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“Can I come in?”
Éponine worried her lip with her teeth as she barred Enjolras’ entry to the flat she shared with Grantaire, “I really don’t think that’s a good idea right now. Come by again in a day or two.”
“But I need to speak to him,” Enjolras could hear the ugly desperation in his voice so he added, “Please.”
Éponine shook her head decisively, “No. Not today.”
Enjolras managed to get his foot in the door as she tried to shut him out, persisting, “Why not today?”
“Because he’s not in a good way! And he asked me not to let you in, okay?”
It felt like a punch to the gut. The air hissed out of his lungs and Enjolras felt his whole body droop, the set of his shoulders slumping and his spine curving in on itself as his stomach boiled sickly.
“Is he still mad at me?”
Regardless of her tough girl attitude and her fierce, protective love for Grantaire, Éponine had come to see Enjolras as a good influence in her roommate’s life and she very much wanted to see them patch up whatever this latest argument had been about. Therefore she relented, “He’s not so much mad at you as mad at himself – you know how he gets.”
Enjolras’ stomach did another complicated twist and yeah, he knew how Grantaire got sometimes. He knew well enough the tears and the fresh cuts and the pages torn from his sketchbooks, crumpled angrily, sometimes even burned. He knew the clusters of empty bottles and mounds of cigarette butts that accompanied them. He knew the smell of a drinking binge being sweated out the next morning and the sharp scent of alcohol-induced vomit cooling on the bathroom floor…
“Please let me see him,” he said in a small voice, and both of them knew that Enjolras had never begged for anything in his life, but he was damn close to begging for this.
With a heavy sigh, Éponine stood aside and Enjolras gave a curt nod of thanks as he stepped into the dingy flat.
It isn’t as bad as it could have been, was all that Enjolras was able to think. He mentally thanked whichever providence had arranged for Éponine to arrive home from her camping trip the evening before, ensuring that Grantaire had not been left alone. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it wasn’t good.
Grantaire was unconscious, sprawled across the sofa with a bucket on the floor next to his head and a small city of empty bottles surrounding him. He’d already thrown up, which in Enjolras’ estimation was probably a good thing, and a quick inspection of his bare arms showed no immediate signs of self harm; even better.
“How long has he been like this?”
“No idea. He was halfway to unconscious when I got home last night so I just put him to bed as usual. When I woke up this morning he’d already picked up where he left off.”
Grantaire whimpered in his sleep, one leg kicking weakly and knocking over a number of bottles with a loud crash that made Éponine and Enjolras jump; Grantaire slept on.
“For fuck sake,” Enjolras swore weakly, then he did something that Éponine knew no one else (particularly Grantaire) would ever believe; instead of being angry or righteous or even disappointed, he started to cry. He sat at the foot of the couch, gently lifted Grantaire’s head into his lap and stroked the other man’s sweaty curls as his own tears dripped numbly into them.
“’Ponine,” he said quietly, his voice cracking a little as he spoke, “I love him. I love him and I did this to him. What is wrong with me?”
“It’s not your fault,” she comforted him, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder, “Seriously, even before he met you Grantaire used to do this a lot. Probably more, now that I think of it. He’s definitely gotten better since being around you. You made him better. This- this is just a blip. He’ll come around, you guys can talk, and everything will be rainbows and kittens.”
“I love him,” repeated Enjolras brokenly, as if it was all he could say, all he could think, all that mattered in that moment with Grantaire unconscious in his lap and the cloying smell of sickness in the air.
“I know,” soothed Éponine with a sad smile, “But maybe you should try telling him that, not me.”
“I will,” promised Enjolras, still stroking Grantaire’s sweaty hair, “When he wakes up we’re going to sort this mess out and I’m going to make sure he knows exactly how much he means to me...”
Two hours later Éponine had left the flat to meet Musichetta and Cosette for a post-camping girl’s night out debriefing, but promised to return in a few hours sober enough to look after Grantaire. Enjolras had waved away her offer and continued carding his fingers through Grantaire’s hair until the curls were almost flattened, occasionally whispering, “I love you,” as though Grantaire was in a coma rather than sleeping off a heavy drinking session (admittedly, a drinking session that could have hospitalised a lesser man). Eventually he too fell asleep, one hand still resting protectively on Grantaire’s head.
When Grantaire clawed his way back to consciousness the first thing he became aware of was the sick clenching feeling in his gut, then the insistent throb in his skull, then the dryness in his mouth and throat. He groaned quietly, unconsciously, and blearily realised that he was very warm, and seemed to be at least partially covered by a warm, heavy weight… He cracked an eyelid open and found himself in the (blessedly dark) living room of his own flat. So far, so good; the last thing he remembered was binge drinking on this very couch, so clearly he couldn’t have caused too much havoc during the gaps in his memory. A shift in the warm weight atop him made it apparent that his blanket was in fact another person; not so good.
