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When Combeferre is finally able to drag himself home from work, it’s raining an inordinate amount and is just beginning to thunder. He doesn't particularly mind much, he quite likes both, except that he has to walk home from work and the umbrella he's managed to get a colleague to lend him is tiny and mostly useless. His intention had been to take Grantaire out for dinner - probably to Nandos, since he seemed so fond of it last time - but then he got held up unpacking new stock and he knows Grantaire won't willingly go out in this weather, because Grantaire actually has sense.
By the time he's walked home (because the buses run irregularly this late, and he wasn't going to wait an hour for the next one) he's absolutely soaked through, since his pathetic little umbrella has done nothing to keep the rain off. The lights are all off downstairs, so he assumes Grantaire is working, or maybe in bed. He's not at all in the mood to be neat, depositing his soaked clothes about the kitchen as he goes, shoving the useless umbrella in the sink to dry and dripping little puddles of water everywhere he goes. He pokes his head disinterestedly into the fridge, clearly hoping to find something of interest to eat, but there's nothing, so he gives up. He'll have to be cruel and fetch some poor delivery boy out in the rain.
He stretches as he goes into the living room with some vague recollection of seeing clean - and dry - laundry in there that morning, and notices that the fairy lights Jehan strung up in the corner of the room are switched on. Sure enough, Grantaire is curled up on the sofa under the soft thick blue blanket from the end of their bed, only his dark curls poking out. Combeferre assumes he's asleep so creeps over in search of clothes as quietly as he can.
"Hey," the Grantaire shaped lump in the blanket says. He sits up with a bleary look on his face, his thick framed black glasses halfway down his nose. "You're late. Did something happen?"
"Only new stock to sort out," Combeferre says with a soft smile, taking a seat as Grantaire yawns and leaning over to push his glasses up his nose for him. "Did I miss anything important? A thrilling and totally unpredictable soap opera?" he says sarcastically with a grin. "The bleak contents of our fridge, perhaps?"
"Ugh you're soaked," Grantaire grumbles. "Keep away from me, vile beast."
Combeferre gives him an innocent look before shaking his hair and showering Grantaire in water, then neatly takes off his glasses and wipes them on the blanket. "Did you have an interesting day?"
"Not really. I read that book you recommended, very well written and an interesting concept. Good choice. However I now have a headache. Weird, having a headache not alcohol induced," he says sardonically.
Combeferre rolls his eyes fondly and leans across to kiss Grantaire's temples, ignoring his protests about how wet he is. He stands up and stretches, taking off his wet shirt and throwing it across the room before taking a seat again. "Better?"
Grantaire looks at him over the top of his glasses. "Much." He holds the blanket out until Combeferre crawls closer to him, and he wraps them both up in it. He likes this, the domesticity of the whole thing. Grantaire's life before Combeferre had been a hectic routine of oversleeping, throwing paint at canvases without any inspiration and drinking himself to sleep in an attempt to drown out his disappointment at not being able to create anything worthwhile. Now it was mostly being forced to get up early, drinking absurd amounts of coffee and getting cuddles every evening.
He likes the fact that Combeferre makes him tea in the morning to wake him up, and sometimes leaves little gifts of brand new, high end art supplies around the house for him to find. He likes his laugh and his soft voice and his dedication to getting the best for everyone around him. Generally, he just likes Combeferre.
He's never asked what Combeferre likes about him, because he's not sure he'd like the answer he received, but Combeferre's gentle smile is enough for him.
"You're bloody cold," he complains, worming his feet away from Combeferre's sodden socks.
"And you're moaning a lot," Combeferre jokes, leaning over to kiss Grantaire's temples again, humming to himself as he combs his hands through Grantaire's hair comfortingly. "At least you haven't had to go out in the rain," he says it sarcastically, but he does mean it. He's glad Grantaire gets to stay home where it's warm, instead of trailing across the city getting drenched.
