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He looked like an angel; golden curls sprawled out on his pillow in a halo that cradled his face, the rise and fall of his chest as he slept was a rhythm that could have moved mountains to follow after anything it said. It was odd seeing Enjolras so still, his brows unfurrowed by the nature of the duty he constantly followed. His eyes were closed, rather than piercing into Grantaire’s very existence. It was strange.
But it wasn’t a bad kind of strange.
Grantaire still lay, half in the man’s arms from where he woke up, tangled in blankets with his head upon Enjolras’s chest. He had pulled away to watch, and now, as the realisation that he was not only in Enjolras’s home but in his bed set in, he found the dreary sensation of early morning tiredness leaving his head.
He should move his head back, curl in closer. Savour the heavenly moments of silence that were just the two of them together, Grantaire in too-big red pyjamas that had been offered the last night, the right leg of them riding up his thigh. He was probably a mess, bathed in Enjolras’s light, and the thought formed a lump in his throat.
Sitting back slowly, he tried to ignore Enjolras’s hands half-heartedly reaching for him in his sleep, slender fingers trailing across his lower back, before falling back onto the sheets, a small discontented noise coming from his lips before he settled back into a comfortable position.
It took Grantaire an embarrassingly long time to leave the bed, trying to negotiate the mattress into shifting as little as possible under his awkward weight. A voice in the back of his head told him that moving would mean Enjolras would awaken to a cold, empty bed - that maybe he would enjoy waking to a warm embrace of another. But Grantaire was nothing if not a cynic, and that voice won out; the one that told him that Grantaire was simply impeding upon this holy moment, and that the way his breath was starting to speed up and his chest starting to clench would sour it all.
Last night, his attention had been entirely upon the man by his side, he'd barely noticed the surroundings. He'd never stepped foot in Enjolras's home before, and he felt sudden, immense relief that Combeferre was spending the night away, at Courfeyrac’s apartment. He didn't want to think about the man’s reaction to Grantaire standing slack-jawed outside Enjolras’s bedroom door, wondering whether he could just lock himself away in the bathroom and hide there until some miracle took pity on him.
Or maybe he'd already made enough of a fool of himself. Maybe Enjolras had been too polite to kick him out last night, after being the one to invite him over, and was simply never going to speak to him again. Maybe-
His feet started carrying him to the bathroom so soon after his brain suggested it that he half-thought he was still dreaming. He splashed his face with water, tried to fix himself in the mirror - how many times had Enjolras gazed in the glass? How long did he spend taming his hair each morning? Or did it just fall perfectly into place, each strand standing perfect at the smallest glance from him. He glared at himself in the mirror.
This was ridiculous. Grantaire was being ridiculous, really and truly,
He wished he had paid more attention. Would Enjolras mind if he used his kitchen? Took something to eat - make them both breakfast, perhaps? He briefly considered leaving to get something, figure out a bakery that was nearest to Enjolras’s apartment and- but even he knew that making Enjolras awaken to an empty home after falling asleep in Grantaire’s arms seemed… cruel. Even if it was an action taken by a mere mortal towards a deity.
Slow, purposefully quiet footsteps took him towards the kitchen, and, pushing open the door, he saw it in morning light. They hadn’t been in the apartment for long, before crashing for the night - Hell, Grantaire had barely had enough time to awkwardly offer to sleep on the couch, before Enjolras swaddled him in pyjamas and pulled him under blankets, smiling so genuinely at him - and Grantaire had barely perceived the place.
If he was asked before, he’d guess that Enjolras and Combeferre’s home would be well organised; simply a base of operations they could touch down to sleep, but it looked lived in. As if resided in by two regular beings.
Of course it was. He was being ridiculous. But as much as he tries, he can’t imagine either of the pair leaving cushions on the couch so lopsided, or a holey, well loved blanket dangling over its side. Was he supposed to be seeing this? It felt oddly intrusive, and yet, Enjolras had been so excited to invite him over.
