Work Text:
“God, I can’t believe we did that…” Grantaire settled peacefully into the arm of the taller man, the blond idol striking a no-less imposing figure curled among the sweaty sheets than he did at a podium.
“What’s so difficult to believe, my love?” Enjolras ran a hand through his partner’s mop of black hair, gently caressing where he had been pulling only moments before. Grantaire was still not used to the care received from the man, whom he had pined after for so long.
“Do you still really want to put up with me, Enjolras? I don’t know why you would. I’m fucked up.” What was left unsaid spoke volumes. It’s what Grantaire has brought up before. It eats at him, his glaring imperfections: I’m depressive for no reason, I drink. I fucking carve my skin. I’m worthless.
“And you, Enjolras, are perfect. Fucking perfect.” What did I ever do to deserve you?
He buried his head in the pillow, hiding his face, and his shame. The last thing he wanted was to see his unlikely lover see the pain or the confusion. All his life, he was afraid to show weakness of its own accord. It showed up on his skin vividly; what was the use of giving the pain more opportunity?
His lover tutted, removing his hand from the small of Grantaire’s back, and placed two gentle fingers under his jaw and applied just enough pressure to force the other man to meet his eyes. Enjolras’ countenance grew stern, eyes filled with compassion that was much softer than Grantaire was used to.
“You’re not perfect. But neither am I. Don’t you dare call me perfect. That’s not fair to either of us.” Enjolras paused, allowing the idea to penetrate the painter’s stubborn mind. Grantaire’s eyes fell, and Enjolras needed to regain his attention.
“Perfection is boring. Perfection is bland. Perfection is….it’s limited, don’t you see? Where’s there to go from there, Grantaire? There’s no room for expansion, or growth, or inclusion of anything else. Anyone else.”
Enjolras cupped Grantaire’s face in his hand. “Grantaire, look at me. I love you. How many times must I say it before you believe me?”
Grantaire smiled, the wave of emotion forcing his head into the crook formed by the meeting of his neck and shoulders. “Thank you.”
Enjolras angled his head down, resting his check against the black shock of hair, meeting black and gold with a gentle sensuality. Holding this position for a few moments, Grantaire moved with ease to place his mouth on the other man’s neck, softly sucking with careful attention to not leave marks but allowing Enjolras to ease into the display of affection.
As he broke away, he sighed into the skin a final time. “Just…thank you.”
Grantaire smiled a second time, face unseen by Enjolras, and he nestled down into his chest, reveling in the steady rhythm of contented breathing. Absentmindedly picking at a half-healing wound, the feeling of inadequacy faded. The wounds gave him no fear, for the moment. The feeling would be back tomorrow. Something at simple as this would not remove the pain, but it could hold it at bay for one night. That’s all he needed. And he was happy.