The party at Lesgle's house was impromptu. His parents had actually given him permission this time and it felt like a brand-new experience. In his excitement he invited nearly everyone he'd ever talked to at the university so word got out fast and spread. Lesgle was a friendly person so he let everyone in, people circulating so often that the house never quite managed to get overrun. Thanks to Bahorel and some of his buddies, the alcohol never dried up. They'd come with two trunks full and the intent to share as much as they could.
It was a between-midterms-and-finals celebration, everyone was welcome.
Most of the ABC hung around one another, once and a while breaking off to meet up with other friends but mostly staying in a protective semi-circle. They claimed two sofas, a chair, and a coffee table to themselves.
Feuilly and Lesgle were off mingling, most likely checking to make sure nothing had been broken or looted yet. For all of Feuilly's talk of being a common working man and one of the guys, he certainly did put on a rather fatherly air when it came to their activities. Maybe it was because he was an orphan and his real parents had never been around or maybe he just viewed them as children, they had never really agreed. He was big on monitoring the situation and playing bodyguard while they had their fun. Though not the first to scold (that would be dear Combeferre), he always seemed to be the first on a scene. From breaking up bar fights to ending debates during meetings, Feuilly was quite reliable.
Courferyac, Combeferre, Eponine, Joly, Jehan, and Enjolras were there at the moment. Marius as well but had taken up the chair with Cossette perched in his lap, the lady sipping on simple soda while her boyfriend had procured some fruity drink that had no hope of getting him drunk. They drank and talked of their classes, laughing and gossiping, enjoying their youth to the fullest.
The one who seemed to be enjoying it the most was Grantaire. He was out in the crowd in the living room, all the furniture moved to the walls to leave as much space as possible for dancing. The stereo was cranked up. Toussaint, a girl who worked in Les Amis on the weekends and Cossette's friend, wasn't good at talking but she had a real talent for choosing music to fit the room. Their social butterfly of an artist was flying from partner to partner, enjoying each person's attention just as much as the last. No arms could hold him, no hands could grasp him. He was fluid among the dancers. His only staying partner had been Eponine until she'd begged to sit down and drink a bit, leaving him to his light-footed fun.
Grantaire finally broke it off to join them, the flush of his cheeks showing them he was tipsy but the sure stride of his legs exposed that he was not yet drunk. Enjolras wasn't at all surprised when the younger man wrapped an arm around his neck swung down to sit in his lap, back pressed against the arm rest of the couch. The blonde was more amused than annoyed. He couldn't be critical when he'd been convinced to take a few mysteriously colored shots in contest with Bahorel.
This wasn't a rare occurrence when they were nestled in the warm protection of their friends but for some reason this time felt even more intimate. The weight of Grantaire upon his thighs and the squeeze of his hand on his shoulder unusually stimulating. There was fresh sweat upon his pale skin that mingled with the scent of synthetic rose. He must've dabbed on some of that rarely used oil that Eponine had made a big show of giving to him last Christmas. It was a tantalizing mix that made Enjolras's mouth water. If he craned his neck he could kiss his neck, get a true taste of his flesh, but he resisted.
"You look so regal with all your subjects around you," Grantaire lamented playfully, gesturing, "Let us show these people that a god can enjoy himself. Come dance with me. Claquesous has been trying to wrangle me all evening and a gentleman would be refreshing."
Enjolras glanced over at the opposite end of the room and found his friend's words to be true. Claquesous was standing against the wall with the rest of the Patron-Minette, dark eyes locked firmly on Grantaire as he took a hardy drink from his beer. Montparnasse was watching them as well but he was laughing, a sheen in that bright green gaze that sent a chill down the orator's spine. Enjolras laid a possessive hand on the side of the artist's thigh, shooting a glare
Most of the time Enjolras agreed to a dance when the song wasn't raunchy and he hadn't had too much to drink. He always refused if he smelled of smoke. The timing was perfect, no one would think twice of him accepting the offer.
"I don't believe I'm up for it, 'Taire," Enjolras politely declined, restraining himself to patting the other on the knee, "But Jehan here is sitting pretty without a dance partner."
Jehan nearly gargled his beer, sputtering behind his plastic cup. It was clear so they could see the way he frowned, like he couldn't believe what just been said. Grantaire pulled a pouting face but it only lasted a moment or two, eyes dancing between the two blondes with an edge of uncertainty. He covered up all his disappointment with a slapped-on grin, a familiar disguise to all who saw it.
"How sweet a dancer our Jehan must be for such a high recommendation," Grantaire hopped up out of the blonde's lap, snatching the romantic's drink out of his hand and procuring both his hands in his own, "How light on your feet you must be. How happy am I to have such a majestic dance partner. Protect me from the commonwealth, Jehan, and from Claquesous's sticky hands. Dance with me!"
Jehan was all smiles as he let himself be pulled up and past the coffee table until they were out amongst the other happy dancers. Grantaire pulled him close once they were mingling with the lake of bodies, wrapping his arms around his neck and forcing him into a swinging hug of sorts. It was familiar and innocent, even when pressed so close together.
Enjolras caught Grantaire's eyes and his brief, thoughtful frown. Jehan nuzzled his cheek and grabbed his hips and then the artist's attention was back on him. Enjolras couldn't watch anymore and turned to listen to Courferyac try to convince Cossette that going to school outside of France would lead to nothing but disaster. He caught the argument in the middle but it sounded like she was winning.
