Work Text:
Grantaire and Eponine have always been dance partners. They don't know when it started or why it started, but now whenever the group goes dancing, Eponine extends a hand and whirls him onto the floor.
Enjolras watches tonight, a drink in his hand. They are both fluid, and Enjolras doesn't think he's ever seen Grantaire when he's not tripping over his own feet ("Just don't call me Grace, that's all I ask," he jokes about it) but tonight he seems almost graceful, as if he is enjoying himself.
The music is a tribal beat, and then the lyrics start and it turns poppy and electronic. Grantaire and Eponine are in the center of the dance floor, everyone's backed away to watch them, and they are moving in sync like they've practiced this even though Enjolras knows they haven't. They fit together perfectly as he spins her out, her skirt flaring and hair flying, and then pulls her back in and dips her.
They are beautiful, and Enjolras sees Combeferre watching, too, but he's watching Eponine rather than Grantaire. Eponine moves smoothly, almost like a snake. The dance is sensual, seductive, and it's fascinating to watch.
Eponine trails her lips down Grantaire's neck and then turns so her back is pressed to his chest, her hands clasped in his, and circles her hips once to the floor and then comes back up. Grantaire snaps her around so she's facing him, nose-to-nose, a hand on his chest, and they both grin devilishly. He dips her again and she wraps one leg around his waist, one arm extended above. Grantaire trails kisses down her neck and between her breasts and she comes back up, her fingers tangled in his curls.
Enjolras has to swallow hard and look away, because Grantaire's flushed and sweaty, and his eyes are very blue tonight. And dear god, his hair . . . it's dark and glossy and curly and absolutely sinfully ruffled.
"Fuck," Enjolras mutters, watching intently as the duo on the floor moves together once again, hips moving in sync, and finally the song is over and they finish standing with their noses touching, again, staring into the other's eyes, Eponine's hands on Grantaire's chest. They break out into giggles and walk off the dance floor to go get drinks, and Enjolras follows them, placing his drink somewhere on a counter along the way. He finds them at a secluded table in an alcove, laughing about something.
"Hey, Apollo. Take a seat." Grantaire is sober, surprisingly (and when asked about it the next day, shrugs and says "you needed to get shit-faced and you needed a driver").
Enjolras doesn't take a seat. Instead, he pulls Grantaire up and pins him against the wall. Grantaire looks surprised, and he exchanges a glance with Eponine.
"Apollo, you're drunk," he says reasonably, brushing a stray curl away from Enjolras's eyes.
"I haven't had anything to drink all night," Enjolras retaliates, looking into Grantaire's eyes. They're so blue.
"Well then, that changes things," Grantaire says playfully, but he's breathless and his smile is nervous.
Enjolras kisses him hard, weaving his fingers into the dark curls. He can feel Grantaire's intake of breath beneath him and god, it's so hot.
Soon Grantaire is kissing him back, just as vigorously, and Eponine sneaks away (although not before snapping a few pictures on her phone, which she later denies).
Needless to say, Grantaire is not only so fluid and flexible on the dance floor.