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“No. Absolutely not. Never in a million years. Nope. Nope nope nope.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun!”
Enjolras sighs and wonders how he can possibly clarify further. “Courfeyrac, do you remember the last time you told me something would be fun? Combeferre had to pick me up from the metro at 3am. I had nothing but my boxers and Bossuet’s guinea pig. And the time before that? Six weeks of crutches after falling off a balcony and spraining my ankle.”
“But-“
“Not to mention,” Enjolras barrels on, raising his voice, “that party games invariably end up with you sticking your tongue in everyone’s mouths, and as much as I love you, I am really not interested in making out with you.”
“Hey, I have it on good authority that I am an excellent kisser! You should consider yourself lucky.”
“Combeferre is biased and you know it,” Enjolras responds, rolling his eyes.
Courfeyrac smirks. “Yeah, he’s not so bad himself, especially when he does that thing with his… Wait. I will not be distracted. We are playing Twister. All of us.” His tone brooks no argument, and really, this is how Enjolras ended up in the aforementioned predicaments in the first place. “Come on, right now, we’re going.”
Grabbing Enjolras’ arm, Courfeyrac marches him across the room where, sure enough, the Twister mat is already spread out. Joly holds the spinner, looking thrilled and self-important, while the rest of their friends are clumped around the mat with expressions ranging from gleeful to nauseous.
“Good of you to join us, o fearless leader,” says Grantaire, raising his drink in a mocking toast as Enjolras shuffles grudgingly into the only obvious gap in the haphazard circle, which is conveniently located between Grantaire and Bahorel. Enjolras is going to get trampled, quite literally.
Yet even though he resents Courfeyrac’s blatant peer-pressuring, Enjolras can’t help noting the way Grantaire’s V-neck clings to his biceps and shows off his toned chest, or the way his cheeks are flushed from alcohol or pleasure or some combination thereof. Grantaire looks healthy and vivacious, which is a pleasant change from his customary brooding pallor. And really, Grantaire ought to smile more often – not tight little smirks, but real smiles, like right now, where his whole face lights up and he forgets to hide his crooked teeth and there are little crinkles at the corners of his eyes – ridiculous, amazing hazel eyes that look like plain brown until you’re close enough to see the flecks of bright green that–
Enjolras realizes he is staring openly, and before he can look away, Grantaire has caught his eye and lifted an eyebrow. “What’s up, E? Do I have something on my face?”
“Uhm.” Enjolras can feel his cheeks heating. “No, you just – I was just – uh, I zoned out. Your face is fine. I mean, it’s a nice face. Sorry.” Enjolras tears his gaze away, back to where Courfeyrac seems to be giving Joly detailed instructions for the spinner, and tries to force the blush off his cheeks through sheer strength of will. How was it possible for Grantaire to constantly reduce him to such uncharacteristic ineloquence?
Thankfully, his mortification is cut short as Courfeyrac clears his throat, loudly and obnoxiously. “Ahhhh-eeeeemm! If I may have your attention, please! My friends, we are about to embark upon the most glorious of adventures, the most epic of quests. Since the dawn of the house party, many have tried, and all have failed, to defeat the legendary champion of the Twister mat: yours truly, a gladiator of the colored dots.” Combeferre snorts quietly and Jehan full-on scoffs, but Courfeyrac is unperturbed. “Tonight, comrades, you, too, shall undertake this mission, the danger of which cannot be underesti–”
“RIGHT HAND RED!” Joly screeches, and the circle dissolves into immediate and utter chaos.
Enjolras’ hand is smashed between Bahorel’s and – maybe Combeferre’s? It’s hard to tell, since his line of sight is currently confined to Grantaire’s shoulder blades, and Bahorel’s knee in his lower back prevents him from moving much.
“RIGHT FOOT BLUE!”
There is a yelp quickly followed by a discouraged groan from the other side of the tangle of bodies, and Enjolras knows that Bossuet has already overbalanced and is out. His own balance is quite precarious, wedged as he is and waving his left arm in the air to keep it out of the way.
Several moves later, there is considerably more space on the mat and the intensity is increasing. Courfeyrac is supporting most of Bahorel’s body weight, the latter having flung himself across Courfeyrac to reach a yellow dot. Enjolras is grudgingly impressed, although Courfeyrac is quite red in the face and is starting to tremble. Meanwhile, Enjolras has managed to get his limbs unreasonably tangled in Grantaire’s; he’s pretty sure he can feel every breath the other man takes, and can only hope the racing of his own heart is not apparent to Grantaire.
