The first time they kissed they were standing in the rain, and how much more cliché can you get than that?
It was a Saturday and they were sitting in the park, under a big tree, quietly next to each other. Grantaire was lazily sketching something that looked like a cross between a garden and a building and a flower (Well, at least it was something.), occasionally taking a sip from his flask. Jehan was similarly idly braiding flowers into his long, auburn, braid, and lazing in evening.
The first drops of water didn't bother them. Grantaire was too immersed in his 'whatever' sketch and Jehan simply didn't care. Only when the rain started to fall steadily did they really begin to notice. Grantaire threw his sketchpad on the wet ground in defeat. He could try to salvage it later.
Jehan stood up and ran out of the partial shelter. He spun around, water began to soak his clothes and hair, and he giggled for the first time for the day. Grantaire looked on amused.
"The sky is dark and gloomy, and we're basically sitting prey to the common cold." Grantaire smirked, although he made no move to get up. "Is this what makes you poets happy?"
"Dance with me." He held his hand out.
"There's no music." Grantaire replied, even as he took Jehan's hand and raised himself up.
"An artist without an imagination? How terrible!"
Grantaire grinned and twirled him into his arms. It started out as a fun idea, they spun each other around, and Grantaire did complicated tricks that left Jehan winded, as they laughed.
The rain around them fell harder, and the grass started to turn muddy. The air between them thickened as they moved slowly together; Jehan's arms around Grantaire's neck and Grantaire's arms around Jehan's waist.
It was Jehan who made the first move towards him. He didn't look scared or nervous; he looked sure. He tiptoed up to him and kissed him soundly on the mouth. It took Grantaire a bit before he could respond. He moved his hands from his waist to the back of his head, and pulled him deeper into the kiss.
What started out slow and gentle soon turned rough. Their tongues were clashing, and their hands were bruising as they tangled in each other's hair. Jehan's braid loosened, and dead flowers fell to the earth. ("They went back home." Jehan would later say) At this pointed they were soaked to the bone, but neither of them cared.
They finally pulled away from each other. Grantaire was uncertain. He tried to gauge how Jehan felt, but the poet gave nothing away. Instead he pulled Grantaire back into another kiss, his hands gently brushing his cheek. Before it was all passion and emotions running high. This kiss was reassurance, and Grantaire sank into it willingly.
"Your mouth tastes like whiskey, and it is intoxicating. I am like an addict and I never want to stop." Jehan mumbled these words against his lips, a small smile forming.
"Then don't." He replied.
And their mouths met again.