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The weather is unnaturally warm for February. It’s comfortable enough for just a dress shirt, Grantaire’s blazer jacket forgotten at the gallery. He adjusts his sleeves one more time, already folded up to his elbows, wanting nothing more than to remove his shirt and change into a loose comfortable one as soon as he gets home.
He smiles at the thought of home, the little family he’s made for himself and even now, with everything’s that’s happened, it still feels so surreal. Like he’s lucked out. Like this life belongs to someone else and it’s only a matter of time until the universe realises the mistake and takes everything from him.
He shakes his head, no use wallowing in misery. He knows that when push comes to shove, he’ll fight with everything he’s got to keep this, to keep them.
He arrives at their townhouse in half the time it normally takes. He takes the stairs two steps at a time and as soon as Grantaire steps in the entryway, a flurry of pink ballerina tutu and silky blonde hair launches itself at him. It knocks the breath out of him but he holds on. Fleur talks a mile a minute as Grantaire lifts her up and walks them towards the living room. She’s latched onto him, giving him playful kisses in between breaths and excited storytelling.
“Bonjour, ma petite,” he says, leaning back to have a proper look at her. She scrunches her nose and gives him a look of objection.
“Papa!” she exclaims, as if this isn’t the first time she’s scolding her father. “I’m not a little girl anymore. I’ve started cours préparatoire already. Uncle Courfeyrac says it’s a big girl school. And look,” she holds out her hand at him, “I’ve got a star today.”
On the back of her hand is a gold star sticker she proudly displays. She is the spitting image of her father, especially like this, all satisfied smile and confidence.
“All right, mon chou, forgive me,” he says and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Well done on the star, too.” He ruffles her hair and she squirms in his arms. Grantaire opts to put her down.
They walk further into the house and Grantaire starts to unbutton his dress shirt, with the intention of changing into something less stiff.
“Fleur, did Uncle Combeferre pick you up from school today?” he asks. She’s already resumed whatever she was doing in the living room, an array of toys, books, blank paper and colouring materials scattered all over the carpet and coffee table.
“No, papa. Father picked me up today,” she says without looking up from her drawing.
Hmmm, Enjolras is not due to be home until late tonight. That’s why they’d asked Combeferre to pick up Fleur from primary school because Grantaire had an unavoidable meeting with the gallery director where he’s got some art commissioned. He makes his way into their bedroom where he finds Enjolras curled up in bed, in only just his tracksuit bottoms and a white vest. He’s sound asleep, the slow, calm rise and fall of his breathing leaves Grantaire feeling at peace as well. Like the fatigue he’s felt the whole day just drains out of him. He removes his shirt, finally, and crawls into bed with Enjolras, making as little noise as possible.
From where they’re lying, Grantaire can just catch a glimpse of the name of their daughter tattooed on the left side of Enjolras’ chest. It’s inked in an intricate script, delicate swirls and bold strokes. It’s a seven-year-old tattoo, just as old as Fleur; a decision made spontaneously the day after they’ve brought her home from the hospital. It’s telling of just how much Enjolras is enamoured with their daughter, her name a physical presence above his heart.
Fleur changed them. They’d been together for years before she came into their lives. Their relationship is not as volatile anymore as it was in the beginning, but at that time, they were still establishing a sort of equilibrium between them. It was rocky before it got better. By the time Fleur Louise was born they’d reached a comfortable stage in their relationship. She smoothes Enjolras sharp edges and pulls Grantaire out of his dark moods. She’s a buffer as much as a catalyst and she inspires Grantaire and Enjolras to always do better, be better, for her.
It’s not all rainbows and sunshine though. There were rougher days. Especially at the beginning, when they were still figuring out how to be fathers. Grantaire would never admit it out loud but there were moments when he questioned whether they were ready, whether jumping into parenthood was such a good idea in the first place. But where there are uncertainties, there are also assurances. He has seen Enjolras’ belief in their capabilities, in the strength of their relationship. And as Fleur grows older, he sees the trust she willingly gives her parents. That validates their decision to form their little family.