A hand laid across his shoulder. He turned his head to find Joly staring at him with intent.
"Why did you let him go?"
Blonde brows rose up, "I'm sorry?"
"Don't play stupid, man," Joly lowered his voice, leaning into the other,
He shrugged, "I just don't feel like dancing."
"You guys always dance once at these things. It's like a tradition," Joly pointed out, "Why not tonight?"
"Look," Enjolras waved at the pair, "He's just as happy with Jehan."
The two had grown more intimate since he'd looked away. Jehan had the artist's back pressed to his chest, hands so low on his waist he had his thumb hooked in the line of his jeans. Grantaire's arms were still around the blonde's neck, hips moving in a slow rhythm as his head lulled back to rest on the other's shoulder. Enjolras's burned at the sight of it and when he looked back to Joly his friend looked fucking sympathetic. It made his stomach churn.
"You and I both know that's not true," the medical student countered.
"I wish you'd stop insisting things you know aren't true."
Joly pursed his lips, "I should say the same to you."
Bahorel came out of nowhere and practically fell between them, laying a hand on each of their shoulders and bringing them closer
"I'll bet one full keg that those two end up in bed before the end of the night," Bahorel guffawed, "Look at them! Seems like our Jehan's going to get his cherry popped, huh?"
Both glared holes into the side of his head.
"What?"
A crowd gathered in the spacious kitchen, chants of bo-dy shots! bo-dy shots! echoing through the room and into the house. Beautiful girls and pretty boys were pulled in one after the other, begged at for just one go. Laughing and high from the attention, they tugged off their shirts and laid down to let two or three people take turns licking up wine or tequila off their smooth tummies. It was all in good fun, everybody knew almost everybody else so the familiarity was there. It was mostly friendly mirth but a few pairs got a little heated, French passions naturally flaming.
Grantaire playfully squirmed in the loose hold of his two friends, boys he'd met in his Philosophy of Love and Sex class and had gotten on with. They called to the group that they had a live one and shoved him into it, a swarm of smiling faces tugging at his shirt and asking him so sweetly to do a round. He gave a few healthy protests before yanking off his shirt, throwing it to Eponine. She had gone before him, shirt still off to reveal the remnants of dark wine on her tan stomach and the lace of her red bra. She was a tempting mess and he blew her a kiss before he hopped up on the table. Thankfully she'd talked him into shaving what little hair he had and his torso was as smooth as it could be, providing the perfect plate.
One of the boys from his class (Christopher, his mind provided) declared himself the mix master and rustled up a half bottle of pale liquor, a bowl of limes, and a spice jar of salt. He announced that this round would be tequila and they should form an orderly line if they wanted any. Grantaire blushed at the amount of shoving, practically glowing under the (physical only, but still) attention. Eponine's offer had nearly caused a fist fight so he hadn't expected even a fourth of such scuffling. It boosted his ego a bit and he stretched out on the table, parting his legs to let the first person up.
It was a girl with fire red hair and wicked dark eyes. He'd seen her on campus and he could only place her as one of Joly's friends, maybe some knd of health student. She looked hungry. He grinned and popped a lime between his teeth, letting Chris pour a shot-worth of tequila in the hollow of his navel before sprinkling salt in a line over each pec. He'd done this before and it was always fun, even the salt-and-liquor dressing part.
The red head was quick to lap up the bitter liquid, making him squirm and laugh around the lime. She kissed the salt away then leaned over him to grab the wedge between her teeth, bringing them close. She took it and bit down, discarded it, then leaned in and kissed him. Grantaire couldn't deny a lady's request and shared the salty burn with her, wincing at the way it burned his throat. The citrus helped smooth it out but it almost wasn't neough. They both shook a little as they pulled away, her hands trialing down his stomach with teasing purpose before she stepped away into the grasping arms of her giggling friends.
The crowd around them cheered.
Grantaire made show of swooning, plopping back down on the table for a good laugh while Chris quickly wiped him down with a rag. He'd have to thank the man later with a dance for this because licking up after someone else was not sexy. He was dressed up again, the last of the salt getting laid close to his nipple when he saw who it was. His hands clenched into fists at his sides and he sat up on his elbows, glaring at the dark haired man between his legs now.
"Fuck off, Montparnasse."
"What's wrong, R? I'm just here for some fun," Montparnasse tisked good-naturedly, "Come on, be a good boy for a second, would you?"
Grantaire clenched his jaw so hard he could feel his teeth grinding. This was a blatant challenge. Montparnasse was testing him to see if he would act out in public and jump off the table like a spoilsport. Most of the people around them had no idea about the ABC and the Patron-Minette so they wouldn't understand his objection. Lesgle was friends with the kind of people who liked to kiss the Patron-Minette's asses. They were influential, up-and-coming. If he threw a fit Eponine would go get one of the ABC, probably Feuilly, and then it would be a fight. Disgust and resignation settled in the pit of his stomach.
Chris offered him a lime, "You cool, man?"
"I'm fine," he took the lime between his teeth, "Hurry up, fuckhead."
Grantaire didn't dare lay back down, refusing to go any lower than leaning back on his elbows in front of the slippery snake. Montparnasse raised a brow at the name but his smirk was pure victory. He got uncomfortably close until the belt of his pants threatened to rub against the sensitive crook of Grantaire's groin, hands bracing on either side of his waist. The older man's tongue was slow and thick along his navel, taking his sweet time and staring up at him. Those spring eyes seared him, mouth still curved in delight.
