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It was Christmas Eve. Outside, the sun was sinking, and the waning light played white and warm across the rumpled sheets of Grantaire’s bed; below, the streets were already clogged with idling cars and swarms of merrymakers, laughing and cheering and caroling in a blend of different languages, and the heady fragrances of pine and cinnamon and baking pastries were wafting up from the street-side vendors and corner bakeries that had decided to take advantage of the crowds, work holiday be damned. Grantaire could only imagine the varieties of spiked hot chocolate and eggnog and holiday liquors they must be selling down there; could only imagine the dancing, the merriment, the havoc that their friends must be wreaking down the street at the Musain. It was one of the greatest nights of the year, especially in Paris, where every tree and lamppost and building was festooned with enough lights to outshine the stars. There was nothing else in the world like it.
And Enjolras was sleeping.
Huffing, Grantaire stretched the crick out of spine and straightened, raking his hair back from his face so he could glare at the bundle of blankets, red wool, and golden hair that was Enjolras. His boyfriend was curled up like a cat at the end of the mattress, cheek pillowed on his hand, eyelids flickering and full lips faintly curved with some pleasant dream; there was healthy color in his cheeks and, to Grantaire’s wry amusement, a bit of drool fighting to get down his sharp chin. The sight was more endearing than Grantaire would ever admit aloud.
“Hey,” he said, his frayed patience finally giving way with a snap. He nudged Enjolras’ calf, the only part of him he could reach without moving from his spot in the sun. “Hey, Apollo.”
“Mm.” Enjolras didn’t open his eyes, but his voice was more alert than Grantaire had expected. “Told you not to call me that.”
“Did you? Must’ve forgotten. Apollo.”
Enjolras sighed through his nose and stretched out a leg, hooking his foot around Grantaire’s waist to pull him closer. “I’m sure you did.”
Grantaire let himself be reeled in, first by Enjolras’ dainty bare feet, then by his hands as they grasped fistfuls of Grantaire’s shirt and drew him down. Careful to keep his weight on his elbows and not on Enjolras, Grantaire bent his head, skimming his lips up the lithe column of Enjolras’ neck; Enjolras hissed softly above him, fingers curling tight in Grantaire’s hair as his breathing turned shallow, and Grantaire smiled into the kiss he pressed to his boyfriend’s jaw.
“You know,” he murmured, nuzzling the bright stubble that had begun in grow in on the underside of Enjolras’ chin, “I was going to suggest we go out, but now I’m thinking that maybe we should just… stay in.”
Enjolras, who had tipped his head back to allow Grantaire better access, let out a small inarticulate noise.
“You like that idea?” Grantaire teased, nipping playfully where Enjolras’ throat met his jaw, and chose to take the answering gasp he received as an affirmative.
Grantaire let his hands wander a little as he kissed his way back down Enjolras’ neck, mapping all the curves and planes and angles he’d not yet dared to explore, learning his way around the delightfully unfamiliar territory. He let Enjolras’ voice and body be his compass, guiding him with muffled groans and coiled muscles and ragged gasps to where he was most sensitive, and Grantaire couldn’t help the pride that surged up in him whenever he found just the right spot, couldn’t help soothing the bright marks he’d nipped into Enjolras’ collarbones with fleeting butterfly kisses, couldn’t help tracing Enjolras’ lips oh-so-lightly with his own until Enjolras, impatient, arched up to capture his mouth for real.
“Grantaire.” The name seemed to shudder out of him, breaking like a prayer from his soft, swollen lips, and it was all Grantaire could do to be completely and utterly gentle as he drew Enjolras up into another deep, exploratory kiss. But Enjolras, it seemed, had had enough of gentleness. With an impatient noise he bracketed Grantaire’s face in his hands, and Grantaire gasped at the soft slide of tongue against his lips, which only granted Enjolras the access he’d sought in the first place.
“I’m ready, R,” he whispered, his breath mingling with Grantaire’s as he drew back an inch or so. His eyes were hazy and dark, pupils blown wide and glossy, blue-black in the shadows that the early winter sunset had left strewn around the room. “This time, I’m ready.”
It was a struggle for Grantaire to keep from getting swept away by the wave of desire that crashed through him, ferocious and ardent and bone-deep.
“Are you sure?” he asked, a little unsteadily. “We can wait.”
Enjolras lifted his chin, and Grantaire read the determination in his eyes, the anticipation. It didn’t do anything for his restraint.
“I’m sure,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire breathed out his name, and then their mouths collided and nothing else mattered.
Grantaire closed his eyes tight as Enjolras’ lips moved against his, as his tongue dipped in and then out again, testing, and Grantaire gripped his waist to tell him yes, yes, that this was okay, this was perfect. Slowly, his hands slid upward, tracing his fingers lightly from the points of Enjolras’ hips over the hard, flat plane of his stomach, counting up his ribs, stroking the graceful prow of his clavicle until his fingertips came to rest at the top button of Enjolras’ shirt.
Enjolras’ eyes flashed to his as Grantaire gently but efficiently freed the button of its hole, revealing a sliver of smooth, taut skin. His Apollo, for all his passion and fire, had never been one to show himself off in public, and Grantaire found himself fascinated by the way the tan of Enjolras’ throat and collarbone faded out down his sternum, lighter and lighter until Grantaire could see the bright sprawl of the veins beneath the skin. A sudden urgency quickening his blood, Grantaire unfastened another button, and then another, only stopping when he caught the hitch in Enjolras’ breathing.
“Enjolras.” His hands immediately lifted, cradling his boyfriend’s face. “Are you— is this—“
Enjolras shook his head. “No, I’m fine. It’s just—“ He let his head slip back, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His cheeks were flaming, eyes liquid and bright. “Don’t— don’t stop. Please. I don’t know, just don’t stop.”
“You sure?”
Enjolras’ breath quivered, but his voice was sure. “Yes.”
Grantaire kept his eyes on Enjolras’ face as he reached for the next button, and Enjolras watched him in return, his entire face aglow. Grantaire wondered suddenly if he’d ever done this before, if anyone had ever seen what he was seeing right now: Enjolras, his golden hair a tousled, sweat-damp mess, roses of color blooming in his cheeks, his entire body rising and falling with each brush of Grantaire’s fingers and lips against his skin. He wondered, with a rush that left him dizzy, if this was a privilege that only he had ever and would ever have.
“Enjolras,” he whispered, breathlessly reverent, and bent over his boyfriend’s chest. As he opened the next button, he pressed his lips to the skin he left exposed, relishing the way that Enjolras’ torso clenched at the contact; then, button by button, kiss by kiss, he made his way down. Enjolras was practically writhed under his careful ministrations, Grantaire’s name toppling from his lips again and again as the fabric of his shirt slipped back and his bare skin was revealed to the dim glow filtering through the window overhead. He was flushed and wild, eyes dark, cheeks bright, lips bruised from kissing, and Grantaire was certain he had never laid eyes on anything quite so beautiful as this.
“Ready?” he asked once more, softly, a hand on Enjolras’ hip.
Enjolras gazed back at him, breathless, and nodded once.
“Ready,” he said, and drew Grantaire down.