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Grunting away the last vestiges of sleep, Grantaire, slick with sweat and sticking to the tangled sheets, shifted his body away from the enticing grip of the man with whom he shared his bed. He still had to remind himself, yes, you share your bed with him. And for some fucked up reason … he keeps coming back. He actually likes me. He claims he loves me. I know it’s not true, nobody can love me, not really, but … it’s something.
Before his mind could take off on its own, send himself down that path that almost ruined this more than once before, Grantaire shook his head and upset the unruly dark curls even further. He must’ve been a sight, next to him, the angel in his bed. In his chest, a weight settled; whether it was love, hate, pain, nerves, he couldn’t say. The painter could only be thankful that he arose first. Enjolras was a disgustingly late sleeper, on the best of days. As Grantaire lightly lifted the lithe hand from his shoulder, the simple contact of skin stilled his thoughts. As quietly as possible, he eased his larger body off the mattress, wincing as the small creak met his ears and his gaze flew to the blond man. He remained unstirred. Grantaire allowed a quick smile, something that used to be all too rare but was now a more confortable experience, fly across his lips. I’m so damn lucky. He couldn’t fathom what he did to deserve this. He needed to earn this, somehow.
Still yawning, Grantaire made his away across his apartment – nothing to be proud of, with wooden floors and paint-splattered walls and very little in terms of personal accouterments, the only thing to be proud of it was that Enjolras liked it – and took a quick respite in the bathroom (memories of last night flooding back in the mirror, bite marks on his neck, light bruises that marked him as owned by the one person he didn’t deserve and the only one who would claim him, chaffing around the wrists as proof they need to be more careful next time they had an impromptu scene, white stains on his boxers that were barely won, sore throats that surely woke a neighbor or three) before taking a survey of the kitchen.
He didn’t have many talents. Or, as his friends would insist, he didn’t display many of his talents. One thing he could do, however, was cook. The creation of something new from unique components, having creative control, knowing that mistakes are viable … cooking and painting along brought him that joy. He could breathe while he brought to life something new; it made him feel complete in a manner very few things could. It was how he showed his love.
Grantaire lost track of time. He pulled what meager ingredients he could scrounge up from the recesses of his cupboards, sliding aside bottles that lightly clinked and increased his caution for noise, lest his lover be awakened. Little did he care for the clanging and cacophony of the pans, though, as his soul was lost in the act as soon as the ingredients were assembled. A crepe, though easy, did require attention.
Intently focused on the batter in his pan, occasionally switching his attention to the cutting of fruits, Grantaire gave a start as a cold hand found its way to his shoulder, lightly cupping his defined trapezius – a fact Combeferre taught Enjolras, and he liked to point out that he liked it – that was soon joined by warm breath on his neck. The blond man, barely taller than Grantaire but much more lithe and lanky, rested his head on the shoulder opposite of his hand, and let it rest with eyes closed. It was mostly likely far too early for him, after the previous night’s excitement.
Grantaire continued to cook, trying his best to stand still at the oven as their two bodies maintained a warm contact, chest to back and face to neck. The fruit, he decided could wait to be sliced. A few minutes later, however, and Grantaire did need to move to complete the breakfast that was supposed to be a surprise in bed.
“My dearest of dear friends, I do fear I will need you to move.”
Enjolras chuckled, eyes still squeezed tight over a lazy smile. His breath was let out in a quick huff, warm and all too inviting even in the heat of the stove radiating off Grantaire’s bare skin. “You know that I don’t become an orator until the sun is in the fourth quadrant, so ease up on the language.”
“You are absurd. Now, get off me so I can give you this damn breakfast.” Enjolras was too smart for his own good, which Grantaire blamed Combeferre for. Those two were inseparable and rubbed off on each other in so many ways, they were beginning to become the same person. He shrugged the admirable shoulders to remove the weight of the other man and the warmth was immediately missed. Hiding the loss on his face, he turned quickly towards the cutting board on the island counter behind him, and caught sight of Enjolras, lightly muscled, pale, still in red boxer briefs, too-long hair (Grantaire begged him to get it cut and he agreed but didn’t seem to have the time for the past 6 months or so) pulled in a messy bun. He didn’t deserve that.
He picked up the knife with shaky hands and made rough cuts of kiwi, strawberries, peaches, and bananas, which he slid into a bowl to be ready to be placed inside the fragile pastry sheets. Without raising his glance, he muttered, “You should get back to bed so I can still pretend this surprise worked out like I planned.” I can’t even do breakfast in bed right. I work him up. Damn it.
Enjolras, tired as he was, was still able to pick up on the moods of his lover. To say he was imperceptive of naught but the revolution was doing him a disservice. It was clear that the other man was distraught, though Enjolras could not discern the reason. His small hand cupped Grantaire’s face and he applied just enough gentle pressure to make their eyes meet for the first time that morning.
“Grantaire, I don’t know what’s eating at you today, but I would love to be eating your amazing food and I don’t care where it’s being fed or if I am surprised or not.”
Muddy, mismatched hazel and blue eyes met the leader’s with trepidation. “I know, it’s just … I wanted to do something nice for you. I need to … ” He couldn’t ge the words out.
“Whatever you think you need to do to earn my love, it’s wrong. You don’t need to earn anything. I love you of my own free will.”
“I know you do, it’s just …”
“No, I want to talk to Grantaire, not his depression.” Enjolras was adamant on this point. He had been from the start.
“I’m fine. I’ll get over it.”
“Do you need more convincing? Here … ” Enjolras broke off his gaze and fell to one knee. “Marry me, Grantaire.”
After he caught his breath, Grantaire, just stared at his displayed form before tearing away his gaze. “You know we can’t. When the hell would you have time for marriage? Isn’t Patria more important?”
“It is,” he admitted with a slight grin. He propped himself up off the cold floor. He then moved to embrace Grantaire lightly, reveling in the shared warmth of their bodies yet again. “Someday, though, my love. I promise. When France is free.” Enjolras pulled his mouth up to Grantaire, peppering kisses along his neck and jawline before reaching his mouth.
Grantaire, though he could feel the stress melt away from his body, broke the kiss off. “Fair enough. Now, do as I say, and get into that damn bed before I push you there. These crepes are in-bed crepes only and if I serve them anywhere else, I’ll be in serious trouble.”
“I thought I usually did all the pushing around when bed was involved.”
Enjolras’ sly grin made Grantaire wish for last night all over again.
“Not today. You had your turn.” He forcibly turned Enjolras around and pushed him in the direction of the bed. As the blond all but skipped back to the mattress and the warmth of the heavy quilts, Grantaire called out after him. “Let me feed you, then we can talk about you being pushy in bed.”
A muffled yell from a revolutionary who was clearly already bundled under the blankets came in response, “I look forward to it. I really do, husband.” Grantaire could virtually hear the smile on his face.
He was sure it matched his own.