This particular evening was not one that contained any strange happening at the Café Musain – a meeting by Les Amis and nothing more.
Enjolras planned; Combeferre advised; Courfeyrac kept the morale of the group high.
Grantaire drank, as he generally did, to excess, and spoke, as he generally did, with a skeptic’s nerve. By now, late in the evening, even the most dedicated of the Friends were growing weary, but Grantaire seemed as alert as ever. Perhaps he had not gone to absinthe that night; he parried every word said by Enjolras, it seemed, with a sober man’s aplomb, even as his jug was clearly emptying.
One particular quip set Enjolras’s tongue to chastisement, and he said, “Grantaire, put that bottle down!”
Grantaire arched an eyebrow him, tipping it back to take a long draught – indeed, it seemed he aimed to finish it, as he swallowed once, twice, three times, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the pulls. Then, he pulled the top of the bottle from his lips, which were reddened from the wine like the rouges of a common dockside prostitute. If Enjolras thought of such things, he perhaps would find it fetching on one of those women, but he refused to give Grantaire that kind of thought.
It would not, could not end well.
Presently, Grantaire placed the bottle on the table, then flourished half a bow from where he was seated. His eyes danced with merriment, and Enjolras turned away, trying to steady his frustration with the other man. There was very little, after all, to set this particular night at the Musain as being anything different from every night before and every night after. Only a Grantaire whose drunkenness made him sharp instead of dulled his attention, only an Enjolras futilely attempting to keep thoughts of rouges and wine at bay.
Enjolras continued with the meeting, refusing to meet Grantaire’s eyes – which he felt on him without cease from the moment they parted gazes last. Enjolras was not sure the other man so much as blinked.
Eventually, the meeting came to an end – it is not the meeting so much as what followed it that remains memorable to those involved – and the other men began to file out of the Musain – excepting Joly and Bossuet, who would be spending their night with Musichetta. They ascended several floors, beyond sight or hearing, and the others departed entirely. Enjolras was not entirely certain where.
He stopped Grantaire, though, his hand on the other man’s shoulder making Grantaire stumble. He was drunk, then, but not on absinthe, if Enjolras’s reckoning was right.
“Yes?” Grantaire addressed him, almost imperiously.
“Grantaire, would you do me a service?” Enjolras replied, forcing his tone businesslike. Wine still clung to Grantaire’s lips, and the red of them drew Enjolras’s eye as surely as any flag they could have procured in similar color.
“Anything. Black your boots.” Grantaire’s smile was wicked and disdainful.
Enjolras tightened his jaw. “Perhaps you should,” he said, calling Grantaire’s bluff. Grantaire had neither the means, the little skill, nor the inclination to shining Enjolras’s boots, and they both knew it.
Each knew the other knew it as well, but Grantaire’s eyes only widened a hair before he settled again, stepping closer to Enjolras. “What was the favor you would ask of me, oh Apollo?”
“Black my boots,” Enjolras replied, impassive.
Grantaire smirked. “I’ve no oil. I’ve never shined a shoe in my life.”
“Then you were lying?” Enjolras turned a mock-disdainful eye on his companion, keeping himself strictly under control. “I do my best to avoid keeping company with liars, Grantaire.”
“You most oft keep out of the company of drunks,” Grantaire pointed out, but there was an uneasiness in his expression now. Enjolras felt a surge of triumph that was perhaps unkind – he was good at being unkind to Grantaire, and he knew it well enough, but more than that, he liked to win at these kinds of sharp-witted duels. “And yet, you clasped my arm and asked me for my service.”
The last word sounded obscene as it fell from Grantaire’s red lips and into the air between them. Enjolras tensed and tried to hide it, despite how near it was that they were standing.
“Service you then refused,” he managed, refusing to break their eye contact. “I would think you afraid of failure, if I did not know you better.”
“Failure?” Grantaire asked. “I do not think one can fail at shining shoes – poor children do it.”
Enjolras had him. “Then why should you refrain?”
“I have no oil.”
“I’ve been told some do it with spit, when oil is scarce.” Enjolras shrugged one shoulder loosely. “Now what is it, Grantaire? Liar or coward?”
