Work Text:
August 31, 1939 - Warsaw, Poland
“I don’t understand you,” Enjolras says, smoke unfurling from his lips and into the crisp night air. He keeps his eyes skyward, gaze fixed on the unblinking stars.
Grantaire blinks. “I never took your intelligence to be lacking.”
Unimpressed, the blond gives him the most cursory of glances, disapproval drawing his kiss-bitten lips into a thin line. Had the marks of their affair not been glaringly present on Enjolras' pale throat, Grantaire would have believed in the illusion presented by his feigned aloofness. As it stands, he stays where he is, bare back against the rail of the balcony, the side of his right leg pressed against his lover’s, where Enjolras' body heat permeates through the thin wool of his suit pants.
“Your cynicism,” Enjolras says after a brief moment of deliberation. “You do not believe in our country. And yet,” he looks down at the ashes of his cigarette, “you remain, still. Your violin graces the Radio. You are here.”
Grantaire lets loose a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Insult me not, fair one. I love Poland; I could never leave.”
“You only have love for drink.”
“And what a fair mistress she is, alcohol. Paired together with the dulcet tones of Wieniawski, nothing can compare.”
“Oy vey, be serious,” Enjolras snaps, turning his head quickly to face the brunet. His blue eyes are piercing and unforgiving even under the cover of darkness. “You’re an idiot.”
Grantaire gives him a lazy smile. "I’m yours.”
Enjolras' features settle into the familiar curves of unreadability. Putting the cigarette out on the black metal of the rail, he watches as he flicks the remains onto the dark street below, and with an aborted movement, casts for Grantaire's hand. Grantaire, after a moment of hesitation, crosses the final distance- he turns and brings his calloused left hand to where Enjolras' right has frozen, suspended in air.
“Poland will survive,” he murmurs, attempting comfort, “of that, I have nary a doubt.”
With a sharp intake of breath, Enjolras finally clasps their hands together, though his gaze remains fixed on the sea of brick and asphalt below. “Ambassador Lipski will tell that chazer that we will negotiate. We will not become the next Munich,” he swears, conviction lacing his tone and grip on Grantaire's hand tightening, as though he can convince the world to change through the strength of his beliefs alone.
Grantaire squeezes Enjolras' hand in turn, relishing in the minute of solidarity. The sensation of soft skin against rough fingertips, combined with the simmering passion taut in every line of Enjolras' body, brings a familiar sensation of arousal pooling below Grantaire's stomach.
“Come,” he says, voice low, “bed me once more. The hour is early yet, and a new world will dawn tomorrow.”
The blond hums contemplatively. “I've no love in my heart for you, but the thought of a shared tomorrow sends my heart into a traitorous flutter.” He releases Grantaire and places his newly freed hands on the skeptic’s hips. “Is this hate?”
Grantaire winds his arms around the blond's shoulders. “You’re an idiot,” he echoes Enjolras' earlier words, impossibly fond.
It is just past midnight when they fall asleep, tangled in each other.
Less than ten hours later, the world is on fire.