He was handsome enough but he was a venomous flower, toxic upon consumption. His power, his charm, his genetics made him downright dangerous.
And he was no Enjolras.
Grantaire tried not to scowl as Montparnasse moved up, slimy tongue gliding over the flat of his nipple before lapping up the salt there. The goosebumps across his chest were from disgust as dark stubble ground along the sensitive skin up to his neck. Seeing Montparnasse's lips still wet with tequila made him gag so he reached up and clamped his hand over the man's descending mouth, stopping him from getting the lime. He spat out the slice of citrus, it was his turn to smirk.
The group cheered, giving encouraging whoops at the lack of chaser.
"You're a big man, 'Parnasse. I'm sure you can handle something straight up," Grantaire mocked openly, "Go head. Swallow it."
Montparnasse did, prying his hand away, "I'd like you to swallow something."
"In your dreams," Grantaire cooed just as the cries died down.
"Next!" Chris called as the bright eyed man stepped away, spine straight and chin raised in lingering challenge. Grantaire took the cloth this time and scrubbed the skin red, erasing as much as he could with the damp rag before tossing it aside. He was almost ready to call it quits when Jehan appeared before him, smiling so beautifully that he couldn't help but lay back and let Chris adorn him again. He could hear Eponine and Joly trying to convince someone to come up next but he didn't much care. The ABC had all seen him nearly-naked and they were all pretty comfortable with each other. Any of them were better than a stranger.
Jehan was sweet, kissing the top of his belly button before dipping into his navel. It was a teasing trail of lips that went the full length of his torso, tickling the plane of his chest before Jehan's pretty face was in his own. The romantic bit down in the middle of the lime, Grantaire leaned up a bit and brushed their noses in a nuzzle.
Jehan made a sour face and pulled back, chomping down on the lime gratefully to the sound of applause. Grantaire smacked a loud kiss to both his cheeks, ignoring the way he sputtered from the strong drink. The blonde was clapped on the shoulder by one of his friends and moved out of the way, heading to the cooler for some water or something to get the taste out.
"Poor boy!" Grantaire called, wiping himself down again, "Don't let him throw up on the floor!"
He saw Jehan give him the arm through the crowd and he blew him a kiss in return.
"One more!" Chris poured the tequila along his stomach, "It's a big one. Who's man enough to do it?"
Grantaire tried not to wiggle, one wrong move and it would send it all spilling. The salt went blatantly across his nipples this time and he shot a light-hearted glare at Chris, getting a pair of fake puppy eyes that had him smiling. Someone was shoved into him followed by laughter, hands bracing on his thighs to steady himself. He glanced down, ready to tell the guy he didn't have to if he didn't want to, but the words stuck so hard in the back of his throat he almost started coughing.
It was Enjolras, staring down at him with wide eyes.
"Sorry, 'Taire," Enjolras retracted his hands, "Joly pushed me."
Bahorel and Eponine were grinning behind him, blocking his way out with the rest of the crowd drinking and cheering around them. Grantaire gaped like a fish, a flush starting at his ears and making its way down his neck to fan out across his chest.
"No, no!" Enjolras laughed nervously, waving his hand as the crowd shouted encouragements, "Body shots are degrading! Civil right revolutionists didn't die so we could slurp tequila off-"
Their companions booed loudly. Eponine reached out and pinched the blonde hard in the side, hissing at him that they didn't give a shit what 1800's freedom-fighters did and to get on with it. Enjolras shot him an apologetic look, going to step away and disappear. Before Grantaire could think about it he kicked a leg around the orator's leg and dragged him back, a dumb smile breaking out across his face at the other's overly concerned expression.
"Come on, Apollo, they want a show," Grantaire urged, parting his thighs a little more than necessary as his heart started to beat so hard he feared it would leave an imprint, "Might as well. I don't care."
"You don't find it degrading?" Enjolras asked over the roar of their friends.
Grantaire shook his head, curls bouncing across his forehead.
Everyone was getting restless, starting up a steady rhythm of shoot-lick-suck bouncing off the tiles.
Enjolras finally gave in, stepping up to the table to the tune of the crowd rooting. A couple people were singing an American song about shots off-key. It was an amiable environment, there was no judgment here. It was now or never because they knew that this would probably never happen again.
Grantaire took the fat slice of lime Chris offered him, eyes locked on his leader. Enjolras's broad palms boldly laid across his hips, holding him still and burning him up at the same time. Grantaire couldn't hold his gaze so he let himself drink in the details of his hair under the harsh light, the strands striking a dark ash that made his skin look so beautifully golden. He could only think of those temple priests he'd talked about before, the ones who embodied their god and took sacrifices in their name. Supping intoxicating nectar from the navel of a low-class boy while others watched and encouraged?
If that wasn't pagan he didn't know what was.
Enjolras was skilled with his tongue, dipping and curling it so it brushed every inch of his belly button while taking up the tequila. It was smooth and wet, his traitorous cock swelling in the confines of his jeans at the slick contact. He squirmed. He couldn't help it! The liquid sloshed over and a few drops trailed down his sides. He was so stupid, he couldn't even do this right. Fucking Apollo, screwing everything up with his gorgeous face and strong hands and – oh.
