Work Text:
"Grantaire –"
The sound of his own name – in Enjolras's smooth, even tenor no less – startles him out of his contemplation of the candle in the green glass carafe before him. He has been watching the yellow heat and grey smoke curl around the tip of his index finger, flicking it in and out of the flame. The blue curve at the bottom of the teardrop is unbearable for more than a brief fraction of a second, but he has found he can tolerate the peak of the flame for a few seconds at a time. The clear melted wax pooling in the lip of the carafe is beginning to spill over, turning the off-white colour of tallow as it cools in uneven trails.
The throng in the Musain's backroom has been thinning for some time, their number dwindling until only a handful of men remain, shaking the creases out of their coats or retrieving their hats from an unoccupied table by the exit that leads to the Rue des Gres below.
It is late, but evidently Enjolras has one more order of business to attend to before he retires for the evening.
He looks luminous in candlelight, his features cast half in shadow like a gold-leaf encrusted portrait of a medieval saint in the chancel of a church. He is frowning, a habitual, thoughtful expression Grantaire has seen many times before. His posture is relaxed, however; the approach appears innocuous enough, and Grantaire wonders what business Enjolras could possibly have with him that isn't an interrogation of his purposes here.
Distracted, he holds his finger still within the rise of the flame a little too long; it singes, and he hisses with pain as he pulls his hand away, skin pink and faintly throbbing. He resists the urge to put it in his mouth to relieve a little of the soreness, as Enjolras draws inexorably closer.
He curls his hand around the pewter tankard beside him instead; it is cooler than the ambient air, wet with beads of condensation from the wine it had contained earlier, and soothes the sting a little.
It becomes apparent to him that he is the only one still seated. Enjolras's expression, as he reaches the table's opposing side and stills, remains neutral. Grantaire regards him, his mouth twisting into a curious smile, despite his apprehension. Enjolras rarely addresses him directly, let alone privately, as is clearly his intention on this occasion; he would not have waited until Grantaire was several hours of drinking deep in inebriation if this conversation did not concern the two of them only.
"Chief?" Grantaire prompts, gazing up at Enjolras with his watery-blue eyes, one eyebrow raised in query. He rests his elbows on the table before him, cups his unshaven chin in his hand, and waits for Enjolras to respond.
He had spent much of the earlier half of the evening providing a bellicose distraction, denouncing the slavish devotion of Bonaparte's followers and their attempts to memorialise him as the ultimate patriot on the anniversary of his death: "– Ten years in a casket and they've long forgotten that he spent the last six years of his life complaining of a cold and the damp in the floorboards. If that's the comportment one expects from a hero then the imperial crown ought to be mine by right – I am never short of grievances. Let them decorate the place Vendôme all they like, as far as I'm concerned; we must all have our fantasies, but I'll box the ear of anyone who tries to indoctrinate me into their cult –"
Enjolras had narrowly avoided a few confrontations himself over the past fortnight; the authorities had been aggressive in their removal of the memorial wreaths Bonaparte's adherents had placed for him, and the conflict had spilled further afield in the form of thwarted Bonapartists and indignant royalists antagonising each other in the streets. He might profoundly disagree with the Bonapartists' interpretation of France's history, but he would stomach working with them if it was in service of the republic. The same could not be said of those in favour of the Bourbon regime; he would not humour their rhetoric if they tried it on him.
Several off-colour jokes likening the fire brigade's water canons to enemas later, Grantaire had settled into melancholy silence. Enjolras had considered postponing this conversation further, but he was unlikely to encounter Grantaire any more sober than he was now, and needs must.
Now, Grantaire appears on the verge of sleep, eyelids drooping and posture flagging even as he raises the mug of wine to his lips to drain its last few drops. Enjolras is already beginning to regret the endeavour in the face of having to ask a service of him, but he perseveres in the name of progress: "I require a favour of you."
