The footsteps came closer. Enjolras cast an irritated glance on the locked door, and then his eye fell on its neighbor, the only door still left open to them.
"Get in," he said. "We mustn't be seen here." And he flung Grantaire into the broom closet.
Enjolras barely had time to join him inside and pull the door shut behind him before the footsteps entered the room. Grantaire hissed an oath under his breath. One of his feet had landed squarely in a wooden bucket as he stumbled backwards into the closet, and the other was braced awkwardly against the front corner of the closet for support. Now that Enjolras was crammed in with him, there was no room to regain his balance; indeed, Enjolras pinning him against the wall was the only thing keeping him upright.
They waited. Low, indistinct voices murmured outside. Grantaire hardly dared breathe.
Enjolras' breath was soft and steady in his ear. Grantaire's face had wound up shoved up into Enjolras' throat during their hasty retreat into the broom closet, and he could feel the skin under his lips throbbing gently with the beat of Enjolras' pulse, as slow and steady as if Enjolras did this every day. Grantaire resisted the urge to fidget. Enjolras could be as calm as he wanted, but Grantaire did not do this every day, and his nerves were shredded and his foot was beginning to fall asleep.
He tried shifting his weight to a more comfortable position. That only left more of his weight resting on the thigh between his legs, which was not a position he wanted to be in with Enjolras, thank you very much. But Enjolras must have noticed the tension in Grantaire's posture, or the way his legs were starting to tremble with the effort of staying upright, and he was already shifting to help Grantaire reposition himself. Grantaire would be the first to admit he was an uncivilized brute, but even he wasn't churlish enough to refuse a kindness from Enjolras, however small. He didn't trust himself to dislodge his feet without upending half the contents of the broom closet and giving them away, so the only thing he could do was rest more and more of his weight on Enjolras.
He ended up with an arm slung around Enjolras' shoulders for support, Enjolras' hands on his waist to steady him, and Enjolras' hips pinning him to the wall. "O treasure, O dearest one," he muttered as quietly as he could into the hollow of Enjolras' throat, "I find myself at last in your sweet embrace." Enjolras shushed him, and Grantaire shut up willingly enough. After all, he'd only been trying to make light of the fact that they were really very close, and that Enjolras' leg under his groin was beginning to produce effects that they'd both laugh off afterwards. If Enjolras were the sort of person who ever laughed. He was standing as immobile as ever, seemingly unaware of what was pressing with increasing firmness into his thigh. Either he was the most virginal idiot Grantaire had ever met, or he was saving up an explosion of anger until after the coast was clear. Bastard. Grantaire tried not to consider either of those possibilities too closely, because for reasons he declined to speculate about, doing so only exacerbated the problem.
Outside, the babble of voices rose in volume. The tendons of Enjolras' neck twisted as he turned his head to listen. His hair was in Grantaire's face, tickling his nose and smelling faintly of gunpowder. Grantaire squirmed away from it, trying not to sneeze, and almost knocked the two of them out of balance; Enjolras hauled him back into position, and the clenching of the lean muscles of his thigh made Grantaire twitch and bite back another curse through gritted teeth. Enjolras' lack of reaction was worrying. Surely not even he could have failed to notice that Grantaire was now hard as a bar of iron and engaged in a futile struggle not to hump his leg. Maybe he was waiting to see just how much of a disgrace Grantaire would make of himself. In that case he wouldn't be disappointed, because disgracing himself was the only thing Grantaire had ever truly excelled at.
He wondered, absurdly, whether lewd attentions from one man to another were legitimate grounds for a duel, and if so whether Enjolras would be offended enough to challenge him. Probably the rules of honor, those stuffy old provisions for when two men could slaughter each other like beasts and call it civilized, were too honorable to make provision for the eventuality of two men rutting like beasts. Still, there were worse ways to die than on the point of Enjolras' sword. Pistols would be more customary, of course, but Grantaire really wouldn't blame Enjolras for wanting to run him through after this.
He was starting to lose control of the rocking of his hips. Enjolras, unbelievably, remained impassive. He was going to kill Grantaire after this, Grantaire was certain of it now. He wondered which would be worse, finishing against Enjolras' thigh or having to walk out of here next to Enjolras with his prick still tenting his trousers.
It seemed his choice was about to be made for him. The voices outside were moving right past the door of the closet; Grantaire held his breath; the footsteps were receding, leaving them alone once more. Grantaire let out a ragged sigh, resigning himself to the world's strangest case of blue balls.
And then—Grantaire was sure he was hallucinating—Enjolras pushed his thigh even more firmly against Grantaire's erection. More than that, he slid it back and forth—twice—three times—Grantaire's back arched, his fist clenched around Enjolras' sleeve, and he came, with no noise but a gasp of amazement.
Light flooded the closet, illuminating Enjolras' hair from behind like a halo. Grantaire, giddy and disbelieving, almost laughed. He extracted his foot from the bucket and stumbled out after Enjolras, his knees weak. They were alone. They hadn't been seen.
Grantaire opened his mouth, ready to erupt in excuses, apologies, insincere quips about what a swine he was to sully Enjolras' purity, earnest assurances that he had no idea where that came from and it certainly had nothing to do with anything he felt for Enjolras. The suspicion that the assurances were insincere and the quips were in earnest settled in his stomach like a meal of lead.
But Enjolras forestalled the entire tirade with a finger pressed impatiently to Grantaire's lips, and that in itself was enough to make Grantaire swear aloud and collapse against the doorframe for support. He braced himself, waiting for the explosion.
"It won't be visible," said Enjolras calmly.
"What?"
"The stain won't show up on dark fabric."
Grantaire gaped.
"Or at least, it will be easier to hide than having to walk out of here in the state you were in."
Grantaire allowed himself sink slowly to the floor, letting out the breath he'd been holding. "You're not angry?"
"Why should I be? It was a bodily response to a position neither of us could get out of."
"A bodily response," said Grantaire with a bitterness that surprised even him. "That's an excellent line. I'll have to remember it next time a girl slaps me."
Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "Would you rather I were hitting you?"
"You're naïve to discount the possibility," Grantaire muttered, too exhausted to keep from being flippant. "Should you wish to be educated, I can give you the address of at least three houses in Paris where men pay money for that exact privilege, delivered either by a woman dressed up as a schoolmarm or a man dressed up as a woman."
"Now you're just being crude. Let's get out of here before someone else comes along."
Grantaire heaved himself to his feet, steadfastly refusing to examine why he felt so dismissed, or so strangely elated. Trust Enjolras not to be base enough to fly into a rage with him. Trust Enjolras not to think the entire incident could be anything more than a "bodily response." Trust Enjolras to be infuriating.
If Grantaire had been paying attention, he would have seen the bulge in Enjolras' trousers before Enjolras hastily buttoned up his coat.