Oh.
Enjolras licked stripes above his hips, chasing each droplet with his usual single-mindedness. The artist could really feel the flicks of his tongue without the tequila as a medium. He shivered on the table, feeling more exposed than he had under Montparnasse. He glanced down to his friend's Adam's apple in time to see it bob, swallowing the drink straight. Grantaire gasped as that tongue left little sparks all the way up his stomach to the base of his sternum. There were a few catcalls that made his cheeks flame that much hotter but he couldn't bother to pay attention to anything besides the way his Apollo's eyes went all unfocused and glazed over, lashes at half mast. Maybe it was the liquor but the exhale across his skin made him think it was something a little different.
Soft lips started their path up his pec and he couldn't help but moan.
Enjolras had to shift the way he stood as Grantaire's little sound of pleasure vibrated beneath his lips. He was enjoying this far more than was proper but who made up the damn etiquette rules for body shots anyway? The tequila was still hot in his throat and bitter at the back of his tongue but he hadn't wanted anything to get in the way of his exploration. He knew it was selfish but who could resist a pretty curly-haired boy spreading his legs and offering up his body as a dish?
It'd be a sin to decline.
Enjolras caught some salt on his lips but he licked that away, concentrating on the much more tempting offer just a scant inch away. He leaned further over the younger man, shielding him from the prying eyes of their piers. He suddenly wished they were alone, that he could have this moment to himself, but there was no use in wasting his thoughts on something impossible like that.
Feeling brave, he brushed his mouth across Grantaire's nipple and let his teeth briefly dig into the flesh. It puckered obediently, more goosebumps cropping up as the boy shuddered under his hands. It was a fine movement, barely visible except when you had your fingertips pressed down into the telling muscles of his hips. Enjolras was glad his jeans were loose enough to accommodate his building arousal because getting teased for this would only inspire protectivness and rage within him.
He made his way to the other side and made sure to skim his teeth along the responsive skin. When he reached his other nipple it was already stone hard and warm to the touch, the younger man arching up when his tongue took up the salt there. God above, Grantaire was the most responsive little minx. He was sent from Hell itself to seduce him. He dared to bite down, soft but firm, and this beautiful little noise bubbled up.
Everyone could've disappeared for all he knew. The only sounds he heard were those coming from the man beneath him.
Enjolras could feel the thrill taking over him, seizing up his fluttering heart in a tight fist. He used his grip on Grantaire's waist to drag the man down until they were face-to-face, nearly aligned and pressing until he could feel the leftover drops of tequila soaking through his shirt. The artist's pupils were blown and his face was all rosy, his elbows coming down on the table and lifting him up enough to offer the lime.
An overwhelming urge to kiss him overtook ever ounce of reason he had, the command from his heart driving his head to lean down with undeniable intent.
Grantaire knew he couldn't do it. Not here, not now, not by force. It seemed like a trick to dirty his Apollo's beautiful lips with his own. He didn't want to have Enjolras corner him later and apologize for any accidental buss. The older man's face loomed over his, forcing the breath from his lungs as perfect teeth were unsheathed and closed around the middle of the lime.
So close. One little movement and they could be-
No, it wasn't fair. He couldn't take what he wanted like this.
Grantaire turned his head away the moment he could, panting with the exertion of tearing his eyes and mouth from his leader. He could feel the heat of Enjolras stay for a moment before he eased off, looking back when he deemed it safe to watch him devour the fruit until there was only the bone of he rind left. There was something on his face, some kind of emotion he couldn't decipher.
But then Chris was tugging him off the table and he could ignore the tension in the room to laugh and wipe the excess salt and liquor from his stomach. The towel brushed his over-sensitive nipples and forced a little sound from his throat. Christ. Enjolras had bitten them. Not quite but enough to make him rock hard. He took the shirt someone threw at him and barely noticed it was his own while he tugged it on, chuckling with the others as he thought of every dead animal he'd ever seen in hopes of killing his erection.
Enjolras disappeared and for the first time he was thankful to be out of his Apollo's burning sight.
Jehan nearly ran into Enjolras, both beating a retreat from the kitchen with flushed faces and aching dicks. But while the orator headed toward the main room with the most people, the romantic slipped into the second living room that was occupied by a high-stakes card game and small group in front of a big screen battling it out video game style. No one would pay attention to a straggler. He needed a moment to breathe and collect himself.
Jehan subtly adjusted himself in his pants, trying to will away the hardness there. Grantaire had been so warm and delicious beneath his tongue and he hated himeslf for indulging to easily. He knew better than to loose himself in those feelings but his love had looked so beautiful stretched out on that cheap table...he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd wanted to.
He could've kissed him. He should've kissed him. Damn it! This was the kind of opportunity he was always wishing and writing about, how could he let it slip through his fingers like that? Being around Grantaire always made him so stupid, so hazy-
Rough hands grabbed him and shoved him in a corner, a man blocking his view and pushing up close.
"If it isn't my favorite pretty boy?"
"What do you want, Mont?" Jehan demanded, cursing the way the man clamped down on his hips until they stung, "I swear to God, if you leave a bruise, Feuilly will-"
"He'll what?" Montparnasse cut him off swiftly, smiling, "And don't be so mean. You're mouth's too pretty to try and threaten."
"Stop," Jehan turned his head away when the man tried to kiss him, lightly chapped lips finding home on the crook of his neck instead, "Stop!"