"Require?" The curious line of Grantaire's mouth quirks; he purses his lips, as though weighing the situation in his mind, and smooths the shape of his moustache at the corners of his mouth between thumb and forefinger. Enjolras has never quite determined whether he means to grow a full romantic's beard and has proved thus far incapable, or if it's merely laziness in shaving that keeps him in this middling, ungroomed state. Enjolras is hardly one to cast aspersions there; he whose house is made of glass ought not throw stones at another, etcetera. "Is this an order in service of the republic, or a private matter?" Grantaire rallies, grinning. "I might have other plans. What's in it for me?"
"Request, then."
"So it is a private matter," Grantaire deduces, and leans back in his chair. He shrugs, his palms falling open on the table, inviting. "Well?"
Enjolras takes a breath, and voices his request in one long, unbroken sentence, before he succeeds in talking himself out of it: "I would like you to spar with me – not practise bâton de combat or savate, but to fight as they do on the streets or in the alleys behind gambling dens; I wish to improve my capabilities in fighting unarmed."
"You'll have to specify which streets; I need to be certain I haven't grasped the wrong end of the stick on this occasion," Grantaire jests, predictably. "Or shaft, as it were."
Enjolras is, ordinarily, far too dignified to do anything as uncouth as roll his eyes, but he does on this occasion. That interests Grantaire further; it's a display of inner frustration Enjolras doesn't often allow himself.
"I know you are not unaware of the level of unrest in the city," Enjolras says, taking the seat opposite Grantaire and leaning towards him, attempting to make his case in terms he might understand. "It is dangerous enough for those that don't make their political alignment plain, or for those that are unwilling to pretend views they disagree with, in the wrong circumstances. We all must be capable of defending ourselves, from government forces and thwarted Bonapartists alike. We must be ready. I need to be ready." He means next time, when Paris dons her battle-dress again, and they take up arms in the streets, but the argument of personal safety is more likely to resonate with Grantaire, so it's the one he places emphasis on.
Grantaire regards him searchingly; Enjolras suspects his ulterior motive is more obvious than he'd hoped. "Not Bahorel?" Grantaire asks, still lounging in his seat, feigning indifference. The fact he is engaging in this discussion with some measure of seriousness suggests he is more interested than he is willing to admit.
Bahorel's competence in fighting is the result of his innate physicality: his sheer, ox-like strength. Grantaire is the more accomplished of the two of them, or so Enjolras has been told. He has seen enough to believe it. He has watched Grantaire and Bahorel share the odd, good-natured brawl, knocking each other about until one of them yields, laughing, and concedes defeat in buying the other a drink. He has also seen Grantaire slink into the back room, bruised and bleeding, with cuts on his knuckles and broken glass snagged in the fabric of his coat, and claim he'd left the other fellow in a significantly worse state.
He can find a use for Grantaire's skills, if Grantaire won't find one for himself.
"I was hoping to learn from someone with a little more finesse." He almost means it as a compliment; Enjolras hopes it sounded like one.
Grantaire seems to weigh the idea further, pursing his lips and fussing with his facial hair again. "I suppose I am at your command," he decides, sitting up straight again with sudden attentiveness. "I'm afraid the only palaestrae I am acquainted with are rather beneath company as refined as yourself, unless you mean for this to be a house call?"
"No, thank you. Wherever you habitually practise will serve."
The address Grantaire gave him proved to be a modestly-sized, rather run-down looking tavern on the edge of one of the communes south of their usual corner of the city. Enjolras commonly hasn't much cause to venture this far from Paris's dense inner faubourgs: that is where the next rebellion is likely to arise, so that is where he concentrates his efforts. The suburbs are no less rife with discontent – he's certainly heard the same sentiments everywhere he listens hard enough, at varying pitches – but it is easier to contain uprisings further removed from the seats of power. The army could roll through these open, un-structured streets and raze their low buildings to the ground with minimal difficulty, should the state decree it.
This far out from the city's heart the buildings are much smaller, only one or two stories high, and built of brick and plaster with ancillary rooms of wood or packed earth. A small dog tied to a post nearby barks shrilly at a pair of wood pigeons as they peck at the ground outside the tavern, and the cabriolet that had bought him this far sways ominously as it rattles over the uneven ground in its departure; its tall, narrow wheels are unsuited to the unpaved road. The earth is soft beneath his boots, in contrast to the hard stone paving slabs of the city's better-trodden thoroughfares.