A thousand and one worst case scenarios screamed through his aching brain before Grantaire could muster the energy to tilt his head upwards and check who he was sleeping on (and quite possibly about to vomit all over).
Enjolras.
Enjolras?
Grantaire’s mind was still struggling through a dehydrating swamp of liquor, but he was pretty sure that Enjolras hadn’t been present when he’d started drinking In fact, his brain sluggishly reminded him, it had been because of Enjolras that he’d started drinking…
Well, not directly because of Enjolras. But the blonde had certainly been in the equation.
Grantaire had come home from Cosette’s house mansion elated, and fully intending on asking Enjolras for a trial period of living together. If nothing else it would mean they could finally (finally!) have proper penetrative homosexual anal sodomy-type sex for the first time, and if it went badly, well, it wasn’t the end of the relationship per se, just another step forward.
So he’d had a celebratory drink. Then another. And another. And as Éponine was away he’d felt safe enough to break open her gin supply. By the time the empty bottle had hit the floor a few hundred doubts and anxieties had sown themselves in the artist’s mind and he was firmly convinced that the worst possible thing he could (the worst possible thing anyone could do, ever, in the history of the human race) would be to move in with Enjolras, however impermanently, and overexpose his Apollo to his disgusting, degenerate self.
And so it goes.
But as these jigsaw pieces of memory slowly fitted themselves back together in the mire of his mind, Grantaire felt another internal tug, this one altogether more visceral, and it was pure coincidence that most of what he threw up landed in Éponine’s strategically placed bucket on the floor. The rest ran down the leg of Enjolras’ jeans to puddle on the bare floorboards.
You can’t win ‘em all…
Enjolras started awake and had he been able to, Grantaire would have curled in on himself in shame. Unfortunately the churning in his stomach and the pounding in his head was such that even this simplest, most natural of movements was too much for him. Instead he lay still with his eyes screwed shut, waiting for whatever verbal onslaught was coming.
“Grantaire?” came a soft voice in the dark, a voice so un-Enjolras that it took Grantaire a moment too long to respond.
“Grantaire? You okay?” came the voice again, slightly more urgent and more Enjolras-y.
“Nngh,” tried Grantaire, “Unnnh… No.”
“You want some water?” cajoled Enjolras, his voice still quiet and careful.
“Why?” rasped Grantaire, still keeping his eyes clenched tightly shut to avoid his boyfriend’s gaze.
“Why? Because alcohol dehydrates the body and your liver needs hydration in order to flush out the toxins more effectively. I can call Joly if you want a more detailed explanation.”
“Nnngh… Not what I meant. Why… Are you here?”
A gentle hand stroked the damp hair off his forehead and Grantaire realised that he was covered in sweat.
“I’m here because I worry about you… Because I want this relationship to work and I want to take care of you. Right now it seems like you could use some looking after.”
Grantaire was feeling too drained and ill to disagree. Instead he just made another half-hearted grunting noise and began the gargantuan task of rolling into the foetal position.
“Éponine said she’d be home soon,” said Enjolras in that same oddly quiet voice, “If you want me to leave I can, but not until she gets here. Is that okay?”
“Don’t,” whimpered Grantaire, pulling his knees to his chest with painful slowness but keeping his head resting firmly in Enjolras’ lap, “Don’t go. Please. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry love,” whispered Enjolras and pressed a light kiss to Grantaire’s shining forehead, “I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”
It was a mark of how truly hungover Grantaire was that he did not register the pet name that Enjolras addressed him with, one he had never used before and which at any other time would have made Grantaire keel over in shock or happiness or an intoxicating combination of both.
Once Grantaire was safely curled in on himself he let out a small sigh of relief; the sloshing in his stomach felt more manageable this way and the pain in his head was receding slightly. When Enjolras whispered, “How about that water?” Grantaire heard the sounds but didn’t recognise the words or their meaning; he felt vague and far away, drifting gladly back into sleep as an alternative from the world of vomit and headaches that he had awoken into.
Two hours later Enjolras’ right leg was entirely dead and he simply had to move; Grantaire groaned into wakefulness.
“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asked gently.
“Shit,” Grantaire replied, his voice hoarse and his usual eloquence still lost in the morass of the night before, “What are you still doing here?”
Enjolras paused, “Trying to be a better boyfriend, I guess.”
Grantaire laughed weakly, his mirth quickly devolving into a coughing fit, “That’d probably be easier if you had a better boyfriend.”
“I have the best boyfriend in the world,” smiled Enjolras fondly, and the genuineness of such a clichéd statement was a little surprising even to him.
Grantaire cracked an eyelid, “Really? Because I’m about to be sick again.”
Enjolras managed to dodge the splashback from Grantaire’s bucket but found that he hardly cared anyway; he was too busy being concerned about Grantaire to care for his jeans anymore.