Grantaire’s eyes flashed, and it was as if something had awoken – as if something had been struck awake in the recesses of the man’s mind. “I would think that you knew me better than to challenge me in this, Enjolras,” he said, and curled his hand around the bend of Enjolras’s elbow.
Enjolras allowed himself to be walked backward and pushed down into the chair that Grantaire himself had vacated only minutes ago. The café was empty but for them, and the silence weighed on Enjolras, because Grantaire was not prone to silence, particularly not when slighted as Enjolras was slighting him tonight. But for that last line, however, Grantaire said nothing, just looked at him for a moment as if to memorize his countenance.
Then he dropped to his knees in front of Enjolras, graceless but quick about it, and met Enjolras’s eyes again. “You think little of me, and will think less of me for this.”
“You know me not,” Enjolras retorted. “You know nothing.”
“What was your intention, keeping me here?” Grantaire asked, suddenly, lips twisting. “Before this play began, you had a reason for this.”
Enjolras did not look away from him. “You have done much to undermine me, much to disobey.”
“And you thought a favor would make me more obliging?” Grantaire smirked. “You know me not.”
Enjolras looked at him, his expression calculated to be unimpressed. “You dawdle,” he said, prodding Grantaire with the toe of his boot.
Grantaire looked affronted. “I hear the bourgeois take to grinding the poor and dispossessed under their heels. I do not think you should like to be likened at all to them – but look at you.”
“Silence,” Enjolras ordered, his voice thickening with anger.
“One always knows the Gods to be incapable of kindness,” Grantaire mused, ignoring him. “And how easily one can be thrown aside when they cease to be of use to those old monsters.”
But, almost belying the words, he took one of Enjolras’s booted feet into his hands before setting it in his lap. Enjolras by now was not expecting anything to come of this, and it took much restraint not to start at the movement. Grantaire was not gentle.
The sound of Grantaire spitting into his hands cracked almost gunshot-loud in the silence, and Enjolras felt almost in over his head – he had expected none of this.
He did not know what he had expected, but it had not been this.
This remained, though, and any man as bent on revolution as Enjolras was could handle a little insurrection in his own ranks. He looked down at Grantaire contemplatively, and when he spoke, it was with the attitude of a man who has made a decision.
Grantaire stopped immediately, as if by reflex. A look of consternation crossed his face, and he returned to his work, working the saliva into the leather of Enjolras’s boot with artist’s hands.
“Cease,” Enjolras repeated, though he didn’t attempt to make the other man stop –that wouldn’t mean anything. Either Grantaire would obey or he would not, and that was not up to Enjolras to alter in the end. He, for his part, remained utterly still but for the order.
And Grantaire ceased.
Enjolras once again felt a surge of triumph at the way Grantaire finally obeyed him, hands slipping from his boot. He extended his leg over Grantaire’s shoulder and examined the way the low candlelight hit it.
“I suppose my work is sub-par, as usual?” Grantaire asked, a bitterness suffusing his voice.
Enjolras tightened his jaw briefly. Grantaire was prone to disappointing him, yes, with dissent and disobedience and perpetual drunkenness, but this was not bait that Enjolras needed to rise to. Not tonight, with something heavy in the air between them.
“Au contraire. It seems I have a use for you beyond dissent,” he said instead, slowly retracted his knee and placing his foot down almost against the side of Grantaire’s thigh.
This was dangerous.
Enjolras did not pursue grisettes — he knew the others joked he did not even know what woman was. Neither did he seek to fumble in the dark with other men; rarely did the thought of sex even occur to him, unless romance be consuming one of his friends in such a way as to render them incapable.
But this, with Grantaire kneeling before him and the words so heavy with innuendo, this was dangerous with desire. He was glad to be sitting; he felt his legs would be quaking if he stood, and he could not show weakness now, not with the position he was in. Grantaire would see it, would suddenly know intimately what it was that Enjolras was feeling here, and that, that Enjolras could not abide.
There was no way Grantaire could hold dominion over Enjolras, even in this.
Presently, the man stared at him, measuring, attempting perhaps to understand the flightiness of Enjolras’s choices here tonight.