The air here is cleaner, though it still carries the faint whiff of horse dung. The streets are quieter, peaceful even, but he imagines it must be busier at the end of the working day; most of the people that reside here are likely to be factory workers, or labourers employed elsewhere in the city or in the commune proper.
There is a bell over the door to the tavern, and it chimes as he enters. There are only a handful of patrons inside, eating or drinking in near silence. Several heads turn towards him as he enters; Enjolras ignores them, and approaches the man behind the taps instead. The tavern's proprietor has a voice like gravel, a brusque manner and a lined, sun-freckled face; he directs Enjolras to a lower floor, to what must be the wine cellar. That feels appropriate, given who he is here to meet.
He descends a short, wooden staircase. There are no windows here, and it takes his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the low light of the single lantern, suspended from the ceiling at the centre of the room.
A shape looms in his peripheral vision, makes sudden, rough contact with him in the half-light and thrusts him unceremoniously aside as though trying to rush past him; then the man grabs him hard by the wrists, and Enjolras finds himself pressed against a rough brick wall, his cheek against its harsh surface and his right arm twisted behind his back. His blood rises as he struggles against the man that has him pinned, until he hears a familiar, low chuckle at his left ear, and realises he's made a foolish tactical error. It's a novice's mistake.
"That was poor sportsmanship," Enjolras says, rather haughtily, as Grantaire releases him.
“How were you expecting this to work, precisely?” Grantaire asks, amused, pulse beating harshly after so sudden a flurry of movement.
"I was under the impression that there were rules of engagement." Enjolras brushes the brick dust from the front of his coat, and straightens his collar, superfluously.
"In a gentlemanly bout, perhaps, but that is not what you requested of me," Grantaire reminds him, smirking. "I believe I recall you asking me to teach you how to fight without honour. If you wish to slap each other about like boys at an upper-class boarding school, might I suggest a trip to England?"
Enjolras's lip curls, almost as if he were suppressing a laugh.
"I'll concede to that point," Enjolras says. He had made it easy for him: he should have kept his guard up. He'll know better now, next time. "Though, I might be less willing to forgive you if you make a habit of it outside these circumstances."
Now that his eyes have adjusted to the semi-darkness, Enjolras can make out stacks of wine barrels lining the wall at the far end of a long, low room, and before that a clear, open space, covered with a kind of woven, sack-like carpeting and interrupted only by a few thick wooden supporting beams. He cannot hear any sound from the tavern or street above; he suspects that as the reason this space has been repurposed thus: if the fights that occur here involve as much illicit gambling as he suspects they do, it is likely their participants and organisers wish to avoid attracting undue attention with too much noise. Closer to their position, in the corner by the staircase, there are stacked tables and chairs.
Enjolras takes his gun out of his coat pocket, and moves towards the tables.
"Ah, have I been summoned here on false pretences?" Grantaire asks, a little of the amusement leaving his voice. "Did I behave so dishonourably that I'm to be challenged to a duel?" He crosses his arms; Enjolras gives him a look that encompasses him from bare feet to exposed shirt to untidy, bare head. He has never noticed quite how stocky Grantaire is before, but the way he moves belies a certain power in his compact frame.
"I'm not fool enough to fire it this close to the city," Enjolras replies, setting the pistol down atop the nearest table and shrugging out of his coat. "A precaution only, and it isn't loaded; I've yet to use it for more than target practice."
"Thank the gods for that," Grantaire's eyes widen at the thought; his little stunt might have ended very badly if Enjolras had had a primed and loaded gun on his person. "I suppose I ought to be relieved to know those white hands of yours are less bloodied than they seem," Grantaire says, teasing again, but with a sharp, acerbic edge to his tone. "But you have killed, I suspect, and not so long ago."
He means during the three days of violence last summer. He has been a gloomy spectre haunting the edges of any conversation concerning the days of the July Revolution ever since, denouncing them with surprising vehemence. Enjolras holds no great love for them himself: the days of fighting had been hard, bloody, painful and, ultimately, fruitless. Victory had been stolen from their grasp, and the republic was poorer in men for it. It was a loss, but one he hoped would be corrected soon enough.
