the people you seem to care so much about? There are so many experiences you have never had, and so many more worthwhile uses for your intelligence and leadership skills than to throw it all away in a moment of rash violence."
"You think you are so goddamn observant, but you know nothing about me Grantaire!" he growled, his teeth bared in a scowl only inches from Grantaire's face.
"You just don't want to admit that I see you more clearly than anyone ever has," he taunted back.
"Stop!"
"You know everything I'm saying is true! You know that-"
Grantaire's words were abruptly cut off. Enjolras' full lips were pressed firmly against his and his hands roughly held the sides of his face, making speaking impossible. Grantaire was shocked into stillness for a moment before coming to life beneath Enjolras' forceful touch. He wound his arms around his waist and pressed their bodies closer. As their lips moved against each other, he could taste the whiskey on the blond man's tongue and he knew their current interaction was a result of all the alcohol he had consumed, but he was not about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. He had not realized until this moment just how much he wanted this to happen. Maybe that was because he had thought it was an absolute impossibility until the moment Enjolras pressed his lips against his own.
Enjolras could not think of anything except the way Grantaire's hands felt against his back and the way his soft lips felt against his. Never in his life did he think he would find himself in this position, but now he couldn't understand why he had wanted to avoid it. His skin burned everywhere Grantaire touched it, but he craved more. There were multiple layers of clothing between them that Enjolras no longer wanted to separate the two. He had never seen Grantaire without clothes, not even shirtless, and the mystery was driving him wild.
"Come home with me," Enjolras said, his lips still close enough to brush against Grantaire's as he spoke.
"Well that's an offer I never thought I would hear," Grantaire responded coyly.
Enjolras rolled his eyes and finally broke apart from the other man to tug on his jacket. He grabbed Grantaire's hand and pulled him down the stairs and out the front door, leaving his books behind –they would still be there by morning. Out in the cool night air, Enjolras could feel his drunken bravado wearing off. He suddenly felt awkward and self-conscious that he had invited another man home with him, but looking over at Grantaire walking eagerly beside him, he knew he wasn't about to stop this endeavor.
His hands were shaking as he put the key in the lock. What had he gotten himself into? Grantaire could see the nervous panic all over Enjolras' face as they made their way hand-in-hand to the bedroom. He kissed him lightly. "We don't have to do this. Say the word and I'll walk away right now as if nothing ever happened."
Enjolras shook his head; his breathing was so ragged he was unable to find his voice. He slowly removed his jacket, tossing it aside. Grantaire did the same and then waited for Enjolras to make the first move -he wanted this to be on his terms. "I just –I have never done this before," he mumbled.
"That much is obvious," Grantaire said with a chuckle. He stepped forward and lightly brushed his finger down the side of Enjolras' cheek where it flushed red. The stubble tickled his fingers as the other man leaned into his touch and let his eyelids drift shut. Their lips were just barely touching and Grantaire could feel Enjolras' hot breath on his face, smelling strongly of alcohol. Enjolras was the one to close the distance, his lips anything but gentle. He roughly grabbed Grantaire's waist and pushed their hips against each other before his hands went to work undoing the buttons of the other man's shirt.
Before long, both of the men's tops were removed and their bare chests were pressed together. They fell onto the bed, Grantaire straddling Enjolras, he guided the inexperienced man's hand to the button of his pants, enjoying the sound of his erratically thudding heart as he undid them. He slid his legs out and then helped Enjolras out of his, his finger lingering on his thigh before sliding back up to his waist. Enjolras knotted his fingers in Grantaire's dark curls, pulling his face back to his. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was screaming at himself. What was he doing? This could ruin everything. But he could not seem to stop himself. He felt the sweat dewing at the nape of Grantaire's neck and his own racing pulse, he felt the other man's skin on his own –rough in some spots and smooth in others, he felt his inhibitions fly out the window as well as Grantaire, already hard, against his leg, and he did not want to stop. No one dared to call him out the way that Grantaire had and it simultaneously infuriated him and made him feel loved.
Enjolras' lips moved frantically across his jawline and down to his collarbone, causing a moan to escape Grantaire's lips. Feeling a rush of confidence, he gently slid his hand down the front of his underwear, firmly grasping what it concealed. He stroked Grantaire's length for several minutes as the man's noises of pleasure increased in volume and frequency before he finally reached his peak. They lied there for a moment, both breathing heavily with excitement. Before Enjolras knew what was happening, his own underwear had been shoved off and Grantaire was kissing and biting his way down his chest. He gasped as he felt his dark haired lover take him into his mouth. He felt as though his heart would burst through his chest as he watched what was being done to him. Guttural grunts came from his throat, making Grantaire feel quite pleased with himself. The excitement and pleasure overwhelmed Enjolras and Grantaire resurfaced. They lay panting for several moments, tangled in the crimson sheets.
Grantaire was afraid to speak until Enjolras suddenly rolled over and rested his head on his bare chest. "Whaddaya think o'me now, Grantaire?" he teased, pressing his lips to the side of the dark haired man's neck.
"I think I love you," he whispered in response.
Enjolras propped himself up on one elbow to be able to look Grantaire in the eye. "I love you too," he murmured, all joking gone.
"You're drunk," Grantaire said, attempting to keep his tone light, but his sadness could not be entirely filtered out.
"Alcohol did not create these feelings," Enjolras told him sincerely, "it only gave me the courage to admit them."
Grantaire pulled his face in close and planted kisses across his cheekbones, eventually pressing them against the blond man's eager lips. It wouldn't be the last time such an event happened either.
"How is it fair that I'm the only one naked?" Enjolras inquired, raising an eyebrow at his dark haired lover from across the room. It was a month later and Grantaire had managed to talk Enjolras into posing nude for a painting.
"I suppose it's not," Grantaire replied, looking thoughtful, "and you know how firmly I believe in equality," he teased. He stood and faithfully removed his clothes, much to Enjolras' amusement. After his undergarments hit the floor, Enjolras rose from the lounging position in which he was being captured, but was promptly scolded by Grantaire. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Watching you paint in the nude is going to ruin the way you carefully positioned me anyways," he said with a smirk, looking down at his groin, "unless you wanted to paint me… that way."
Grantaire chuckled at how different Enjolras seemed now. He still spent hours writing speeches and organizing rallies, but now his passion had somehow grown and expanded to include Grantaire in it's glorious, all-consuming heat. He gestured for Enjolras to return to the couch. "Sit still," he ordered.