“And what use, Apollo, might that be?” His voice was low; here, Grantaire made no pretenses.
Enjolras lolled his head sideways, just a little. “You seem to be well suited to being on your knees,” he said clearly, boldly. After all, boldness was the lifeblood of the revolution, and he most often tried to embody that lifeblood. Why, in the end, should this be any different?
Grantaire breathes in harshly through his nose, as though he had not expected Enjolras to speak of this so close to outright. His whole posture tightened, looking almost as though he could rise and flee at any moment — but, Enjolras knew, he would not. Not from this, because Grantaire had obeyed him, naturally, as if there were nothing simpler or more obvious for him to do.
“You mock me,” Grantaire growled instead, and a thrill rushed down Enjolras’s spine. He had the other man, now, he knew it. He could do as he wished with him.
“Do I?” Enjolras asked, lightly as he could. “How so?”
“You know. You must, or you would not have done this.” Grantaire’s voice was bitter, his eyes downcast. “You mock me for what I would do.”
Enjolras stifled a swallow. “And what, pray tell, would that be?”
“Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,” Grantaire muttered. “Pedicare, to sodomize. Irrumare — we have no clean word for that.”
“Sodomy is hardly clean,” Enjolras said softly, one hand finally coming down to settle on the side of Grantaire’s head, tangling in his dark, lush curls. “But the Romans can be looked to for much, especially when building a republic.”
It was a flimsy excuse for this, at best. Flimsier by far than Grantaire’s drunkenness had ever been.
“You’d let me fuck you for the sake of Patria?” Grantaire asked, the profanity cracking across the quiet. Enjolras wondered if his mouth would taste as bitter as his voice still sounded. “You’d do anything for your mistress, I presume.”
Enjolras tightened his hand in Grantaire’s hair. “Somehow I do not think I would be the one being fucked.”
Grantaire hissed. “You know not what you say.”
“I am not a child, Grantaire,” Enjolras said, voice soft and dangerous. “I have twenty-two winters at my back. I simply chose Patria over other pleasures.”
He pulled Grantaire’s face closer between his legs. “This should prove, at least, I am a man.”
“You would torture me to death.”
“A little death,” Enjolras admitted.
Grantaire’s laugh was halfway to a sob. “You cannot know what you do,” he said harshly. “You cannot.”
“Then leave, if I know so little. If I am wrong, tell me so.” Enjolras released Grantaire, hand settling now on his own thigh. “I will think no less of you for it.”
Less of himself, certainly, for misjudging Grantaire, for allowing himself to want in futility. But not less of Grantaire.
“You cannot think less of me,” Grantaire said. “What am I but the drunk, the pitiful man who cannot even truly deny you anything? I’ve earned none of your respect, and certainly have I none of it.”
Enjolras moved quickly, on instinct, and dragged Grantaire upward until the man was sprawled above him, hands slamming down on the table behind Enjolras to keep himself on his feet. He gave the other man no time to recover before he growled, “You misjudge yourself, and misjudge me.”
Grantaire shuddered. “Then what, Apollo? What judgment should I make?”
“Your retreat into the drink does not increase your faculties, but they are considerable, even drunk. You can match wits with the best of us when you choose. Did I not say one of your uses is dissent?” Enjolras forced the other man to meet his eyes. “For all I disapprove of your drinking, I very much respect your mind. I would be a fool not to.”
“You have fooled me in that regard,” Grantaire said through gritted teeth as he hung in the air over Enjolras. “I know nothing of your mind or your regard, such as it may be said to exist.”
Enjolras gripped the front of Grantaire’s waistcoat. “I knew not what was being missed. It did not occur to me that I must be held so high in your regard.”
“I do not know how you could have missed it. What with me returning time and again, despite being so clearly uninterested in your cause except to mock it — how could you possibly have not known,” Grantaire whispered this, almost in a frenzy. “Your obliviousness would be the death of me.”
“Don’t speak of any death but la petit,” Enjolras said quietly.
The danger of the cause pressed down around them for a moment, a sudden dread enveloping Enjolras. “I would that you not die for a cause in which you do not believe.”
“It would not be for that,” Grantaire muttered. “But please, do not speak on this any longer.”