"Perhaps I have, though I couldn't say for certain." Enjolras avoids looking at him as he answers, concentrating instead on folding his coat, removing his hunting cap and setting both beside the pistol.
He has considered the possibility that he might have taken a life before, but he doesn't remember those three days clearly enough to be able to picture the faces of his enemies with any distinction in his mind, much less whether any of his shots met their targets with deadly accuracy, which is almost worse than knowing for certain that he had been responsible for their deaths. To forget the deed was more unforgivable than the act itself. "Wounded, certainly," he says, after some consideration. "But if I killed I doubt it was cleanly; I was a terrible shot back then. A weakness I have since taken measures to rectify." If he must kill – and he has long accepted that he must – it was preferable to be able to kill quickly and efficiently than to cause unnecessary suffering through incompetence.
Grantaire's features contort unflatteringly as he makes a face that Enjolras finds inscrutable, then he instructs: "Remove your cravat, and take your waistcoat off if you wish to preserve its condition. Your shoes and stockings, too." He is still in his own waistcoat himself, but the buttons are undone, exposing the suggestion of a rounded lower belly beneath the waistband of his trousers, and shirt buttons that are partly open.
Enjolras does as suggested, adding to the pile of his belongings on top of the table and setting his shoes beside it. Grantaire follows suit with his waistcoat, then moves to the centre of the empty floor; he halts beneath the lantern. The corners of the room are thick with shadows. Grantaire's shirt appears yellowed in the insufficient light. Enjolras can barely see his legs: the black fabric of his trousers blends into the darkness. The wooden floor is cold beneath Enjolras's bare feet; when he steps onto the woven carpet at the centre of the room he deduces it to be made of straw: its rough texture prickles against the soles of his feet.
"Attack me," Grantaire says. His blue eyes are bright and focussed, and he grins, provoking.
"I was seeking instruction in defence, not offence," Enjolras clarifies, belatedly.
"Some would claim they are one and the same. I think the ease with which I had you pinned against that wall earlier proves your inexperience in an unfair fight." He is goading on purpose; Enjolras can see it in the curve of his upper lip, in the self-satisfaction evident in his expression. It is working.
If he has come this far, he may as well throw himself into it without restraint in hope of making the most of the situation. He was a competent bâtonniste in his youth; he has some idea how best to proceed.
"As you wish." He circles, pacing, searching for a weakness in Grantaire's defences. Grantaire's grin widens in delight, and he raises his fists in readiness to deflect Enjolras's attempts to strike him.
Enjolras had predicted that would be what Grantaire expected of him. Instead, he drops low, and lunges for him. That approach proves a partial success; he manages to get his arms around Grantaire's waist, meaning to bear him to the ground, but Grantaire, reacting with reflexes that prove as quick as a trigger, anticipates it – he turns with Enjolras's motions to ensure he lands on top as they both hit the floor.
The air is knocked from Enjolras's lungs as his back collides with the ground, and Grantaire's chest collides with his. There's a struggle, in which Enjolras tries to get his feet beneath him, or between Grantaire's body and his, but Grantaire has the better angle, and wriggles out of his reach, then as suddenly as they'd made contact Grantaire has Enjolras pinned. Enjolras's arms are hooked beneath Grantaire's elbows and Grantaire's thighs are wrapped tightly around his hips; Grantaire's knees press harshly against the ridge of the bone there, and the smirk on his lips is inches away from Enjolras's own.
Enjolras thinks he could break the hold if he tried hard enough, but there's no genuine danger in this contest; he does not actually wish to harm either of them.
"Not bad, for your first try." Grantaire is teasing still, which makes Enjolras feel less inclined to hold back. He goes limp in a show of defeat, and Grantaire slackens his hold. That is when Enjolras strikes, surging up from the floor and forcing Grantaire onto his back beneath him. Grantaire chuckles, gleefully, and proceeds to knee him in the lower belly.
