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It’s three in the morning and Grantaire is curled up on his couch (the prospect of joining Enjolras in his bed too much for his brain to bear—not after what he’d done, not yet, and the other bedroom is filled to bursting with art supplies and books that had no other place to be), asleep. Or—he had been, at two fifty-nine. But now it’s three, and Enjolras has taken Grantaire’s hand in his, his eyes wide with no sleep.
“Have you slept at all?” Grantaire mumbles, tugging his hand away from the insistent pull Enjolras has on his fingertips.
“No,” Enjolras replies, “I’ve been reading.”
“Nosy,” he sighs against the sofa-pillow, shutting his eyes to gather the next four hours close to him before he has to wake up and face the day (he promised Enjolras he’d go to classes tomorrow—today—despite the sickness that still rolls within his veins). The pull on his hand resumes, and Grantaire’s feet find the floor—chilled in the nighttime, giving him the boost he needs to stand without falling back over. “What’s the wake-up call for?” He asks around his yawn, following Enjolras to the bedroom, where light from one of his bedside lamps pools on the floor.
Books are open, everywhere, pages dog-eared for reference or pencils resting between one page and the next. Two sets of script decorate the pages Grantaire can see through sleep-bleary eyes. “Get in bed,” Enjolras’ voice carries with it an air of command.
“Why?”
(He runs his palms down the front of his sweatpants, watching Enjolras watch him.)
“A sofa’s hardly a place to sleep,” he says, “and anyway, there’s something I want—“ The light of the table lamp gets caught in his hair, looping with the curves of his curls, casting parts of his face in shadow. “Uh. Could you—“ Enjolras gestures to the T-shirt Grantaire is wearing, a baggy thing with the name of a band he’s never listened to.
It’s three-oh-three in the morning and he’s confused—and now half naked, on his bed, considering Enjolras with a brain that keeps attempting to sink back into the world of sleep. He grabs Grantaire’s permanent marker off of the nightstand, finding the grooves on the cap that Grantaire has left behind with his own teeth, popping it off, revealing the felt tip of the marker.
He spits the cap to the side, and crawls onto the bed, touching the tip of the marker to Grantaire’s skin.
“What are you doing?” He asks quietly, shutting his eyes to the sensation of Enjolras’ wrist trailing in front of his words, the tendons there brushing against the skin of Grantaire’s side, the felt pen a wet weight against him.
“I’m writing,” Enjolras replies, and Grantaire tries to peer at him from slitted eyes. (His blonde curls are falling into his face, his eyes following slowly after the words he’s writing down upon Grantaire’s back, looping his script up toward his spine. “Go back to sleep.”
He shuts his eyes again, breathing out, rocking to sleep from the sensations. “What’re you writing?”
“Shh,” he says again, and Grantaire hears the flip of a page.
Sleep takes him with gentle hands upon his face and a brush against his hair.
-
Morning finds him with his alarm going off in the living room, down the hall and to the right. It goes off as Grantaire rolls to the side, seeing an empty space beside him, where Enjolras had been kneeling hours before. The books, sprawled there in the darkness, are now closed, stacked against the headboard where pillows ought to be.
(A lot of pages bulge with dog-ears.)
Grantaire stretches his arm to reach for them—stopping short when he sees black words on his arm. His forearm is covered in writing, the junction of his elbow scribbled upon. His bicep, up his shoulder, stretching toward his collarbone—Grantaire as to strain to see.
He brings the words closer to his face, starting at the wrist.
The perfect size for me to wrap my thumb and index finger around to have them touch, it reads, like a bracelet. He uncurls his fingers around his palm. Sweats when I hold it, perfect to cover up that mine does too.
Up his forearm is scrawled perfect length to reach across the table and shut my laptop. The junction between his forearm and upper arm reads, the perfect angle for carrying books. Grantaire shifts his gaze to his right arm and finds more of the same—except this time, the palm of his right hand reads differently, tiny lettering curling up his fingers, toward his middle finger where his pencil usually rests.
Perfect for writing stories.
He reads the writing that wraps around his torso—constantly shifting to read as much as possible, bending in ways he wasn’t sure he could manage before today. His left shoulderblade reads holds a world made of books and sadness and shitty movies. His right reads, holds a world made of books and snark and decent literature. (These worlds are half of Grantaire, each important to him.)
His feet hit the floor for only a moment before moves, grabbing at the shirt he’d shed before the sun was up, pulling it over his head (carefully, trying not to smear the marker still sitting on his skin). He’s down the hall already when he can see again, taking a right, heading toward the kitchen, the thudding of his feet against the floor timing with his pulse (pounding loudly in his ears).
Enjolras is in the living room, chewing absently on the end of a pen, with one of Grantaire’s books open on his lap, already showered and dressed for classes today. (He wears one of Grantaire’s shirts, his jeans recycled from the day before.)
The end of the pen comes away from his mouth when Grantaire steps into the living room (hardly dressed for classes yet, but there’s still time) and he’s going to speak—Enjolras’ eyes light up with a comment and the pen marks his place in the book—
But Grantaire cups his face in both hands, hands that are scribbled upon like diary pages, every piece of him labeled in significance. His thumbs rest at the corners of Enjolras’ eyes as he leans in, curving his spine like a bow. Their noses come together—and Grantaire is a least relatively certain that Enjolras hasn’t written on his face.
He doesn’t know what to say. Can’t say anything at all.
Enjolras moves the book out of his lap.
Grantaire takes the book’s place there.
And he brings their lips together, moving their mouths with practiced ease.
He wonders what Enjolras would write on his tongue, if he could, as he threads his fingers into Enjolras’ curls. He wonders what Enjolras has to say about a lot of things—why he bothers to read the books Grantaire writes in, why he does anything he does.
But he can’t ask any of these, his chest too tight with something.
“Sorry,” Grantaire says with a breath against Enjolras mouth. “Sorry, I just—“
“Shh,” Enjolras pushes air between his teeth—he does that a lot, Grantaire realises (quirking a smile as he does). “I’m reading a story,” and his fingers ghost over the words he’s written on Grantaire’s arms. “We’ve got five minutes to spare, at least.”
(He’s going to be the death of me, Grantaire thinks, already considering the things he’d write on skin this perfect, he’s going to be the death of me.)