“Very well,” Enjolras said, pulling Grantaire a little closer. “Kiss me, Grantaire,” he ordered, pretense falling away entirely now.
Grantaire did, slowly, as if savoring both the kiss and the permission given in it. Enjolras slid his hand up Grantaire’s chest to draw it around to tangle it in Grantaire’s hair, pressing their mouths together harder. He was a man who had made a decision.
When they broke apart for breath, Grantaire was pliant above him, recovering carefully.
“You kiss like one who has kissed many,” Enjolras muttered, trying to crush out the jealousy that seethed under his skin for it. “I don’t like it.”
“And you kiss like a virginal maiden,” Grantaire shot back. “I do like it.”
Enjolras kissed him again, taking control entirely as he slid his free hand to grip Grantaire’s thigh. For all his inexperience, he was a quick study in most things, and in this he was no different. Grantaire shivered under his touch, like he had no idea what he was doing; Enjolras responded with a squeeze to that thigh and a tighter hold on Grantaire’s hair.
“Fuck,” Grantaire gasped.
“We’ll get to that,” Enjolras assured him, voice barely less than completely stable. “Certainly, we will get to that.”
He stood, taking Grantaire with him. The other man yielded easily under his hands, stumbling back when he pushed him to the wall and pressed him against it. “Remain still,” he muttered.
Then he moved his hands lower, passing a hand against the front of Grantaire’s trousers. The man was erect, and made a strangled noise when Enjolras touched him. But he did not move, and Enjolras’s smile against his neck was positively wicked.
“What is your aim?” Grantaire asked, his voice tight.
“What would you think?”
“You would kill me.”
“Again, only a little death.” Enjolras pressed his hand against the bulge in Grantaire’s trousers, now, rubbing at it. “I’ve heard it can be quite enjoyable.”
Grantaire yelped. “You have never…?”
“Never,” Enjolras muttered, and worked to unbutton Grantaire’s trousers and then his drawers beneath them, circling the base of Grantaire’s shaft with his hand. “It never seemed necessary.”
“And this?” Grantaire gasped.
Enjolras drew his teeth down and across Grantaire’s throat. “Necessary,” he deadpanned, pulling at Grantaire’s prick, now.
Grantaire hung his arms around Enjolras’s neck and tried to simply hold on.
“You will not release yet,” Enjolras muttered. Not that he didn’t want to see Grantaire fall apart, but he did want to watch it happen after lengthy denial — after all, Grantaire had been nigh unbearable tonight. Punishment was in order, he decided.
Grantaire made a noise of pleasure and despair, and went even more pliant in Enjolras’s arms. “Fuck,” he almost whimpered.
“Again, soon.” Enjolras muttered, carding his free hand through Grantaire’s curls.
“But when,” Grantaire groaned.
Enjolras slowed his strokes, kissing at Grantaire’s jaw. “Would you do me a service?”
“Me fellare,” Enjolras ordered.
Grantaire gasped, and Enjolras was vaguely certain that he’d come dangerously close to ejaculating right then and there. He looked hazy with lust, with need, and he slid to the floor, one hand clasping Enjolras’s hip, before murmuring, “If you’ll permit it.”
Enjolras smirked, his hand pressing against Grantaire’s where it held his hip. He said nothing, but backed against the wall — he couldn’t let himself lose himself too much and fall — the wall would have to do.
“By God in Heaven,” Grantaire mumbled, then his fingers began to fumble at Enjolras’s trousers and his breeches.
Enjolras was half-hard with want, and the reaction Grantaire had to the revealing of his prick brought him up to full-staff — he thought to himself that that kind of naked desire in a partner’s eyes would do the same for any man so inclined.
Grantaire leaned in, almost hesitantly, and wrapped his lips around the head. Enjolras was not expecting it, at all, but he kept himself still but for wrapping his fingers in Grantaire’s hair, holding tightly on to the other man — as much as a form of controlling Grantaire as it was to control himself. It felt good, so good, and it took immense control to not thrust into that tight, wet heat.
But losing control could not be borne — Enjolras had a feeling that Grantaire wanted this, wanted to be pressed hard into whatever this was. And far be it from Enjolras to deny him, not now.