"Easy, dove, easy," Montparnasse cooed, lightening his grip and rubbing away the ache with surprisingly tender motions, "You know I'm just teasing, you know I won't hurt you. I won't leave even one little mark on that beautiful skin, you watch. No one will even know I was here."
Jehan put a hand on his chest, pushing him back until they were at least a head apart, "What do you want? If the others see me talking to you, they'll want an answer."
"No one will see us," the older man promised, "Because if you let me talk, I'll be out of your hair in just a scant minute."
"Be quick," the blonde demanded, wiggling further in the corner to keep their bodies apart. Thankfully the other didn't follow him.
"I want you to help me pull a little prank on Enjolras," Montparnasse explained, sounding as light-hearted as he'd ever heard him, "A tiny little coo, a brief moment of unbridled mirth. Just enough to ruffle up his feathers, get his ducks out of a row. You wold like that, wouldn't you?"
"I have no ill will against-"
"Stuff it, brat," Montparnasse chuckled, "That blonde twat has stolen the heart of your beloved and has done nothing but stomp on it since. He's an ungrateful brat and even you, my sweetest poet, can agree to that."
Jehan frowned sharply but didn't deny.
"Pray, agree?"
"What...would I have to do?"
"There's my sweet boy," Montparnasse actually purred, raising a hand and curling his knuckle just beneath the blonde's chin, "All I want you to do is steal his phone. Just for half an hour, maybe."
He swatted his hand away, "What are you going to do?"
"Change the names a bit, switch the language to Spanish, I don't know," the older man rolled his eyes, "It's spontanious, Jehan, what do you expect? It's for a bit of fun. We won't harm it and we won't delete anything. I swear on my mother's grave."
"I'm glad not to be her," Jehan's eyes flickered over him, thinking of the way he'd looked up to see Enjolras teasing Grantaire's dark nipple with his teeth, "So I steal his phone, then what?"
"Just give it to me and I'll see it gets back to him."
He pursed his lips, "I don't trust you."
"Oh, dove," he ran his thumb along the tight line of his mouth, "I'm not asking you to."
Jehan didn't advertise his past time of pick-pocketing to most people. Montparnasse only knew because he'd caught him after a lift. It was cheap thrill he'd learned as a kid and had always kept. He had light fingers, he always had.
Jehan weaved through the crowd in front of the cooler in the living room. He spotted Enjolras's phone sticking half out of his back pocket and he had to do it now. The blonde leaned into the orator and grabbed a beer out of the ice, purposfully swaying into him as he plucked up his phone and slipped it into the baggy pocket of his cargo pants.
"Whoa," Enjolras reached out and steadied him, keeping a hand on him until he was upright, "Are you alright, Jehan? You're not drinking too much, are you?"
"I'll nurse it, I promise," Jehan lied, feeling his ears warming in shame. The other seemed so concerned and it made the newly acquired phone in his pocket feel like a twenty pound dumbbell.
"Just stay steady on your feet," he patted his shoulder, "If you need me to call a cab, I will."
He was offcially the shittiest person in the world.
"Thanks," Jehan choked out.
After he gave the phone off to Montparnasse he downed the entire beer to cover up his nausea.
About an hour later Jehan found himself outside with Grantaire.
The two had taken to the back porch. Some of the party had spilled out on the lawn but it was mostly upperclassmen smoking weed in lazy circles. Their soft conversation drifted up onto the porch, a comforting sound. The air was getting cold but not enough to pierce their coats. The two friends were side-by-side on the steps. They shared a cigarette and a flask, warming themselves with some hard whiskey that made their tongues and skin tingle pleasantly.
"You can almost feel the riots in the air," smoke poured over Grantaire's lips as he spoke, slipping the cigarette back to grateful fingers.
"Do you think it'll get violent?" Jehan inquired, getting more courage with each sip.
"God I hope not," the artist pressed their shoulders together, arms hugged around his chest to try and conserve some warmth, "It's bad enough we got arrested. I'd hate to see Enjolras react to us getting involved in something violent. He still rants about that time he took 'Feryac to Brussels."
"He does," Jehan laughed weakly.
Grantaire let the cigarette dangle between his lips for a while in thought. From the faraway look in his eyes it was almost a guarantee he was thinking on his Apollo, the shining star that his world revolved around. It was enough to make his gut sour. He wanted Grantaire to think of him like that, to spout poetry of his beauty and sketch his eyes like it was as natural as breath. Jehan snatched the cigarette and leaned forward, taking advantage of the moment and pressing a kiss to his surprised mouth. It sent a new kind of warmth through him, the kind that reached your fingers and toes and made you breathless. The artist gasped in what he thought was pleasure but when he pulled away it saw it was just confusion.
"What was that for?" Grantaire laughed nervously.
Jehan swallowed thickly before stealing another kiss, this one harder.
"Darling poet," Grantaire started to protest, putting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back, "You really are a lightweight. No more for you tonight."
"I love you," Jehan admitted suddenly, surprising himself, "More than I can say."
The artist found himself truly at a loss for words.
"I know you love Enjolras and I know no one could ever measure up to him in your eyes, but-" he bit down on his lower lip to stifle any wavering, tears burning a threat just behind his eyes, "But the only thing I know is how much I care about you. He can't put you above France but I can. Your happiness is everything to me."