There was a hap-hazardly closed bag of croissants on the counter - they seemed like a safe bet. Maybe he’d butter a couple for them, surprise Enjolras with a breakfast and prove that he wasn’t just a fool. Maybe then he’d be invited back, and…
Another lump formed in his throat at the idea of Enjolras in Grantaire’s apartment, the man stood awkwardly, all bright and shiny against the dingy mess of muddy paint that seemed to seep everywhere. He tried to push the thought out of his mind. Thoughts like that were for self-depreciating nights where he could curl up alone, not when he was still pretending to be sane, a twisted mockery of Enjolras’s perfection.
He filled the kettle at the tap, flicking it on. Surely he couldn’t feel bad about having a cup of coffee - Enjolras had to have some crappy, instant coffee, right? Stuff that Grantaire couldn’t feel guilty about? He stared at the water as it started to sizzle, and then bubble, and he ran a hand across his chin. His stubble was so rough, how had Enjolras put up with kissing him?
“Oh, you’re boiling the kettle. Thank you.”
Grantaire damn near jumped out of his skin at the voice, the signature rasp of having just woken from sleep permeating every spoken word. His head jerked to the side, and he took in Enjolras.
The man was running fingers through his own hair, trying in vain to tease out knots that had formed overnight, and failing, miserable. It stuck out in odd angles, slightly akin to the halo that had shrouded his head on the pillow, but far more ragged. Enjolras yawned, bare feet stepping on the kitchen tiles as he approached Grantaire, before reaching over him, into a cupboard, and pulling out two mugs.
Was he cold? He must be cold. He wanted nothing more than to hold the man close, warm him up by wrapping him in his arms and…
He really could not keep his composure in front of Enjolras, seeing him so… so perfectly imperfect like that. Seeing a man, for the first time in so long, rather than an angel.
“Did you sleep well?” Grantaire cringed at how awkward the words sounded, but Enjolras barely reacted.
“I missed you.” Enjolras said, and oh.
Oh.
A god wouldn’t care about the company of a mere mortal, but a man would. A man would feel awkward that his not-quite-just-a-date, not-quite-yet-a-boyfriend was nowhere to be seen when he woke. And, it hit him quite suddenly, Enjolras was just a man. With flaws and asymmetry and lopsided pillows. He was just a man, and somehow that made him all the more impressive.
“Sorry,” Grantaire muttered, pouring his drink, the sound of boiling water nearly drowning out his words. He reached for Enjolras’s mug, too, pouring his. As if that made up for Enjolras.
Enjolras, evidently, didn’t hear him, his eyes trained on the cup. He smiled, something small, internal, and beautiful, at the gesture, and Grantaire damn near melted.
“I’m glad you’re here.” Enjolras said, and Grantaire must look like a deer in the headlights at the words.
“Your apartment is nice.” Grantaire said, half moving to take a suave sip of coffee, before realising that a burned tongue was the opposite of what he needed in that moment.
“Ferre’s responsible for the furniture.” Enjolras, and Grantaire looked for that spark in his eye that shone whenever Enjolras talked about the people he loved, and his friends he adored. Until he realised exactly what fire Enjolras had been looking at him with every single date they’d had so far.
“Not… Just that.” Grantaire tried to keep his voice stable. Enjolras gave him an odd look. “It’s nice… You’re nice.”
And you’re ridiculous, Grantaire half expected him to say. But he didn’t.
“What do you say we take the drinks back to my room?” Enjolras drew closer, putting a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire could do nothing but draw closer, turn his attention fully to the man, how close they were, how Grantaire could just reach up, cradle Enjolras’s face in his hands and make soft lips brush his and…
Grantaire cleared his throat. Enjolras continued as if nothing happened.
“Coffee and blankets sound nice.” He glanced at the clock. “We’ve got time.”
A smile spread across Grantaire’s face, and Enjolras smiled back. He made Enjolras smile. It wasn’t the first time, and he really, really hoped it wouldn’t be the last.
Maybe, if all of Enjolras’s imperfections and humanity was the thing Grantaire most wanted to see and adore, Grantaire had hope after all. Maybe Enjolras genuinely wanted to love him. Maybe he would be capable of accepting that, one day.