He tightened his grip even harder, pulling just a little. Grantaire let out a whine that was all pleasure, that fell off into a moan that vibrated in his throat, teasing at Enjolras’s cock. It was heaven, it was hell — for all Enjolras knew, it was a Free France — and Enjolras wanted to press further into that delicious sensation.
He looked down, and Grantaire was staring at him, wide-eyed wonder almost seeming out of place with his lips stretched obscenely around Enjolras’s prick.
Grantaire met his eyes and then lowered his own, taking more of Enjolras’s cock into his mouth. The dark-haired man looked to be a fallen angel himself, and Enjolras knew through the haze of lust threatening to overwhelm him, that Grantaire must have believed himself to be corrupting a saint or a divinity — which was untrue; Enjolras was, and had always been, every inch neither more nor less than a man, flesh and blood and bone and now, now this singing need in him.
His hips shifted of their own accord, before he could stop himself, and Grantaire almost choked on his prick, eyes watering. But the man remained, not so much as inching backward. He waited a moment, and then, wonder of wonders, pressed forward even more.
Presently, his nose was buried in the hair at the base of Enjolras’s shaft, and it took everything in the latter man not to either cry out or attempt to thrust again.
He dare not hurt Grantaire, he dare not.
Instead, he loosened one hand from the other man’s hair so as to cup his face with it — the touch perhaps too tender for this obscenity, so close to the one that there was no longer a word for — and tried to draw Grantaire’s attention back upward, to his face.
“Have I hurt you?” he found himself asking.
Grantaire stared up at him, and Enjolras saw fear in his eyes, as if he feared having been hurt, as if that would somehow displease Enjolras and end this, whatever this strange thing actually was.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras said, trying to reason with him. “I would not that I do you any harm.”
The man finally pulled back, and he laughed bitterly as soon as his mouth was no longer occupied. “Why begin with such concern now?”
Enjolras pulled him to his feet, not bothering to tuck himself back into his trousers even though he doubted anything else could come of this tonight — not with Grantaire growing swiftly more irate. “Grantaire,” he said softly, warningly, “What can I do?”
“Fuck me, Apollo. That is what you can do. Fuck me, and lead your revolution, and go back to whatever it is the gods do when they deign not to touch mortal flesh.” Grantaire turned.
“I am mortal flesh, Grantaire!” Enjolras said, perhaps too loud. But Joly and Musichetta and Bossuet were not likely to have heard them, their ménage occupying them too thoroughly; so Enjolras continued, now at a whisper: “This pedestal on which you place me is made of less than sand.”
Grantaire turned away, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. “So you would not accept what I am offering.”
“I know not what it is,” Enjolras said fiercely. “What is it that you are so eager to give me?”
The word was crisp, clear, and brooked no argument. It bespoke the image of Grantaire on his knees, of Grantaire obedient and pliant and opening up for him, to accept whatever Enjolras gave him and not to ask for a jot more.
Enjolras wanted it more than he’d ever selfishly wanted anything.
“But here, only,” he said quietly. “Only — only like this. Not around the others.”
He did not want Grantaire to become some loyal hound who barked in favor of everything he said — the Grantaire he l — he wanted was one who dissented, who forced Enjolras to tighten his arguments, because if he could convince Grantaire he could convince anyone at all.
But here? The idea of all of that argument snuffed right out of him?
It held more than the barest appeal, to move for understatement.
“Here, only,” Grantaire agreed, as if it went without saying — but it comforted Enjolras that it were said all the same. “I cannot be expected to hold my tongue constantly.”
“Not when I am aware of another use for it, no,” Enjolras said, glancing downward at where he still hung from his clothes — he’d gone mainly soft in this interlude, but his prick was filling again, twitching its interest as he looked very pointedly from it to Grantaire.
Grantaire was staring openly at Enjolras’s cock, as if he wanted nothing more than to return to his knees and continue sucking it.
Enjolras would not make it that easy for him. “Were you hurt — when I moved?”
“No,” Grantaire replied, his voice low and scratchy from want. “I — if you’ll permit it…”
“Irrumare,” Enjolras murmured. “That’s what you want from me, from this?” he asked, just to be sure; here, he could not afford another mistake, one that this time would drive Grantaire away entirely.