Grantaire's eyes were all rounded out, lips parted in a soft 'o' of realization. It made the poet desperate.
"I can't be him but maybe I could for you," it sounded pathetic but he needed to say something (anything) to make Grantaire see his heart was true, "Look!"
He grabbed the other's hand and brought it up into his hair, the hay-colored locks eating up his digits, "I grew my hair long like his, for you. I know it's stupid but I thought if you had me, you could pretend-"
Grantaire grabbed him by both sides of the head and kissed him rather soundly on the mouth, shutting him up.
"Never say that again," Grantaire begged, pulling away with a pained grimace, "You are worth so much more than someone's replacement. You deserve more than someone who's heart belongs to someone else."
Jehan shook his head, "I'm not. I would go through it for you, R, don't you see that?"
"Jesus," Grantaire cursed, lowering his hands until he could lace in his fingers in all of the other man's, "Just...just listen."
Jehan gripped him tight, nodding. He'd agree to anything as long as his friend didn't pull away.
"I know this will sound cliché but it's all so true," Grantaire began adamantly, "Enjolras has...he has my heart and soul. The moment he spoke to me I was blinded to all others. Even someone as handsome and endearing as you."
"Endearing," he tasted the word with a scowl, "Like a puppy."
"Like a lovely romantic with the kindest demeanor I've ever encountered," Grantaire corrected swiftly, "And whoever you chose to give your heart to should love you twice as much. They should be ready to take a bullet for you, to lay themselves out for you."
He nibbled on a rough spot along his bottom lip, "That person for me is Enjolras."
Jehan's lips pulled down sharply, eyes crinkling up in the corners. It was pure heartbreak and it made Grantaire so nauseas he choked.
"I'm trying to be gentle but my heart is cut up just looking at you," Grantaire confessed brokenly, "I don't want to hurt you, I swear this. Unrequited love stings so deeply. I know. I feel it everyday. We suffer together, cherie, and I'm sorry for that."
The romantic's chest shook dangerously, threatening to collapse in a sob.
"I wish I could love you," a tear trailed down Grantaire's pale cheeks, "If I could tear my heart back from Apollo, I would, for you. But I can't."
Jehan was crying quietly too, still holding on tight to his hands. It was the only anchor that kept them from making an embarrassing mess of themselves. They kept their composure but it was hard, the alcohol didn't help.
"It would be so easy with me," Jehan tried weakly.
"It would, wouldn't it?" Grantaire tried to smile but it hurt, "But every breath I take is for him and there's nothing I can do about it.
The blonde took his hands away and wiped his face, managing to keep anything fresh from springing up, "How do you live with this pain? This ache?"
Grantaire wanted to hug him but he stomped down that instinct, "You just do."
There was a sweet little chime from his phone. He dug it out of his pocket and unlocked the screen, flicking open the new text.
"I have to go," Grantaire got to his feet, just a hint of a frown on his mouth, "It's Enjolras. He wants me to meet him upstairs in the guest room for some reason. I'm sorry, it sounds important."
It must've been about the changed contacts or switched languages. Of course Enjolras would think it Grantaire, he always got the blame for any speck of mischief.
Jehan nodded, feeling a rock settling in his gut as he handed the man his flask back, "One question?"
He nodded, almost afraid.
"Are we still friends?"
Grantaire knelt down and hugged him close, rubbing his cheek against the hay colored hair. Jehan leaned up into it, taking the embrace for what it was.
"Always," Grantaire promised, kissing his forehead, "I'll see you later, okay?"
"Maybe we can...?" but his voice died.
"Tomorrow, you and me, dinner at mine," Grantaire wiped another tear off the blonde's face, his tone light-hearted, "We'll watch Casablanca again and maybe this time you can convince me it's a romance movie."
He nodded tightly, "I can sure as hell try."
Grantaire stood once more and downed the rest of the flask, swaying on his feet when it went straight to his head. He headed up the stairs once he was steady and ran his fingers across the younger man's shoulder as he passed.
Jehan didn't stay on those steps long enough to finish the cigarette before he was rushing inside. Usually when he felt this sick inside like this he'd go to Grantaire to soothe his hurt or Enjolras to right the wrong, but neither were appropriate. There was a third, a protector.
Feuilly listened to the entire thing. He left out the part about Montparnasse and stealing the mobile but everything else spilled out. He replayed his confession to his friend and let him soak it up, evaluating it as one would a narrative. After he was done he took the offered bottle of water and let it cool his raw throat. He wasn't close to tears anymore but the rejection was tying knots up in his gut that he knew wouldn't go away for a while. Feuilly put an arm around him and brought him into his body. A couple knots loosened up.
"I don't understand Grantaire," Feuilly huffed, giving the boy's smaller shoulder a firm squeeze, "He's just another silly drunk artist in France. He's a walking cliché. You can run into anyone like him turning a corner too fast in Paris. He's not so special, kid, you'll find another."
Jehan nodded dejectedly, the arm coming up to twine around his neck and bring him close enough to get an affectionate nuzzle against his cheek.
"Try not to put so much stock in him," Feuilly nudged him again with his nose, finally drawing something like a smile out of him, "You're a splendid little poet and a wonderful boy. Don't let him steal all your love. Don't let him rob you of hope. You have a lot to give."
