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“Grantaire.” The sound of his name hummed sharply across the room. “A moment.”
They had not openly acknowledged each other at all that day. Grantaire had kept to a corner, his sardonicism confined to the mouth of the bottle planted between his lips. Enjolras had not deigned to glance upon him further, still nursing silent indignation as he spoke solemnly of the rights of the people and the growing barrage of challenges in their wake. The heated words of the evening prior resounded soundly in two minds.
A few heads turned, but the rest of the footsteps did not falter. The meeting adjourned, it would not take long before the room felt stale and small again. Grantaire looked up, Enjolras met his gaze severely, and there was a scrape of a chair against the wooden floor.
The cynic ambled over, leaning against the closest table. He did not give Enjolras a chance to speak.
“Are we doomed to repeat the same quarrels, again and again? I would not want to wear you out.”
Enjolras could feel the rage surge once more, implacable.
“Have I suggested I wish to quarrel further?”
“Is it not so?” Grantaire shrugged. “You would see me leave, I know.”
It was the way it always went. Grantaire’s presence was at best, a distraction, and at worst, a contamination. He did not blame Enjolras for his mindset. It was hardly unwarranted.
“I would not.”
Startled, Grantaire stared.
Enjolras was startled, himself.
Grantaire shook his head. “You would. I have well learnt that I am useless. And what is more, it is clear for all the world to see; it is as plain as can be that I live in contempt. You detest me, you despise me. Why, I can see the hatred in your eyes even now.” He laughed.
“Grantaire, define hatred.” Enjolras retorted.
The drunkard raised his eyebrows, evidently wondering at this new form of torture. Still, it was not as though he shied away from masochism. He would play to Enjolras’ every whim.
His recital was nonchalant. “Hatred; intense dislike. Loathing. The perfect sister to hostility, anger and resentment. Is this a lesson of language, now?”
Enjolras peered at him, his calmness clearly strained. He spoke with almost the same urgency as he would to a crowd, with the seriousness of a priest, and with all the authority of the kings he did not condone. “Perhaps. I can tell you of loathing, of resentment, and of hate. And I can tell you that I do not feel those. Not for you.”
Grantaire held up a scornful hand, his tone brusque. “Forgive me, but I do not wish to hear you speak of pity, then, or indifference. At least let me be an object of your abhorrence. I will be content to revel in such passion.”
By the finish of that sentence, Enjolras’ brows had knitted together in consternation, a frown etched so deep on his mouth that he appeared to be pained by it.
“Please stop. I cannot bear it.”
Confusion rang out in the silence that followed.
“What can’t you bear, fearless leader mine? My presence is insufferable, I am aware. Am I asking for too much from you, just an ounce of emotion, a pinch of dislike? Do you -”
“I - want to kiss you.”
Breath hitched in the cool air. I can’t imagine why, Grantaire’s gaze seemed to say, as candid as they came. Doubt and disbelief mingled on his face. Where had this arisen from? His teeth dug into his tongue, but his words were carried in teasing tune, a gentler shade of his usual mockery. “Well, if you must.”
Enjolras hesitated, lips slightly parted, as if he was not sure of what he had said aloud. Apology swarmed around him; it could not be right or just to subject an unwilling participant to such abrupt intimacy… but the unfamiliar craving was beginning to overwhelm him, and he had never felt it in another’s presence save the cynic’s. He could not stand it, he could stare at Grantaire no longer and survive it. “I feel I must.”
Grantaire straightened, no longer quite leaning against the table, the empty bottle long abandoned upon it.
The slender blond drew nearer, a picture of uncharacteristic cautiousness.
“I have never kissed anyone before.”
It was not an admission that needed airing. Nevertheless, it had been expelled with no shame, and Grantaire had not considered laughter. Instead, he answered sagely, “And though you surely do not have to settle for me, I can assure you that my mouth is as competent as anyone’s, and should do for an example.”
“No, I -” That is not what I meant, Enjolras wanted to say, face creasing in exasperation, but a demand had drowned him out.
“Do it.” Grantaire was firm. “Kiss me.”
Roused by the order and frightened of the million words clamouring on his tongue, Enjolras’ better judgement chose then to flee.
Grantaire had almost expected soft and chaste and fleeting, but that mouth was Enjolras’, and Enjolras functioned best with purpose. Hesitation had blown away in a breath, the pressure of lips against lips growing in sturdy measure. Each had intended to be gentle, but, in the vein of their every conversation, the kiss too seemed destined to be a challenge.
They resurfaced, neither certain of who had won.
Grantaire was first to speak.
“Do you regret it?”
“No.” Enjolras shook his head, his breathlessness containing only a hint of surprise. “Do you?”
“I have never regretted anything less.”
There was a fraction of a moment when each considered smiling. The smiles did not quite arise.
It was difficult to say who knew better that there was no place for such things amidst a revolution.
“Grantaire, I -”
The artist heaved a slow sigh, as though he had just accepted his damnation. And yet, there was not a waver in his voice. “There is no need. I understand. Kiss me again.”