Enjolras grins, despite the blow; he is beginning to enjoy this, the rush of adrenaline and simple physicality of it, while knowing they're both relatively unlikely to receive more than a few minor scrapes, and multiple bruises. They grapple on the floor a while longer, a tangle of limbs punctuated by the occasional strike with fist or heel of palm, but neither of them are making contact with full force behind their blows. Grantaire's shorter limbs prove an advantage, harder to get a hold of; it ends with Enjolras chest-down against the rough straw matting, snarling, one arm twisted behind his back again. The muscles and ligaments of his shoulder complain at the stretch of it; it is an uncomfortable position – one that easily gives Grantaire enough leverage to hurt him, if he wished to.
"I yield," Enjolras says at last, panting, seeking to catch his breath before the next bout. Grantaire's weight on top of him is heavy, and his hair is caught in his eyelashes, partially obscuring his vision of the floor beneath.
"Very well," Grantaire breathes, sounding as roughened as Enjolras feels. He releases his hold on Enjolras, rolls off him and into a seated position beside him, bringing his knees to his chest in a pose that makes him seem small and unassuming after so much struggling.
Enjolras turns his head and blows his hair out of his eyes to get a better look at him; there's sweat on his tanned, freckled brow, and a flush to his sallow cheeks. He pushes himself onto his hands and knees, then sits back on his heels. His ribs ache from taking most of the blows, and he is certain he is going to feel this tomorrow. "Well?" he asks, genuinely curious. "What do you advise?"
"Practice," Grantaire says, unhelpfully. Enjolras's features must betray his disappointment in hearing that assessment, because he hastens to add: "You're strong, I'll give you that. Not the delicate flower one might be forgiven for thinking from your looks alone."
Enjolras's frown deepens; he is beginning to suspect this was a fool's errand after all, no matter how much he had briefly enjoyed it. "If you are not going to take this seriously –"
"The throat." Grantaire's non-sequitur reply throws him off his stride, and the admonition dies in mid air.
"What?"
"Go for the throat, if your assailant really means to harm you. Or the nose." He presses the heel of his palm to the tip of his own nose in demonstration; it makes his whole face distort in a manner that's almost comical. "If you strike at the right angle it won't take much force to break it."
Enjolras considers this advice; it is not something the rules of bâton permitted the way he practised it, and he can imagine it proving useful. "I would have assumed the eyes."
"Those too." Grantaire's tone turns encouraging. He stretches, leaning back on his palms and rolling his head from one side to the other as though trying to make his neck crack. "Are you ready for another bout?"
Enjolras nods, already considering how best to utilise those tactics in a genuine confrontation. Grantaire stands, and extends a hand to help him to his feet.
They go four more rounds in total; Grantaire wins the next two, the first with one well-aimed kick to the stomach that sends Enjolras staggering backward into one of the beams. His shoulders make contact first, then the back of his head, each with a dull, thudding sound; it's enough to have him blinking, briefly breathless and disoriented. Grantaire hovers at his side, and demands Enjolras let him check the back of his scalp for signs of damage. Enjolras suffers the indignity of stooping before him to allow it; it is preferable to having him fretting like a nursemaid – or Joly – over him. He parts Enjolras's curls with gentle fingers, presses gingerly against the point of impact, but it doesn't hurt any more than one would expect, and he feels well enough to continue; he doesn't suspect a concussion from what he has been told of them.
Grantaire wins the second, too, by hefting him over his shoulder with surprising ease, as though Enjolras's not-insubstantial weight is nothing to him, then Enjolras is on the ground and Grantaire has him incapacitated, again. But he starts to give Enjolras corrections, and to advise him on the moves he would make in his place; they practise them, slow at first, until Enjolras is accustomed enough to the movements to execute them with confidence that they'll have the desired effect.
Between the second and third bouts Grantaire teaches him how to make a better fist, folding his thumb over his fingers instead of beneath them. He takes a few swings at Grantaire's offered palms with no force behind them; even without any real effort it feels more efficient, as though his hands are suddenly heavier. Grantaire catches each strike, and squeezes Enjolras's coiled fist in his hand, before pressing on to the next lesson.
