Chapter Text
Sicily should not be this hot.
Then again, considering it happens to be mid-July and their hotel room has no air conditioning, it probably should. The fact the heat is natural doesn’t keep Grantaire from loathing it. It’s that level of heat that leaves everyone sprawled half naked in the shade, and shade isn’t exactly plentiful in this area of Sicily.
Enjolras got them a shared room in a small hotel in a tiny Sicilian town that has a pointed absence of anything fun. Or alcoholic fun, at least. There’s a liquor store (which he’s frequented already) and a restaurant that cheerily serves wine to the locals (which Grantaire has also frequented already), but that only gets him so far for so long. He has an endless itch beneath his skin, like his veins are about to burst out of his skin. It’s just another symptom of being touch-starved, and Grantaire hates it, and Grantaire would usually go pick up a random stranger at a bar, but there are no real bars here, and there are no strangers, either – one night stands aren’t common when every single person in the building will know who you are and what you did the night before.
So, hot and bored and not-quite-horny while Enjolras dumped him in the middle of Sicily to go run off to do whatever the fuck he does when he’s not being an overly protective asshole (Tripoli was a month ago, he can calm the fuck down already, Jesus), Grantaire tries to paint.
His paints are almost melted, to the point that even handling them has left Cadmium red streaks across his hands.
Fuck, Grantaire is going to have to have words with Enjolras about this whenever he gets back.
And he’d go buy charcoal (it’s a charcoal kind of day; everything but charcoal and paint feels too neat and clean) but that’d involve going outside, into the sunlight.
So, Grantaire ends up sitting in the open window of their tiny room to catch a puff of the disgustingly light breeze. His shirt’s off and it doesn’t keep him from having to deal with sweating to the point that there’s little salty beads slowly streaking their way down his body regardless of how he angles his body or how the breeze helpfully tousles his already horrible hair just a little more. He’s sitting there drinking water it’s so bad, cup of water in one hand and one of Enjolras’ ridiculous political theory books that is read so often that it’s threatening to fall apart no matter how carefully Grantaire holds it.
He’s so involved in trying to get the fucking breeze to at least touch the back of his neck, drinking water in the process, that it takes Grantaire a heat-laden moment to fully open his eyes and really notice that Enjolras is standing in the doorway.
Enjolras is standing in the doorway, and staring.
Something seems weird about the way he’s watching Grantaire, but that could very definitely be from the fact he’s fighting heat stroke at the moment. And Enjolras is wearing his fucking red coat, so Grantaire slides out of the windowsill and sets the book and water down in favor of sliding towards Enjolras. Even the stupid fucking floor is hot, so he steps lightly.
And Enjolras keeps staring, mute, which is pretty weird since the man usually can’t keep quiet for more than a few seconds and he always has something to say to Grantaire. He expects criticism for lifting the book, or not finding some eco-friendly cup or whatever has Enjolras all stiff and controlled and probably dying of heat with that coat on.
“Take the coat off, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, but Enjolras doesn’t even move, still breathing in that calm and smooth way that means he isn’t calm or smooth in the least. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe Enjolras isn’t just staring.
Grantaire starts to worry.
He reaches out, slowly, and Enjolras breathes in sharply, but he doesn’t object when Grantaire reaches out to cup a hand around his neck, feeling his pulse with his thumb, and it’s pounding away, which. Is not good. It might be the heat, and god knows Enjolras is flushed, so Grantaire risks it and presses his other hand against his cheek, pushing sweat-dampened golden curls away from Enjolras’ face to look intently in his eyes, which is ridiculous, it’s not like he’ll be able to see if something’s wrong – but then again, there’s something off about them. His eyes are lidded and heated and flick between Grantaire’s eyes and lips and he looks about ready to pass out.
“Fuck,” Grantaire says, because Enjolras does not look like this. Ever. His breath is labored and his hands are balled into fists and he’s leaning forward – does he have a fever? He has a fever, he definitely has a fever, fuck, Grantaire can’t remember how you deal with a fever, and he ends up speaking aloud, pushing Enjolras’ coat off his shoulders and saying, “Okay, okay, let’s get you undressed-”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, voice low and dark, almost a growl, and it’s. Grantaire has to clear his throat and look away because yeah, it’s really fucking sexy. He concentrates on getting the coat off of Enjolras because it really could just be heat stroke, Enjolras isn’t going to take care of himself when he’s out on a job and leaving Grantaire in the hotel.
When he gets Enjolras’ coat off, Enjolras’ hands hover over Grantaire’s bare shoulders, and Grantaire just can’t deal with that so he ducks away and collects Enjolras’ weapons-laden coat from the foot-singeing floor to put it in the wardrobe. Grantaire could safely get all the tools out by now, but he doesn’t have time, considering how confused Enjolras looks. He grabs his bottle of water and hands it over, and Enjolras manages to hold it, thank fuck. “You need to hydrate,” Grantaire says.
Enjolras stares at him like he’s insane.
He’s doing a whole lot of staring.
Grantaire has no idea how he’s really doing, so he snaps his fingers in front of Enjolras’ face, just in case the staring isn’t just Enjolras being weird. He blinks, thank god, and when Grantaire says, “Follow my finger with your eyes,” he barely has time to twitch his index finger to the left before Enjolras whaps it away, scowling.
Scowling is much better than staring.
Enjolras’s cheeks are burning red, so Grantaire says, “Sit down and drink the water.”
The only times Enjolras is obedient are when he’s not feeling fully under control of himself, so it’s not exactly a good sign that he obeys. The fact he drinks the water and then covers his face with his hands, muttering so quietly that Grantaire couldn’t hope to hear it, is a very good sign. A talking Enjolras is usually an okay Enjolras.