Grantaire nodded, swallowing.
“Then kneel, Grantaire,” Enjolras ordered, sliding back into that easy upper hand. He walked backward to the wall, but it was far from a retreat.
Grantaire stumbled forward, as if being pulled by the force of his desire. He dropped to his knees, forehead tipping against Enjolras’s thigh for a moment. He was pliant as Enjolras tangled fingers in his hair and moved his head to brush his cheek against Enjolras’s cock. It was good, so good, to have Grantaire like this, and Enjolras shuddered when Grantaire’s lips sealed around his cockhead, hips hitching.
“Fuck,” he muttered, because Grantaire simply took him, throat opening for Enjolras’s prick like he was made to do it.
He gave Grantaire what he’d said he wanted, hips pumping into the other man’s mouth as he lost himself in the sensation. He was in control, but he was still only human, and he’d never done anything remotely like this before. It was incredible, and even more so when he looked down to see Grantaire’s mouth stretched so obscenely around him.
Eventually, he tired of that, aroused but wanting something more. He pulled Grantaire off, hauling him up by the hair to kiss him on the mouth. The man tensed with surprise before relaxing into it, boneless with desire as Enjolras ravaged his mouth.
They broke for air, and Enjolras groped downward to press at Grantaire’s renewed erection. “I’m going to get you off,” he said, squeezing gently. “I’m going to make you unable to remember anything but my name.”
It was a boast, but Enjolras already felt he had something to boast about.
After all, he had Grantaire here, Grantaire who would obey him unconditionally in this context, and Enjolras knew that this was not something Grantaire gave lightly.
So Enjolras continued, working his fingers around and along Grantaire’s prick, coaxing little noises out of the other man. Grantaire was practically clinging to him now, moaning and whimpering with abandon as Enjolras worked him over with precision that even Enjolras himself was surprised at.
“I — close,” Grantaire choked out, head tipped forward on Enjolras’s shoulder. “I’mclose.”
Enjolras desisted. He wanted this to last, but he wasn’t sure what exactly he wanted to do. Grantaire’s helpless whimper of disappointment, though, moved him to kiss the man again, dragging his lips across his jaw as he pulled Grantaire’s head back to look him in the eye.
“I’m not very informed in this kind of sex,” he said quietly. “You do not appear to have this problem. I must require, then, an education in the subject, preferably with demonstrations.”
Grantaire stared at him. “You want me to teach you how to fuck?”
“Yes. Teach me, Grantaire.”
“I will — I will do my best.” Grantaire steadied himself, and then leaned in to kiss Enjolras gently, almost chastely. “I will do my level best to instruct you as you see fit.”
Enjolras smiled, eyes trained on Grantaire. “Perhaps a bit of theory, first?”
“Well,” Grantaire began quietly, “When it comes to pass that two men make the beast with two backs, there are, perhaps, ah, different avenues open to them than man and woman; as the immediately evident passage is not present in either participant.”
“Understood. Penetration, aside from sodomy, is therefore impossible.” Enjolras watched Grantaire’s reaction — the way the other man had to suppress a pleasured shudder when the word “sodomy” passed Enjolras’s lips — and couldn’t help but smirk, his hand trailing down to Grantaire’s cock again. “What recourse does that leave two men in need, who have neither the time nor the, ah, lubrication for a proper fuck?”
“You are a terrible student,” Grantaire groaned. “Your teachers must loathe you.”
“None of them have been in this particular situation, M. Grantaire,” Enjolras muttered, squeezing gently before retracting his hand again. “It is a most peculiar tutelage.”
At the honorific “Monsieur,” Grantaire flushed bright red. When he spoke again, there was a stammer in his voice: “In answer to your question, young M. Enjolras, there are several possibilities. The hands may be employed to pull at each others’ pricks, for example.”
Grantaire reached down and drew his fingers along Enjolras’s cock, almost teasing. Enjolras hitched his hips impatiently. “Yes, that much I know.”