He traces her name on Enjolras’ chest, gentle, almost a whisper on his skin. It’s still a marvel to him. They don’t lack inked skin between the two of them; Grantaire has massive feather wings tattooed on his back, extending to the backs of his arms, moving along with his limbs as if in flight. He’s got various arts, words, and patterns up and down his arms. And Enjolras, surprising – or not at all – as it was at the beginning, has the French national motto - Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, ou la Mort - written on the inside of his right arm.
But this one, this one art that Enjolras was resolute to get is the most meaningful of them all.
Enjolras stirs and Grantaire holds still, as if caught. When Enjolras opens his eyes, he smiles at him and just places his hand on top of the tattoo.
“Wake up, sunshine,” Grantaire teases. “You won’t get much sleep tonight by the rate you’re going.”
“Mmmm, I can think of better things to do tonight, if you’re amenable.” Enjolras smirks. He presses a kiss against Grantaire’s lips, one hand cradling Grantaire’s face. Enjolras’ wedding band is cold against Grantaire’s warmer skin and Grantaire feels elated at the feel of it. The kiss starts out soft and languid but it soon turn teasing and full of intent.
Grantaire moves his hands to Enjolras’ hips to bring them flushed together, loving the comfortable heat his husband is emanating. He feels Enjolras tangle his fingers into his hair, pulling just enough to make Grantaire groan. He kisses Enjolras’ jaw, moving down to his neck and working a bruise somewhere between his neck and shoulder. All the while, Enjolras is making whimpering noises as Grantaire grinds against him.
Enjolras flips them over and straddles Grantaire; he catches Grantaire’s lips to his again, drawing out a satisfied moan from his husband. Grantaire slides his hands under Enjolras’ vest with the intention of removing them when Enjolras unceremoniously sits up, both hands on Grantaire’s chest to hold him down. There’s a protest at the tip of his tongue when Enjolras, panting and looking wrecked, shakes his head.
“If you don’t want to traumatise your daughter when she inevitably walks in here, we better continue this later.”
Grantaire, who props himself on his elbows despite Enjolras trying to hold him down, flops back down with a dramatic sigh.
“You are the absolute worst. Bloody tease that you are,” he says, covering his eyes with his left arm whilst the other hand holds onto Enjolras’ hip.
Enjolras gives him one last kiss, chaste and consolatory, before he slides next to him. Grantaire turns on his side and drapes an arm around Enjolras’ waist, content in staying in this peaceful moment.
“You’re home early today,” Grantaire comments.
“I took half the day off so I could come for Fleur and spend some time with her. I reckon Combeferre and Courfeyrac are more than capable of handling whatever crops up in the firm whilst I’m away.”
Grantaire scoffs, but it’s not unkind. “Miracle upon miracles,” he says, burying his smile against Enjolras’ neck. But the idea of Enjolras taking time off from his otherwise hectic schedule to spend time with their daughter – their daughter, he sighs happily, the implication never once losing its novelty – makes him feel gratified.
Enjolras kisses the top of his head and starts combing through his hair with his fingers. It’s comforting.
Just as Grantaire thinks he might drift off to sleep, the door opens a fraction, letting some light in, in their otherwise darkening bedroom and Grantaire sees his daughter peek from behind the door.
“Come here, chou,” Enjolras beckons to her.
She gives a mischievous smile and declares, “Cuddle pile!” before running at full speed and jumping in bed with them.
Grantaire gives a hearty laugh and Enjolras lets out an oomph! as Fleur wiggles around until she settles comfortably between them.
She holds on to each of their hands as she regales them with how her day went at school and father, you promised I could come with Uncle Bahorel for taekwondo lessons. Their daughter is a live wire, a ball full of vigour and fire. She’s already taken after her father, all passion and zeal and intelligence beyond her young years. And she’s growing up to be like her papa, curious and brilliant and so skilful in whatever craft she puts her mind to. She’s going to be a force to be reckoned with and she’ll break their hearts, he just knows it. But it’ll be worth it. Grantaire catches Enjolras’ eyes over her head and all he sees is absolute adoration and fierce love reflected in his expression.
Grantaire sighs. He definitely lucked out.