He goes into the bathroom to fetch a cold washcloth, and when he comes back out Enjolras’ head is bowed, still muttering into his hands. Which is convenient for Grantaire, who plops the cool cloth onto the back of Enjolras’ neck.
“Feeling better?” Grantaire asks.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Enjolras says. “Absolutely nothing is wrong.”
“Of course,” Grantaire says, because it’s best to humor him sometimes. Occasionally. Well, it’s a good idea if he looks about ready to fall down.
Grantaire grabs his shirt out of the pile and tugs it on. “Either way, I’m going to go get us another bottle of water,” he says, and Enjolras just gives an acknowledging wave of his hand before Grantaire shrugs and walks out the door.
~
The moment the door clicks shut and Enjolras can hear Grantaire’s sandaled feet prowling away from the room like some lazy panther, Enjolras lets out the deep shuddering breath he’s been holding back, and fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he tries not to, he avoids it at all cost because it’s fine to think Grantaire’s attractive, it’s normal, Enjolras has eyes, but he’s thinking about sunlight and sweat droplets and wondering if that’s what Grantaire would look like if Enjolras had fucked him against the wall so brutally he screamed and shit, he gives in and lurches into the bathroom.
Enjolras is smart, he has to be smart about this, but fuck, all he can think about is the way Grantaire had looked and walked and said let’s get you undressed, the feel of red-streaked fingers brushing against his skin and he has enough sense to turn on the shower for something to cover the noises he knows he’s going to be making. He locks the door and unbuttons his pants, unzips them brutally fast and groans at the feeling of lifting his pants and underwear off of his already-hard cock.
He doesn’t know how Grantaire (Grantaire, oh fuck) missed it, but it could’ve been the way he kept staring into Enjolras’ eyes, and that is so fucking hot. He imagines Grantaire sucking his cock and never once taking his eyes off Enjolras, holding his gaze the entire fucking time, and Enjolras starts stroking himself, knowing this is going to be fast and rough. And he wants it that way. Grantaire would want it that way too, because he’d want anything, everything, desperately beg for it even if he was gagging on Enjolras’ cock, but no.
No, no, no. He doesn’t want that. Yes, he wants that, but that’s not how he’d do it. Oh no.
Enjolras tries to take a deep breath, slows his hand, leans his head back against the wall he’s sitting against. But sitting is an inappropriate word for this. His back is arched against the wall, legs splayed wide, and sitting makes it sound stationary, immobile. Every muscle in his body is straining and keening at the thought of how fucking close Grantaire was. Enjolras could’ve touched him. Enjolras could’ve slid his palms across Grantaire’s bare sweat-slick skin, could’ve licked the curve of his neck, could’ve buried his fingers in clinging damp curls and made even more of a mess of him.
The shower’s running, and it’s a good excuse to get naked, it’s an excellent excuse. He manages to unbutton his shirt and kick off his shoes and ignores the socks, fuck the socks, he’s panting and trying to find his usual sense of control with this. Enjolras is not an animal. He has control. He has control of himself, and he has control of Grantaire, Grantaire who goes and fucks strangers but always comes back, always, Grantaire who looks at him with those fuck-me blue eyes and leans towards him like he’s the only bit of sunlight in Grantaire’s entire world, and he shouldn’t like it but fuck he really does, he loves it, wants to bend Grantaire over the bed and fuck him until he cries. He’d split Grantaire open and Grantaire would love it and Enjolras could finally see what’s inside, maybe finally understand what’s inside.
Enjolras knows he’s talking, can hear the choked out words escaping his lips as he jerks off and sweats against the wall like he’s one of the people Grantaire sneaks off with when he thinks Enjolras isn’t watching. But Enjolras is always watching, and he knows they’re never what Grantaire wants. Grantaire wants Enjolras any way he can get him and oh, Enjolras wants him, wants him so fucking bad he’s whining in a heat-soaked bathroom imagining what it’d be like, maybe, to have Grantaire seduce him like he does all those other useless bodies.
He imagines it’d be quite a lot like what Enjolras just experienced. Grantaire would just slink forward and look him over and there’d be no blood or danger of being completely consumed by whatever this thing they have is, it’d be one night, he could have one night, he deserves it. One night of Grantaire riding his cock, they could be right here, right on this floor, Grantaire breathing against his mouth because he’s too lost in how good Enjolras is making him feel to even manage a kiss, how completely Enjolras owns him, mouth helplessly open and begging in a voice that just gets higher and more frantic with every thrust, saying oh please, please, Enjolras-
Enjolras comes as silently as possible, biting his lower lip so hard he can taste blood, knows it’ll be swollen, and he has to grab on to the side of the toilet, shuddering, because he feels like he’ll fly apart. He strokes himself through it, shuddering, grip on the porcelain so tight his knuckles are a matching white.
The world seems completely silent for a long moment where all he can think of is Grantaire’s eyes looking into his own and nowhere else. Everything is still except for Enjolras, panting and shaking just a little bit.
Numbly, Enjolras considers the fact that masturbation is not usually like this.
It is painfully hot out, and Enjolras feels sluggish and filthy, and the shower is cool, but not cold. He steps into the spray, washing sweat and come and shame off of himself (he doesn’t do that, he’s not supposed to do that, not when he’s thinking about Grantaire, he’s only making the problem worse this way and he’s ashamed that he doesn’t feel ashamed).
When he’s dressed and dry and ready to face the world again, he steps out of the bathroom, already expecting to see Grantaire there.
Grantaire smiles at him, and hands him a bottle of water. He’s still attractive, but it’s survivable.
“Feel better?” Grantaire asks.
Enjolras doesn’t even try to answer. He opens the bottle with a sharp twist, and the cap lets out a rapid staccato cracking, just like it always does. He watches Grantaire for a moment, and then looks away, and drinks.