He demonstrates how to block and divert his opponent's strikes; how to anticipate a kick and catch it by the heel, and use it as leverage to throw his attacker off balance. When Enjolras proves a receptive pupil he teaches him how to call an end to the fight without words if more advanced techniques leave him unable to speak – "Though, of course, that's of little use outside these walls."
In time, Enjolras feels himself making progress, and sweating with the effort it requires of him. He fumbles his way through the third bout, managing to eke out an untidy draw when he gets Grantaire in a headlock, while Grantaire has the rest of his body and his limbs coiled around Enjolras's like a snake.
It is impressive to Grantaire how quickly Enjolras masters the techniques he shares with him, though not at all surprising. What Grantaire does find unexpected is how much Enjolras seems to relish this: how he accepts each kick or fist that does manage to strike true with a smile, and with a steely determination to pre-empt them the next time Grantaire repeats them; he doesn't succeed in landing the same blow twice. It is like watching some majestic wild creature released from captivity, free at last and revelling in what his body is capable of. Grantaire marvels at him in turn, and if his appreciation extends beyond the aesthetic or the mutual regard of a fellow sportsman, it is not for the first time.
He has never witnessed Enjolras fight before – he spent most of those terrible days in July holed up in his own chambers, drinking until he could no longer hear the cannons firing on the other side of the river. He can see, now, why men are so eager to follow Enjolras into battle, despite the bayonets levelled at their own breasts; he understands the desire to bask in his reflected glory, or simply bear witness to it.
He is beautiful in motion, long-limbed but lacking no elegance for it, and there is power in his deceptively lithe frame. His classical profile and lion's mane of golden curls would be better placed in the sanctuary of Olympia, being crowned with laurels. His face ought to be preserved in marble for the admiration of civilisations yet to come – Grantaire does not doubt he will achieve immortality, though for loftier reasons than martial prowess.
The exertion of their mutual struggle barely seems to touch him, beyond a light flush to his cheeks and a more pronounced heaving of his chest at the end of each scuffle. Grantaire cannot claim any enthusiasm for his role in helping make a more lethal tool of the revolution of him, but he has always been a man beholden to his own base desires. The simple pleasure of seeing this side of him up close – of being permitted to touch him, though in truth violence is the opposite of what Grantaire wishes to bestow upon him – is one he lacks the strength of will to resist.
He squeezes Enjolras's shoulder in encouragement after they untangle from each other, and tries to focus on rising to the task Enjolras has given him.
The last fight finally goes in Enjolras's favour, and ends when he has Grantaire pinned with his chest against one of the beams, his arm contorted behind his back in the same twisted hold Grantaire had had Enjolras in what feels like hours earlier.
Enjolras releases him, and leans over him, resting against the beam behind him with one bent elbow, feeling suddenly tired. He is too drained to feel the pain of his exertions at present – his body feels as limp and shapeless as melted candle-wax – but he is looking forward to feeling the aches and pains of having truly put his body to the test tomorrow. He likes the bone-tired feeling of having put his body to use; he hasn't felt this worn out in months. Almost a year, in fact.
Grantaire turns to face him, leaning with the beam against his back, his chest heaving as he slowly catches his breath. There is a red flush to his cheeks, rising up from his chest. Enjolras is breathing heavily too; he is more weary than he would have thought he'd be. He expects he will regret not asking the cab to return for him on his walk home.
"Very good," Grantaire says, when the rise and fall of his chest has become less pronounced. He is radiating heat still, and his hair hangs damp with sweat against his forehead. "The student has become the master, it seems."
"Hardly that," Enjolras scoffs. It's a blatant attempt at flattery, but he is too exhausted to chide Grantaire further for it.
He is becoming incrementally more aware of how close they are, resting together against the same sturdy wooden post. He can almost taste Grantaire's breath as it mingles with his own: wine, a hint of tobacco in the recent past, coffee, and beneath all that something sharp and human.