"A very fair point." Grantaire concedes with a grin. "A rough day then?"
Combeferre nods. "I always get stuck with the worst customers. People lump them on me because they know I'm patient." He grumbles halfheartedly. "I had some bloody idiot asking me in which section they could find a collection of Blake's poems. As if the poetry isn't a clue. And then someone thought that they could return a book just because they'd read it, like we're some library! Then I had to stand there and take abuse from them because they don't understand how shops work. And Courfeyrac decided to call round." He rolled his eyes. He doesn't need to elaborate further on a visit from Courfeyrac; they happen occasionally and are always catastrophic, no matter how good his intentions are.
"Poor dear." Grantaire says with a grin, wrapping his arms around Combeferre's waist and kissing his neck lightly. "Maybe I should do something nice to make you feel better? See if I can't warm you up a little."
Combeferre raises an eyebrow as they look at each other over the tops of their glasses, then he smirks. He climbs into Grantaire's lap and tugs a little on his hair as he kisses him, softly at first, loving (because he likes to let Grantaire know that he adores him) then fast and frantic all at once. He kneels on the remote - lost somewhere amongst the blanket - and the TV flickers to life, showing some baking show that reflects in the lenses of Grantaire's glasses. He nips at Grantaire’s bottom lip, enjoying the way he whines, and kisses delicately along his jawline, nipping down his neck and biting down hard on his collarbone, just the way he knows Grantaire likes it.
Grantaire squirms a little under him, running his hands over Combeferre's bare chest and digging his nails in, scratching neat little lines down his chest to his hips. Combeferre bites down again, sucking a bruise where he feels Grantaire's rapid pulse beneath the skin and feeling his breath hitch under him. He runs a hand up Grantaire's chest, slowly, teasingly, then curls it around his neck and squeezes ever so lightly. Grantaire full on whimpers and Jesus, if that isn't just the most beautiful sound. His fingers are digging into Combeferre's hipbones almost painfully, and he's breathing heavily as Combeferre kisses his way down his chest, nipping teasingly.
"Your jeans are soaked," he gasps, and there's an unspoken curse that wet denim is absolutely the worst thing. "I think we need to get you out of them." He raises his head to smirk down at Combeferre suggestively, who gives him a wicked grin in return and tightens his grip around his throat ever so slightly, just to hear Grantaire whimper again.
"Say please," he says with his twisted little smirk.
Grantaire whines and squirms impatiently. "Please."
Combeferre nods and sits back on his knees, slowly undoing the belt and letting it drop to the floor. Grantaire's eyes follow it, then flick back to Combeferre's hands as he drags down the zipper slowly. He pops the button open and finally slides the jeans down over his thighs, along with his underwear, which is only a little damp from where the water has seeped through.
Grantaire gets up suddenly, worming his way out from where Combeferre is still sort of straddling him and shoves him hard so he crashes back onto the couch. He looks sort of lost for a moment - he isn't used to Grantaire taking charge of things after all - but then Grantaire settles on the floor on his knees. He's still fully dressed, in his silly fluffy pyjama bottoms patterned with bees and an awful sweater that is clearly Jehan's, whereas Combeferre is almost naked, save for the jeans pooled at his knees and the blanket still wrapped around his shoulders.
Comebeferre raises an eyebrow at him and sits down neatly, letting Grantaire pull his jeans down to his ankles. He leans forward and rests his warm cheek on Combeferre's cold thigh, drawing little patterns with the tip of a finger. He bites down hard on the spot where he's just finished a tiny little spiral then kisses it gently when Combeferre gasps and tugs on his hair. He blows on the wet spot to watch Combeferre squirm, then licks and and kisses his way up his thigh, leaving a little wet trail and nipping at the skin just to hear Combeferre's heavy breaths hitch in his throat.
Grantaire stops when he can go no further, and flicks Combeferre a sultry look over the top of his glasses. "May I?"