“RIGHT HAND GREEN!” Joly and Bossuet are now sharing spinner duty, although rather than alternating, they have decided to shout each combination in unison.
As Enjolras rises up to stretch over to the blue row, Grantaire executes a surprisingly graceful flip into a crab position. Enjolras finds himself straddling Grantaire, staring directly down at him and making inappropriately prolonged eye contact once again. Shit shit shit.
Grantaire grins cockily. “Well, Apollo, this is a bit compromising. I do hope my good reputation won’t be sullied.”
Enjolras manages to roll his eyes. “Good reputation? Too late for that, I think.”
“Oh?” Grantaire leers, awkwardly positioned as he is, and Enjolras’ stomach drops. Grantaire’s jeans are pulled tight over his thighs and his, um – and Enjolras is not looking, he’s not, he's bringing his gaze back up past that tight T-shirt and well-muscled chest, and he’s definitely not lingering on Grantaire’s prominent Adam’s apple, he’s looking at Grantaire’s face because he respects Grantaire and Grantaire is a friend who he will not objectify. When he gets back to Grantaire’s eyes, Grantaire has dropped the leer and is looking thoughtful and a little uncertain.
“Um,” says Enjolras.
“LEFT FOOT YELLOW!”
Enjolras’ leg is definitely between Grantaire’s legs now. It’s very, very obvious to Enjolras and, judging by the way Grantaire is now pointedly looking anywhere else, it’s also obvious to him. When Enjolras glances over at Combeferre, whose eyes are flicking between Enjolras and Courfeyrac, Combeferre raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. Enjolras has never been good at keeping his emotions off his face, and his expression now probably translates to: “Help. Please. Now.”
When Joly and Bossuet announce, “LEFT FOOT GREEN!” Enjolras knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is completely and utterly screwed. He tries sliding his leg forward, all too aware that his shin is inching closer and closer to Grantaire’s crotch and desperately trying to neither touch it nor look at it.
Grantaire, for his part, is staring wide-eyed at Enjolras and looking downright panicky. Enjolras would like to just fall over and run as far away as he can from this awkward stalemate, but he can’t seem to look away from Grantaire. He distantly registers a shout and a string of colorful curses as Courfeyrac and Bahorel knock each other over, and he needs to just end this, but he also can’t figure out how to fall without ending up on top of Grantaire – and that really would not help the situation.
“RIGHT HAND RED!”
Enjolras reaches back as Grantaire stretches forward and, oh no, they’re about to be touching in entirely too many places. Frantic now, Enjolras jerks his leg, kicking Grantaire and then automatically reaching down to keep him from falling. Instead, Enjolras loses his balance and falls heavily onto Grantaire.
They’re pressed together from hips to shoulders, chest to chest, and Grantaire is breathing just as hard as Enjolras even though Twister is really not a cardiovascular workout, slightly damp with sweat. Enjolras is going to throw up. Or maybe pass out. He can’t breathe, and he’s pretty sure he’s actually having a heart attack, but all of a sudden Grantaire’s face is right there and all he can think about is –
Oh no.
He’s thinking about zombies. He’s thinking about breasts. He’s thinking about George W. Bush.
It isn’t helping. Enjolras is definitely hard, and there is no way Grantaire doesn’t know it.
“Apollo—?” Grantaire murmurs as Enjolras flings himself backwards and bolts for the bathroom. The room is silent, which can only mean that all of the rest of their friends noticed, too.
----------
Enjolras is fine. This is really a very nice bathroom – it’s Joly and Bossuet’s apartment, which means it’s extremely clean. They probably won’t mind if Enjolras never comes out. Combeferre can bring his laptop and his phone, and he can continue blogging and managing his causes from here. He’ll adapt quite well.
He’s just trying to figure out how much rent he would owe Joly and Bossuet when there’s a knock on the door and he says the first thing that pops into his head: “Occupied!”
There’s a quiet snort from outside. “E, I know it’s occupied. I know you’re in there. Can you… can you maybe let me in? Please?” Grantaire’s voice is soft and earnest, and Enjolras is completely thrown off. Why would Grantaire want to be anywhere near him, after that humiliating scene? Enjolras doesn’t really want to be anywhere near himself.
“Enjolras, please. Just five minutes, and then you can go back to shunning my presence, I promise.”