“Patience, Monsieur,” Grantaire mumbled. “There is also the mouth, which you are well-acquainted with by now as well. But if you require another demonstration, that can certainly be arranged.”
Enjolras smirked and pulled Grantaire closer to whisper in his ear, “I believe the practical application of theory is most important. To the wall, teacher.”
Grantaire’s eyes went wide. “Enjolras — I —”
“Sh, Grantaire. Obedience.”
Grantaire stilled, eyes still wide and round almost as saucers, and he allowed Enjolras to press him against the wall. He looked perplexed and somewhat frightened.
“I would have your cock in my mouth, if you are amenable,” Enjolras murmured.
“Y-yes,” Grantaire almost squeaked, and that was that.
Enjolras dropped to his knees, expression intentionally wicked. At this distance, Grantaire’s prick seemed larger, but Enjolras refused to worry — after all, Grantaire had managed Enjolras’s own size with relative ease; it was only fair for Enjolras to make the attempt.
He leaned in and gently kissed the head, dragging his lips across it as lightly as he could before it could be considered tentative. Grantaire’s foreskin was pulled back most of the way, the head flushed deep red with desire — redder than the apples of Grantaire’s cheeks had been when this had all begun.
Enjolras took the head in his mouth softly, teasing. He dragged the flat of his tongue against it, then lapped around the sides, before taking a little more. His touch was as light as he could manage it, and he glanced up at Grantaire to find the man staring at him, wild with need — his thighs were twitching, as well, and Enjolras felt a surge of lustful pride at that, that he could test Grantaire’s control —
— that he could drive Grantaire to restraint.
He pulled back, then pushed down, as Grantaire had before, trying to take more. It was frustrating — his body’s instinct was to gag at the intrusion, and Enjolras almost choked twice before he gave in, pulling off and dropping back onto his haunches before standing up.
Grantaire looked like the world had been torn apart and rebuilt underneath his feet. He was debauched, mussed, and seemed utterly poleaxed by the circumstances.
“May I take that as a good mark, M. Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, practically purring the words into Grantaire’s ear. This was not difficult, this bestowal of salacious words and obscene touches, and Enjolras found himself, if he could trust Grantaire’s reaction, a natural talent for it.
“I think you already have, Monsieur,” Grantaire managed, hips hitching in thin air, obviously missing the tightness and the wet heat of Enjolras’s mouth.
“But am I right to?”
Enjolras smirked and drew his teeth down one of the tendons in Grantaire’s neck. “And what else must I be taught? It seems to me that there is more than just the hands, mouths, and asses to be fucked.”
“Take care, Enjolras, or I may spend all over your shirt and waistcoat,” Grantaire shot back.
“Ah, yes, we must take care in that regard,” Enjolras murmured. “But, all the same, teach me what there is to be taught. Then we both may spend where we please.”
Grantaire made a sound then, one of pleasure and dismay at once. When he spoke, his voice had gone past shaking back to steadiness, though it was clear to Enjolras that the man was on the edge of losing control entirely. Then, Grantaire said, “There is a way, ah, one favored by the Greeks, when they fucked. One would keep his thighs pressed together, and the other would nestle his prick between them, and fuck into the tightness created there.”
“To imitate penetration for the man doing the fucking,” Enjolras mused. “But what about he being so fucked?”
“One would presumably switch, if that were the preference of both partners, or they would resort to one of the other methods we have so far engaged in,” Grantaire replied, voice low. He reached down and skimmed a hand inside Enjolras’s trousers to hold his bare hip. “Does this interest you, Monsieur Enjolras?”
Enjolras was not sure when Grantaire had decided that ‘M. Enjolras’ was going to be the proper form of address for the situation, but it made a thrill run up and down Enjolras’s back to hear. “Yes, it does.”
“Then one of us must shed his trousers entirely, or else at least to his knees.” Grantaire’s voice was low and throaty with want, and Enjolras smirked. It was clear what Grantaire wanted, and Enjolras was entirely willing to give him that.
He hooked his hands under Grantaire’s trousers and pushed them down around the other man’s knees. Grantaire shivered, anticipation obviously driving his judgment.
“Like this?” Enjolras asked, hands dropping between Grantaire’s thighs, dipping over pale, soft skin.