Combeferre is panting and pulls hard on Grantaire's hair encouragingly. "You may," he manages to gasp, groaning loudly as Grantaire leans forward to lick the head of his cock teasingly.
Comebeferre's pretty sure he's gone bright red, but this is pretty new. It's not that they haven't had sex (because they have; they are living together after all) it's just that Grantaire usually likes to let Combeferre take charge, and he's certainly not done this before.
Sometimes he still can't quite believe that he ended up with Grantaire, that such a beautiful, talented person could ever love him as he much as he loves him, and suddenly he feels shy under his burning gaze as he kisses his way along Combeferre's erection delicately, like he's something to be treasured. It is Grantaire, of course, who is something to be treasured, and Combeferre drops his head back and half hides his face under the blanket as he tightens his grip on Grantaire's hair possessively, like he's suddenly afraid he'll get up and leave.
He doesn't, of course, merely continues to dig his fingers into Combeferre's hips so hard he knows it'll leave little bruises and takes him properly into his mouth, getting a sense of satisfaction at the way Combeferre bucks his hips up with a sort of whine. He digs his nails into his hips, leaving vicious red crescent moons, then drags them all the way down his thighs just to hear Combeferre's breath catch in his throat. One of his hands grabs hold of Grantaire's and he laces their fingers together, squeezing his hand as tight as he can and groaning as Grantaire swirls his tongue, a teasing look in his eye. He's going to have to do something nice for Grantaire to make up for this because Christ, his mouth is so warm and it feels great when he's so cold and then Grantaire begins to suck like his life depends on it and it's so hard not to thrust into his mouth for all he's worth. He can feel that his glasses have slipped all the way down his nose and he knows he must look a sight, all flushed and flustered, but Grantaire obviously appreciates it because he sucks just that bit harder at every scandalous moan that falls out of Combeferre's mouth.
His nails are still scoring possessive lines down Combeferre's thighs, like he wants the entire world to know that Combeferre is taken and he doesn't like to share, and Grantaire knows his scalp is going to be sore for a while because it's being tugged on so hard he's surprised a clump of it hasn't come out. He kind of likes that. He likes the blush that's covered Combeferre's face even more, and resolves to do this more often, since it wields such lovely results. He hums around him and almost gags as Combeferre bucks up into his mouth with a loud moan, and it still surprises him how someone so quiet could be so loud in the bedroom but he'd be lying if he said that noise didn't go straight to his cock. He makes a point of doing it again, watching Combeferre writhe above him with his lips parted just so, gasping softly between those scandalous noises he keeps making.
"'Taire," he groans quietly, his hair a mess from where he's been squirming against the back of the couch. "'M gonna-"
He pulls away suddenly, using Grantaire's hair as leverage to yank him away (and wow, he really does like that) then comes all over his face loudly, making a mess all over his glasses, little drops painting his mouth. Grantaire grins and gives him the best sultry look he can when he can't actually see, licking away the drops around his mouth quite happily. Combeferre's painful grip on his hair lessens, and he can practically hear the lazy smile in his voice.
"Sorry," he mumbles quietly, smoothing a hand through Grantaire's hair as if to soothe the ache away. "Here, let me," he shimmies down onto his knees in the small space between Grantaire and the couch, half sitting on Grantaire's knees, and carefully licks up the mess on his cheeks. He slides Grantaires glasses off his nose and swipes him thumb through the mess, sucking it off as he fumbles for the handkerchief in his jeans pocket and neatly wipes it all off.
"Feeling better?" Grantaire asks with a cheeky grin as Combeferre slides his glasses back onto his nose.
He gets a similar smirk in return as Combeferre fixes his own hair, pulling the blanket off the couch and around the two of them. "Oh yes, much. I'm much warmer now. I'll have to thank you," his gaze travels down to Grantaire's own hips, where he's still yet to be touched. As tired as he is, it really is a pleasure to scoop Grantaire up into his arms and carry him off, the blanket trailing behind them.