Grantaire has never before called Enjolras by his actual name, and ultimately that’s what makes him open the door.
Grantaire slips inside and closes the door again before Enjolras can change his mind. Enjolras can barely bring himself to make eye contact, but when his glance darts up to Grantaire’s face, the other man is gazing steadily at him, as serious as Enjolras has ever seen him.
“Can you maybe… just forget that ever happened?” Enjolras mumbles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, that was completely inappropriate and I should never have—”
“What are you talking about?” Grantaire interrupts. “Are you insane? I could never—” His hands have been wedged in his pockets, and now he raises them towards Enjolras, hesitates almost imperceptibly, and then places them deliberately on Enjolras’ shoulders. Enjolras’ heart skips a beat. “Enjolras, you didn’t make me uncomfortable and you have nothing to apologize for. Have you seriously not realized that I am insanely attracted to you?”
Enjolras finally looks at Grantaire, and sees his raised eyebrows and look of mild incredulity. Grantaire grins, and Enjolras suddenly feels a lot less nervous.
“I did sort of suspect as much,” he admits sheepishly. “But you might have noticed that I’m not exactly great with feelings or individual people.” Grantaire snorts again, and Enjolras tentatively smiles, too. “I just didn’t know how to tell you – and then I literally popped a boner right on you, in front of all of our friends? I’ve imagined a lot of ways to tell you that I really like you, but this was very much not one that I would have chosen.” Enjolras knows he’s blushing yet again, and he resists the temptation to bury his face in Grantaire’s chest.
Grantaire’s eyebrows inch even higher. “So you really like me, huh? And how was I supposed to find out?”
“It was going to be a little more private and a little more romantic,” Enjolras admits, biting his lip. “And I was hoping to ask you out properly before, uh, grinding on you like that.”
Grantaire inches forward, hands still on Enjolras’ shoulders, very deliberately invading Enjolras’ personal space until there are mere centimeters between their bodies and the tips of their noses are almost brushing. Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s breath warm on his already-hot face, and he briefly forgets how to breathe. Enjolras remembers reading somewhere that people in successful long-term relationships have the same distance between their eyes as their partner, so they can gaze directly into each other’s eyes without flicking from one eye to the other. Enjolras and Grantaire are making perfect eye contact right now.
“If you hadn’t run away,” Grantaire murmurs, so that Enjolras feels more than hears his words, “you might have noticed something.”
“What’s that?” Enjolras breathes, heart pounding in his ears.
In response, Grantaire pushes his hips forward ever so slightly to meet Enjolras’. “You weren’t the only one,” he whispers.
Enjolras isn’t sure when his eyes fluttered closed, but he’s seeing fireworks inside his eyelids. Grantaire is very hard, and the friction between his erection and Enjolras’ makes him gasp. He hardly has to move at all to brush his lips over Grantaire’s, a fleeting first kiss that immediately segues into tongues and teeth. Grantaire’s mouth is burning and Enjolras moans into it – or maybe Grantaire moans; Enjolras can’t even tell. His hands cup Grantaire’s face, his fingertips buried in black curls, and Grantaire winds his arms around Enjolras’ waist, pressing him even closer and sliding a leg in between Enjolras’. Enjolras legitimately whimpers and can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed.
The sound seems to break through Grantaire’s haze, however, and he reluctantly pulls back, panting slightly. “Oh my god,” he gasps. Then, “wait,” as Enjolras leans forward to reclaim his mouth. “Holy shit. You… This is… Jesus fucking Christ, Enjolras.”
Enjolras can’t help feeling slightly smug at the sight of Grantaire speechless. This definitely makes up for his own earlier awkward stammering.
“Okay,” Grantaire continues, voice steadier as he seems to get a hold of himself. “Don’t get me wrong, this is fucking amazing – like maybe actually literally the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire goddamn life – but I’m going to be really fucking embarrassed if I come in my pants in Joly’s bathroom. Which is definitely going to happen if we don’t stop right the fuck now, oh my God.” He drops his face into the crook of Enjolras’ neck, arms still locked tight around his back, and lets out a muffled groan that Enjolras identifies as his own name.
“Say that again?” he says softly, leaning his chin on Grantaire’s head and inhaling deeply. Grantaire smells like minty shampoo, and Enjolras never wants to let go.
“What? I’m going to come in my pants and it’ll be all your fault?”
