Work Text:
Enjolras stared unseeingly at the screen of his laptop. He was supposed to be writing his next speech for the Les Amis. Instead he was thinking of Grantaire. Again. The way Grantaire's hair curled and framed his face. Grantaire's impossibly blue eyes, impassioned and angry, staring at him from across the Musain while in the middle of a heated debate. His perfect red, juicy lips hugging the neck of a beer bottle, making Enjolras wish he was the bottle. The way he wore his jeans like he was doing them a favor; in return they clung to him in appreciation.
Enough was enough, Enjolras thought angrily. Why does Grantaire keep returning to the forefront in his mind? Surely he has more important things to worry about. But for the life of him, Enjolras can't think of them. Sighing and muttering under his breath, Enjolras begins to put his laptop away. That speech won't be heard for another week anyway.
"I'll just run back and get it. I shouldn't be too long," Grantaire called to Jehan and Courfeyrac. He had left his sketchbook at the Musain. When Grantaire finally made it back to the cafe, he was brought up short at the sight of Enjolras bending over in sinfully tight bright red skinny jeans. Gulping visibly, Grantaire tried to avert his eyes-- he really did. But, honestly, if you had seen Enjolras in those jeans, you wouldn't be able to look away either.
"H-hey, Enjolras," Grantaire stuttered. "I just came back for my sketchbook. I left it here after-- after," Grantaire faltered when he saw his sketchbook in the hands of his Apollo. Oh shit. The sketches he made of Enjolras are in that book. The ones where Enjolras is impassioned, striding across a wooden stage in French Revolution-esque attire. The ones where Enjolras is standing proudly in nothing more than those damned red skinny jeans. Oh shit.
"What are these, Grantaire?" Enjolras's mind was racing. Why did Grantaire have sketches of him? He wasn't that special, but the way Grantaire drew him, all passion and determination, Enjolras couldn't help but feel slightly overwhelmed.
"N-nothing," Grantaire chuckled nervously, "just some sketches. You know, the usual landscapes, occassional portraits, silly doodles." Grantaire blushed prettily when Enjolras continued to stare at him intently.
"I meant, why are they of me?" Enjolras continued to gaze upon Grantaire, feeling... unsettled. Why was Enjolras warm all of the sudden? Why did he feel the need to touch Grantaire, to feel him, to make sure he was here? Almost unconsciously, he wet his lips, still staring at Grantaire. So intent upon looking at him, Enjolras almost missed the slightly muffled groan that left Grantaire when Enjolras licked his lips.
"Uh, well-- I mean, I don't know," Grantaire babbled whilst trying desperately to stop the blush currently staining his face. Enjolras thought Grantaire looked absolutely adorable and oh God was that a dimple that showed when Grantaire smiled? When Grantaire swallowed, Enjolras couldn't tear his eyes from the bobbing of his Adam's apple. His jeans became, if possible, even tighter.
Grantaire couldn't believe it. Enjolras is looking at him. Grantaire, who annoys Enjolras almost daily just to see him angry and full of life. Grantaire, who has too many scars to count and permanent purple-bluish bags under his eyes. Grantaire, who can do nothing except paint and drink, who doesn't believe in the cause, who doesn't believe in anything but Enjolras. Enjolras is looking at Grantaire, and he feels like Enjolras can see all of this.
Grantaire eventually goes quiet and is content to stand in the middle of the Musain and drink in the sight of his Apollo wearing those damned red jeans. They stand there for what felt like days, each drinking in the sight of the other. However, Enjolras is never quiet for long.
"Why did you draw me like this? Is this really how you see me?" he asked quietly.
"Uh, well... yes," Grantaire said, biting his lip and looking down at the floor, "I, uh, I really like you Enjolras." Grantaire held his breath waiting to hear what Enjolras would say.
"Well, I like you too. You're my friend." Enjolras said bemusedly.
"No, Enjolras- I like you."
"I don- oh. Oh." Enjolras froze and stared at Grantaire, who was determinedly not looking at Enjolras. Enjolras's mind raced. Grantaire... liked him? Like, as in he wanted a relationship? Did Enjolras? Yes, he decided without hesitation. In the moment it took for Grantaire to look up, Enjolras strode across the Musain and kissed Grantaire.
Had he died and gone to heaven, Grantaire wondered. Surely kissing Apollo the sun god was heaven. The pressure of Enjolras's lips on his made Grantaire's knees weak. Every bone in his body felt liquified. This was too good to be true.
Enjolras's mind was racing. Was he doing this right? Was he kissing too soft? Was he kissing too hard? What if he drooled? "Calm down, Enjolras. I can hear your mind overheating," Grantaire whispered as he leaned his forehead against his Apollo's. Enjolras chuckled. "To be fair, this is our first kiss."
"True," Grantaire whispered, "But hopefully not our last."
Their lips met once, twice, brushing softly against one another. "Definitely not," Enjolras murmured.
When the new couple walked hand in hand into the meeting at the Musain the next day, Eponine shouted gleefully. Apparently, their friends had placed bets on when Enjolras and Grantaire would become a couple and Eponine won. Her hard-earned money went to pay for a congratulatory party that Courfeyrac insisted on. Enjolras and Grantaire didn't make it to the party. They had more pressing matters to attend to. Matters that resulted in Grantaire proudly displaying a huge mark on his neck the next day and Enjolras blushing a deep red whenever anyone commented on it. Grantaire just smiled and winked at Enjolras. And it was all thanks to Enjolras's damned red skinny jeans.