Enjolras has noticed before that Grantaire's eyes are a strikingly pale blue, but this close he discerns for the first time that the iris is circled by a ring of darker indigo. They remind Enjolras of the chicory flowers he used to see blooming in abundance on the roadsides back home. His family's gardener had tried and failed to permanently eradicate them from their manicured, walled garden; they were hardy, invasive, and always seemed to sprout again the next season no matter how much earth he overturned. It seemed an apt comparison to make for Grantaire: bitter-tongued where the flowers were bitter-tasting, a weed, unwanted, but setting deep roots that made his removal from Enjolras's carefully cultivated greenhouse of promising young republicans impossible.
He watches those eyes as Grantaire watches him in return, then Grantaire's gaze dips, dropping to the exposed line of Enjolras's throat, his collarbone, and the top of his chest where the buttons of his shirt have come open in their struggle. One of them is missing, likely lost forever in some dark corner of the room. Grantaire's own shirt is half open too, exposing flesh that's paler than his face and forearms, and a hint of the curling dark hair in the middle of his chest.
Enjolras feels the curious urge to hook his fingers in Grantaire's open shirt front; to tug at the loose lapel of his collar to expose more hidden, private skin. Grantaire's throat moves as he swallows, and Enjolras meets his gaze once more. There's a question in those blue eyes now, and the line of his mouth is pursed in the act of holding back that question.
In a moment of madness Enjolras leans closer, and presses his own lips to Grantaire's in a shallow kiss. Grantaire stiffens in shock beneath him, then his mouth opens; it's as deft in motion as the rest of him, and the subtle tension between them breaks with a sudden ferocity to match the violence they have so recently shared. Grantaire kisses him back with an eagerness Enjolras finds briefly overwhelming; his hands are groping for Enjolras's back, and his tongue is pressing against the sealed line of Enjolras's lips, a sensation that is hitherto entirely unknown to him.
Despite his inexperience, Enjolras understands there's a suggestion inherent in the act; he opens his mouth at Grantaire's prompting, and leans against him; his hands find Grantaire's arms, and grip tight. Grantaire takes that as an opportunity to switch their places, turning so that Enjolras is beneath him instead and crowding him against the beam, then he's sliding his tongue against Enjolras's – carefully, gently; a query that's almost afraid of the answer it might meet.
Enjolras grips the back of Grantaire's shirt with both hands, and returns the tentative pressure of Grantaire's tongue – feels hard bone as their teeth clash together, tastes the ridged inside of Grantaire's mouth and feels the pointed tip of Grantaire's nose pressing harshly into his cheek. Grantaire appears unfazed by the clumsiness of Enjolras's attempts at this; he makes a soft, plaintive sound, half moan, half animal-whimper, and buries his hands in Enjolras's hair as he demonstrates how best this act is accomplished. The hair on his chin and his upper lip is softer than it appears, and tickles against Enjolras's lips and cheeks as their kiss deepens into something hotter, and more fluid.
It feels both infinitely more pleasurable and infinitely more intrusive than having Grantaire pin him to the wall or wrap his strong limbs around him in pre-arranged savagery with a clear, definable goal in mind. Grantaire moves against him, hot and heavy, seeking, crushing their bodies together and pressing his knee between Enjolras's thighs until Enjolras takes his meaning – he parts his legs, and feels a further new sensation as Grantaire presses against him through the fabric of their trousers; he gasps with involuntary feeling, and holds tighter. He feels the heat of him from knees to chest, the sweat-dampness of his shirt, and the muscles moving and flexing beneath as Grantaire runs his hands over him in return.
Enjolras takes to this with less finesse than he had taken to Grantaire's instruction in combat, but there is no lack of enthusiasm in the slide of his hands over Grantaire's back, and up and down the sides of his chest; he breaks their kiss long enough to set his teeth in Grantaire's lower lip, biting delicately, and Grantaire moans louder and succumbs to the urge to grind against him in one long, full-bodied shudder.
"I have dreamed of this," Grantaire pants into the hollow of Enjolras's throat as he breaks for air. "I thought it a poet's folly – a tall blue flower in a clearing that opens to reveal a beloved face; eyes as blue as the heavens and as clear as shining crystal – if folly it is I'll accept the curse that follows gladly –"
Enjolras is entirely certain Grantaire is speaking nonsense, but it is difficult to listen to the words tumbling out of his mouth with Grantaire flush against him, warm, soft-sharp and heavy. He digs his fingernails into Grantaire's back, through the worn linen of his shirt, and seeks Grantaire's mouth again.