Joly joined them, cutting off their conversation. Combeferre and Enjolras came up shortly after. The topic turned toward the recent scandal at the university. Their Physics teacher, a well-known bachelor, had been caught red-handed sleeping with a fleet of female students. All willing, all of age, but certainly a moral blow to the school's reputation. Combeferre wrote for the newspaper and he was outraged, his voice ebbing and flowing with the certainty that it would take a year to recover any sort of pride. The school was precious to the quiet blonde, he knew all the teachers by their first names.
"You knew Corvin, didn't you?" Joly inquired.
"I did," there was a stern frown on the blonde's handsome face, "The moment I suspected he was passing the girls on physicality instead of merit, I gathered data and witnesses and presented my case to the school council."
Enjolras chuckled heartily, "You should have seen him. He was quite stern and fearsome. I was proud to sit next to him."
"And I'm proud of you for not butting in and trying to take over the whole proceeding," Combeferre clinked their beers together, "Though we can't change what happened, we can make damn sure it won't happen again. No one will even think of touching another student for a good five years. I can almost guarantee it."
Enjolras was about to add something but it slipped his mind when someone tapped his shoulder. It was a badly done bottle blonde with big, dark eyes and a cute mouth. She had her arms tucked behind her back to emphasize the curve of her plump chest. It took a moment for him to realize it was Helena, Thenardier's long-time girlfriend. The two were a scuzzy couple that hung around the Patron-Minette but they were harmless enough with their petty theft at bars. As long as they stayed away from the Musain or Les Amis, the ABC let them be.
"Enjolras?"
"Helena," the blonde nodded politely.
"I'm sorry, sir, I think this is yours," she was playing coy as her hand came out and unfurled to reveal a phone, "I found it on the table."
Enjolras patted his back pocket with a sharp frown, "That's not funny."
Helena only smiled as she dropped it into his palm.
"Hey!" Feuilly shot his hand out and grabbed her tight by the wrist, "If I catch you or that slimeball you call a boyfriend snatching up our stuff again, your both in for a good thumping."
"Oh, Feuilly, I didn't know you cared!" Helena gave a girly squeal, throwing herself into his surprised arms, "I'll bring the handcuffs if you supply the wine!"
She laughed in his face and spun away, weaving and blending back into the small crowd.
Feuilly pulled a face and wiped his hands off on his shirt, "Greasy little trollop, isn't she?"
"Nasty little brat," Enjolras opened his phone and skimmed through it, finding everything intact, "If I go through this tomorrow and find even one thing out of place, I'll drown them both and be done with it."
"Here, here," Joly took a drink to that.
Jehan's fingers were nervously playing with the label of his beer, unease crawling through him.
Grantaire passed by a girl from one of his art classes and took the beer she tossed to him, twisting off the top and sucking down a bit with an exaggerated moan.
"Nectar from a goddess!"
She laughed and turned back to her friends, telling them who he was. Grantaire considered to sup from the bottle as he made his way to the second – no, third – guest bedroom. Enjolras said to meet him there, that he had something to show him, and that he had better move his ass. It was on the second floor and most of the party had left it alone considering it was mostly locked bedrooms (Lesgle didn't want any sex in the house, it was like the only rule). Maybe his fearless leader had found someone in trouble or someone had broken something and he was looking for the culprit. He hadn't seen any of the ABC on the way inside. Maybe they were clustered together in the room?
Grantaire grabbed the doorknob and tested, finding it open. He swung open the door with a flourish, walking in without reserve. It was dark and he squinted to help his eyes adjust.
"And what have you to show me, Apollo?" he barely got the words out before his mouth was flooded with the taste of his own blood. The fist hit him out of nowhere, sending him staggering. Hands reached out and grabbed him, dragging him further into the room. He was pulled up close to a square jaw and dull brown eyes.
"Gu-Gueulemer?" Grantaire stuttered, meaty fingers sinking into his lapel and pulling him up until he was on his toes. He pushed at the stalwart fists, feet kicking blinding at shins, teeth snapping to try and grasp a knuckle, but it was to no avail. He had no leverage.
Babet appeared before him like a ghost, thin fingers grasping just right at each side of jaw bone to make it fall open. The skinny bastard slipped two more digits into his mouth, pushing something bitter past his tongue and down into his throat. He gagged hard around the small, round tablets but he could feel the heavy drop of them into his stomach. He'd had this before, he knew what this was. He'd only tried it twice and both times he'd reacted badly to it. So badly he had been forced to call Joly, the second time he'd been crying.
MDMA. Ecstasy.
"Just a little something to help you relax," Babet's oily whisper did little to ease his nerves.
Gueulemer released one fistful of his shirt only to spin him around, twisting his arm so high up his back that it made him arch. He had more stable footing but nothing to give him a one-up. He knew the routine. Be quiet, don't give them anything, let them threaten and punch you, and then they'd let you go. Montparnasse was watching with his arms crossed just a few feet away, a more serious intent in his eyes than usual.
This wasn't a dust up.
"I think you dropped this, R," Claquesous came up on his other side, beer in hand, "Wouldn't want it to go to waste. Allow me."
The lip of the bottle tilted toward him with purpose, touching his mouth. Grantaire clamped his jaw shut and shook his head, refusing it. Babet cocked an eyebrow at him and raised his fingers threateningly.
"No, no, no," Montparnasse tisked disapprovingly, "You mustn't make us feel rude for not letting you finish. Wash it down."