“No, you asshole – my real name. You’ve never said it to me before.”
Grantaire looks up and bites his lip. “It’s always been easier to tease you, to keep you at a bearable distance,” he confesses, and then puts his mouth right next to Enjolras’ ear. “Enjolras,” he whispers, and Enjolras feels an excruciating shiver run up his spine. “Enjolras,” Grantaire says again, biting his earlobe, and a low moan escapes Enjolras.
“Hey, lovebirds! Joly is freaking out about whether his bathroom will ever be clean again, and Jehan needs to take a piss. Whenever you’re ready, though. It’s not like we can all hear every single thing that’s going on in there.”
“Shit shit fuck I am going to murder Courfeyrac.” Grantaire has pulled away and is blushing furiously. “Seriously, though. Um. If you wanted to, you could maybe come back to my place?”
He looks so tentative, and it’s such a ridiculous contrast to the way that, seconds ago, he nearly made Enjolras come just by breathing on his ear, that Enjolras actually laughs and then pecks him on the nose. “Is that actually a question?” Enjolras asks. “Come on, the sooner we get out of this fucking bathroom, the sooner we can ditch our asshole friends and the sooner I can actually get you out of those pants.” Enjolras doesn’t bother keeping his voice down. It’s no less than Courfeyrac deserves, and the wail on the other side of the door lets him know his comment hit its mark.
When they emerge, Joly is waiting with a bottle of Clorox and Courfeyrac immediately slides a stack of condoms into Enjolras’ pocket.
Enjolras sighs and tries to glare, but his arm is tucked around Grantaire’s waist and it’s difficult to look menacing when he has to concentrate very hard to keep from giggling like a teenager.
“Fucking finally!” Bahorel exclaims. “Seriously, you have no idea how badly I wanted to bang your heads together. If I had to listen to R moaning about golden hair one more time—“
“I swear to God, Bahorel—“
“Don’t wait up for me, kids,” Bahorel continues, unperturbed. “Whatever happens at our apartment tonight, I don’t plan on being there to hear it.”
Grantaire grins, shoves Enjolras against a wall and sticks his tongue in his mouth, then pulls away and sweeps a grand bow before tugging Enjolras out of the apartment, the groans of their friends following them into the hallway.
----------
[Sometime in the not-terribly-distant future…]
“Ack! R, be careful!” Enjolras is bent precariously backwards, balancing on one arm and one leg while the others are wrapped around Grantaire, who just reached over him without warning.
Grantaire smirks. “Oops, sorry, my bad.” He leans in and nips at Enjolras’ earlobe, causing the latter to sigh and clutch at him even tighter. “Your left hand still isn’t on yellow, you know.”
“Oh?” Enjolras replies dazedly. He gropes blindly behind his back.
“For fuck’s sake, you guys, some of us are trying to play a game here!”
Courfeyrac is looming over them, one hand on his hip while the other holds up the spinner to illustrate his point.
“Yeah, can we move it along? I’m starting to lose feeling in my foot,” adds Feuilly, whose foot is currently smashed beneath Bahorel.
“Also this is not the most comfortable position I’ve ever had to hold,” Marius pipes up, from the other side of the mat where he has managed to twist himself into a pretzel in order to avoid sitting on Joly. He’s quivering slightly with the effort.
Courfeyrac grins wolfishly at him. “Nah, that’s not what Cosette says. Apparently you have sort of superhuman endurance when you’re motivated enough.”
Marius yelps, turns beet-red, and promptly falls over. “Definitely private information,” he mutters, scooting off the mat. Courfeyrac ruffles his hair fondly, which only serves to deepen Marius’ blush.
Enjolras and Grantaire, meanwhile, have taken full advantage of their friends’ diverted attention, and Enjolras’ free arm has worked its way beneath Grantaire’s shirt.
“Ugh, I knew this was a terrible idea,” Courfeyrac moans. “Left foot blue, assholes!”
Enjolras and Grantaire pull their faces apart and ponder the logistics. “I can just slide my leg over if you lean left a little,” Enjolras begins, peering around Grantaire’s arm.
“Not a team sport!” grumbles Bahorel, and he narrowly misses falling on Joly.
When Grantaire finally slips and lands squarely on top of Enjolras, neither of them flees. As attempts to separate them prove futile, the rest of the group abandons the mat in favor of Cards Against Humanity.
Coincidentally, Courfeyrac never suggests playing Twister again.