"Perhaps we should continue this lesson in private?" Grantaire asks the next time they pause for breath, with one hand tangled in Enjolras's hair and the other grasping his hip with a vice-harsh grip.
Enjolras feels overwhelmed by the sensations Grantaire is expertly drawing out of him; his chest is rising and falling with his own laboured breathing, and Grantaire's is rising and falling against his, out of sync, but equally ragged. He wants Grantaire to rut against him, and other unspeakable things he is vaguely aware that men may do together. He has never wanted anyone or anything with such mindless, animal need in his life. It terrifies him.
"No!" He summons what waning strength is left to him to push Grantaire away. It is a wrench to do so, a loss – an unwelcome void of sensation that leaves him aching for something to fill it. His hands clench into fists at his sides; he presses his fingernails painfully into his own palms in a vain attempt to ground himself.
Grantaire goes with little resistance; Enjolras witnesses the hurt flash briefly across his features before Grantaire forces neutrality upon himself. He knows full well Grantaire must have felt the effect his touch was having on him; Enjolras certainly felt the effect his was having on Grantaire. He feels wound impossibly tight, a whip-cord ready to snap; dry powder dormant in the pan of his pistol, ready to ignite at the slightest spark. His face must be bright red; he feels as though his cheeks are on fire.
"Thank you for the lesson," he says, stupidly, hearing his fear in the pitch of his own voice, higher than usual, and strained.
He moves to the table, feeling light-headed and bloodless and thanking some ill-defined divinity that he isn't staggering like a hart exhausted at the end of the season. He re-dresses hastily with hands that tremble and radiate heat; he doesn't look over his shoulder. He ignores the impulse to wipe his mouth free of Grantaire's spit with his sleeve. Grantaire remains silent while he does so, but Enjolras hears him moving slowly about the room, maintaining a furtive distance between them. He hears the rustle of cloth as Grantaire attends to his own undress beside him.
Enjolras wants to say something further, to clear the air between them and set this right, but he has no concept of what he should do with this newfound knowledge of himself. It isn't something he has ever considered wanting; isn't something that fits with his idea of everything he is, or hopes for. His pulse beats like a silent hammer beneath the skin, as harshly as if he'd faced half a dozen men in a fight.
"Enjolras," Grantaire breaks the heavy silence between them at last; his voice is small, and tentative: "I am truly sorry –"
"Don't be," Enjolras says, quickly; his own tone is tired, and sapped of all feeling. He needs time to make sense of this. "I will see you in the Musain tomorrow," he adds, extending the hand of friendship he has long denied Grantaire. When he chances a glance towards him Grantaire appears relieved, and nods, solemnly.
"Tomorrow," Grantaire repeats, and gestures towards the stairs.
Enjolras takes them two at a time, bolting into the daylight above without a backwards glance.
It's a foolish and sentimental impulse that troubles him all the way home; one he would crush beneath the heel of his boot before it had time to grow into anything harder to uproot, if he had the strength to.
When he reaches his building an hour later he ascends the stairs on legs that are already beginning to stiffen; he enters his chambers, removes his coat and leans against the closed door with a sigh. He ought to keep moving, but all he wants now is to rest. That's a lie, but it is the least complicated impulse he feels.
He glances down at the pale skin of his exposed forearms; the blooming red finger marks on his wrists are already darkening towards purple. They'll be black and blue by the time he sees Grantaire again. He can bear the marks Grantaire has left upon his body, but those he didn't are harder to detect, and harder to endure.
He presses his fingertips to his lips at the memory of Grantaire's mouth on his, warm and wet and overwhelming. They tingle with remembered sensation; his entire body aches with the evidence of Grantaire's touch, but his nerve endings thrill at the memory of his caress. It is worse than the bruises.
He doesn't know how to remedy them, so he chooses sleep. He eats an early supper alone, and draws the shutters as the gas-lights kindle in the street below. Perhaps he'll dream of violence tonight – or of Grantaire's soft lips, and blue chicory flowers.