Grantaire felt a fine tremble go through him. There was a faint ticking in the room from a clock but it felt internalized, like a timer. Sooner rather than later with that dosage. Who knew what the drug had been cut with let alone the milligram count. How much had they given him? If he could just get to his phone he could call Joly, he always answered his phone. He still had use of one hand. He could do it.
The artist parted his lips and Claquesous tilted the beer between them. He tried to make a show of it, keeping his lashes low and drinking it slow. As expected, Gueulemer loosened his hold just a bit at his compliance. He arched his back just a little more, tilting his head enough to show off his neck as his hand inched toward his pocket. He looked over to see Montparnasse staring at his bobbing throat. The man had a thing for them, he'd seen the marks he'd left on the necks of a few poor girls. His thumb edged into his pocket, brushing the smooth plastic of his phone.
Babet grabbed his wrist, his thumb digging hard into the underbelly of his wrist. Grantaire's hand spasmed sharply and the phone dropped to the floor with a sharp clatter. The beer was taken from his mouth to be replaced with a swift back hand that made his jaw sting.
"You little shit," Montparnasse laughed in amazement, "You actually think I was going to let you off that easy?"
"Just get it over with," Grantaire spat, "You're not going to do anything new."
"No?" those eyes glinted, "Are you sure?"
That sent a wash of cold through him. They were forming a circle around him, just the four of them but enough to outnumber him by far. He took a quick stock of his body. His arm was starting to cramp and his knees were a bit watery from the alcohol. It would only get worse.
"Fuck you guys!" there was a new desperation in his voice, "I don't know what you want but you're not going to get it from me. I don't know shit! I mean, look at me, 'Parnasse? Who in their right minds would tell me anything?"
"Oh shut up," Montparnasse rolled his eyes, "You can be so stupid, R. We're not here for your petty little group. I only want one thing and it rises above all else."
The artist's brow pinched up, "What? What have I got that you could want?"
"I want Enjolras," that handsome face twisted with a nasty scowl, eyes haunted by every ill word and action he'd exchanged with the revolutionary, "More importantly, I want him and everything he cares about broken and burnt at my feet. I want him humiliated and discredited."
Pale fingers came up and caught a single raven curl between them, and to his credit he didn't flinch, "And where else to start than his loyal lapdog?"
Grantaire shook his head but couldn't voice a protest, dreading seizing up his throat.
"We know you're fucking," Claquesous finished off the beer, "We thought he was a little too high class for you until we saw that little scene in the kitchen."
"Who knew Enjolras would slum so hard?" Babet laughed openly, still holding onto his wrist, "I thought he'd have a better predilection in bed partners."
"We shouldn't judge," Montparnasse scolded light-heartedly, "It's just not polite. We can agree upon his sweet mouth, can we not?"
"His skin's soft," Gueulemer grunted, "Smells nice too."
"See? There we go!" Montparnasse gestured at the flushed artist, "He may be a dizzy idealist with unrealistic ambition but he has some taste."
The ridiculousness of the situation, "So which is it?"
It actually threw off the man, "What?"
"Which is it?" Grantaire repeated with a simper, "Are you stupid or just plain blind?"
"Ha, funny," Montparnasse punctuated his sentence with a swift punch to his right side. He swallowed down a low groan. He'd taken worse but the bruises his brother had given him had lingered and they protested to the strike. It had only been, what, two weeks? It didn't hurt when he breathed anymore but he was sure it would after tonight.
"So stupid," he huffed out, curling in on himself as best he could with the dull blonde brute holding him with a renewed strength, "Enjolras wouldn't touch me."
Full lips quirked, "Not after we're through with you, he won't."
"Just not the face," Grantaire snarked, putting on a brave face in spite of the nausea he could feel welling up within him, "Or the fingers. That's how I make my money and no one's going to forgive you if you break them."
"So cocky," Montparnasse hissed through his teeth, fingers lashing like snakes to fist up his hair and force his head to the side, "But you've always been a little spitfire, haven't you? Always nipping on Enjolras's heels, always panting for some attention. So shameless in the way you flaunt yourself at the bars."
"What do you want from me?" Grantaire repeated, steadying his gaze upon the older man. He yanked his head away and some hairs gave way but he needed to see his eyes. They were unusually polished with just the light from the street lamps pouring in from the windows. To think, he used to think this man handsome. If he'd had any doubts before that Montparnasse was the devil in disguise they were gone now.
The older man's face smoothed out, that mask of calm slipping back on, "That's what I want from you, Grantaire. I want your precious Apollo to see that shamelessness. I want him sickened at the sight of you. I want him to spurn every touch and kiss you could ever offer."
Grantaire tried to pull away but the hulking man behind him held firm. Montparnasse's hand slid down to cup his cheek in a wholly different touch, the pressure of fingertips just under his jaw agonizingly tender.
"I want him to look at you and think of me. I don't think that's much to ask," his hand dropped limply to his side, "We have a few minutes to kill and I want him tender. Pin him down and keep him there."
Yay, cliffhanger!
Two quick things. One, I will be making a second fanmix for this series since I found more songs and I think a twenty track playlist is too much. Second, a changed 'Jean' to 'Jehan' because I've grown a fondness for that spelling. Same dude, don't worry.
If you want to see what the Patron-Minette look like head over to my profile and there's a couple links. Plus the link to the fanmix. I really do suggest reading this fic on ao3 for direct links.
Review maybe?