Grantaire shuddered. “Yes.”
Enjolras leaned in to ravage Grantaire’s mouth, kissing him almost brutally. “I like what I can do to you,” he admitted, lips dragging across Grantaire’s jaw. Grantaire made an untranscribable sound of pleasure, and Enjolras smirked.
He wrapped a hand around his own cock and slipped it between those thighs. From the first thrust, the feeling of friction was incredible; his hips hitched instinctively, and he let out a soft moue of pleasure.
Grantaire whimpered at the friction as well, as Enjolras’s prick slid under Grantaire’s balls. It was a heady pleasure in and of itself, this driving Grantaire to distraction, and he swore to himself that this would happen again — this, this could be his only decadent luxury between now and the enacting of the Revolution. This, in a way, was revolution; no man would admit to this, but this, along with liberté, egalité, fraternité, this was worth living and dying for.
“What, what are you thinking about,” Grantaire managed, tightening his legs and briefly drive all thought from Enjolras’s mind.
“I find — I find that this, this is not something only to be done once, but rather in perpetuity.” Enjolras reached down, in response, and curled his hand around Grantaire’s cock and pulled on it gently, fingers teasing even as Enjolras drove his cock between Grantaire’s thighs.
“Fuck,” Grantaire gasped, hips hitching almost in time with Enjolras’s as they coupled.
There were no distinct words from either of them beyond that point, just the sound of skin on skin and the aborted syllabary of half-names and profanities moaned into air and whispered into skin, both of them fucking against each other and drawing ever closer to completion.
“I’m — I — I’m close,” Grantaire moaned, shuddering almost apart now.
“Then release, Grantaire,” Enjolras said in response, a bit breathless (which was in fact an understatement). “Release.”
Grantaire spent himself in Enjolras’s hand, thighs spasming around Enjolras’s prick and finally driving him over the edge as well.
Enjolras saw stars — no, cracking spiderwebs of light as he squeezed his eyes shut and orgasmed without a sound. His release coated the insides of Grantaire’s thighs, easing the friction some as Enjolras thrust a few more times, absently seeking out all of that same pleasure that he could.
As he came down from the high, he tipped his forehead against the wall and took a deep breath. His arms, somewhere in the midst of everything, had braced themselves under Grantaire’s, and the other man was almost collapsed in his arms, blissed-out and still shaking. He was a vision like this, Enjolras thought, sated and drunk, but drunk on something other than wine or absinthe.
“Thank you,” Grantaire mumbled, eyes fluttering open.
Enjolras was not sure how to respond to that — should he not be thanking Grantaire himself, for his obedience, for his trust?
“I must thank you as well, I think,” he murmured, pulling away a little to press a kiss against Grantaire’s slightly slack mouth. “Your instruction was elucidating, and I am grateful for your willingness to obey.”
Grantaire groaned. “You needn’t — anyone who had the chance would follow you into Hell.”
“But you are not merely anyone, Grantaire,” Enjolras whispered, sliding his hands down Grantaire’s sides soothingly — he could feel Grantaire relaxing into it almost against his will. “You don’t believe in anything.”
“You. I believe in you,” Grantaire replied, shivering.
“And that is a gift to be treasured — faith from the man who doubts everything.” Enjolras reached to tangle his hand in Grantaire’s curls. “I treasure it.”
Grantaire flushed. “For what little it is worth.”
“Much more than you think of yourself, Grantaire,” Enjolras reproved him. “If you applied yourself to your own confidence — you may find something worthy there, and so would others.”
“Cynic,” Enjolras murmured. “Now, we must clean off and take our leave — I am sure that Joly, Lesgles, and Mmslle. Musichetta will not necessarily be occupied much longer.”
Grantaire nodded. “Yes, I think — have I ruined your clothes?”
They found that neither had spent on any of each others’ clothing, but it was difficult for them to clean off, particularly the stickiness between Grantaire’s thighs, but they managed.
They parted, then, with a relatively chaste kiss.
When Les Amis met next, though, and Grantaire slipped a “M. Enjolras” into conversation, Enjolras had to restrain himself from untoward reaction, and swore to pay Grantaire back for it later.