Enjolras shifted slowly, pulling his legs out from under Grantaire and replacing them with a lumpy cushion, “Can I get you anything? Water?”
“Mmm,” Grantaire groaned and spat into the bucket, wincing at the alteration in his headrest arrangements.
“Okay, I’ll be right back.”
Enjolras returned carrying two pint glasses of water and a box of painkillers, wearing only his boxers, having resigned his now revoltingly crusty jeans to the washing machine.
“Here, drink this with two of these. It’ll make you feel better.”
“If I can keep it down,” groaned Grantaire, reaching blindly for the proffered pills as Enjolras helped him sit up enough to drink the water.
Enjolras found that their natural dominant/submissive dynamic made it much easier for him to care for Grantaire like this, and it made the sickly artist more responsive to Enjolras’ insistence that yes, he must drink all the water, and no, he couldn’t have any more painkillers for another four hours. Two pints of water later Grantaire was recovered enough to sit up properly and look sideways at Enjolras, his eyes red and bleary and accented by deep shadows beneath them.
“I don’t remember last night at all. What..?”
“I wasn’t here, I showed up around ten-ish. Éponine refused to let me in, but I very rudely pushed my way in anyway, and you were already unconscious.”
“Ah.”
Enjolras hadn’t broken physical contact with Grantaire since returning with the water. He had one hand resting lightly around the artist’s shoulders, holding him close, and the other twined in Grantaire’s own rough fingers.
“I’m not angry,” Enjolras clarified, feeling that perhaps this point needed to be made clear.
“No, I got that,” said Grantaire, a little uneasily, “But I’m not sure why. I’m pretty sure I’ve done enough to make you angry. I threw up on your leg, like, an hour ago, and you still haven’t said anything.”
“Do you want me to be angry?”
“No! No, I just… We fought. So I got rat-arsed and we fought again. Then I got rat-arsed again… Shouldn’t we be fighting again?”
“I don’t want to fight with you,” sighed Enjolras, and if Grantaire hadn’t known Enjolras so well he might have thought there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice just then.
“Me neither,” whispered Grantaire carefully, “So can we not?”
“We can not,” smiled Enjolras, squeezing Grantaire’s hand reassuringly.
Grantaire chuckled weakly, “Combeferre would be appalled by that sentence.”
“Combeferre is not as easily appalled as you might think. Although yes, that sentence would have probably earned a severe jaw clench.”
They both laughed, quiet and easy, their bodies pressed together despite the fact that Grantaire felt like crawling out of his skin.
“Speaking of appalling, are you feeling up to a shower?”
“Depends, is this your way of getting me naked?” smirked Grantaire.
“I think we both know you’re not up to that right now. This is actually my way of politely telling you that you smell like a brewery and there’s vomit on your shirt.”
“Ah,” Grantaire had the decency to look at least a little embarrassed, “In that case yes, a shower sounds good.”
Grantaire was feeling better than when he first woke up, but actually standing and walking to the bathroom still required Enjolras’ assistance, as did removing his stained and dirty clothing.
“I’m not a child Enjolras, I can undress myself!” he complained as Enjolras gently tugged his shirt over his aching head.
“I’m sure you can,” tutted Enjolras, “But our standing arrangement is that I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt you, and then I get to take care of you. As you’ve gone ahead and hurt yourself it’s only fair that you be quiet and let me take care of you now.”
Grantaire obediently allowed the rest of his clothes to be stripped from him while Enjolras murmured, “Good boy,” in soft reassurance.
Enjolras turned on the water and quickly shed his own clothing but only as far as his boxer shorts. Then he took Grantaire in his arms and steered them both under the spray.
“Wash my back?” smirked Grantaire, even as his knees almost buckled beneath him at the shock of the cascading water.
“Hush.”
Very slowly Enjolras reached for the shampoo and began to lather it into Grantaire’s scalp as the other boy remained leaning back against his chest, emitting small, contented sighs now and then. Once Enjolras was satisfied that Grantaire’s hair at least was clean he reached for the conditioner (probably Éponine’s) and massaged that into Grantaire’s curls for good measure. Enjolras had intended to keep his touches purely professional, but the way Grantaire relaxed into him, the little noises he was making, and their shared (almost) nudity under the hot spray of the water was stirring feelings he had hoped to keep strictly un-stirred; he continued to run his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, occasionally scratching his fingernails across the artist’s scalp, and tried to ignore the growing bulge in his soaked boxers. Grantaire seemed not to have noticed, and allowed Enjolras to steer him under the cascade and carefully rinse the conditioner out of his hair.
“How’re you doing?” asked Enjolras, once Grantaire was free of suds.
“Mmm, good. Much better,” smiled Grantaire, his eyes still closed against the water that dripped from his curls and down his face. Enjolras tried to push away thoughts of something else dripping down his face.
“You’re not going to be sick again?” Ah yes, that was good, thinking about Grantaire vomiting was definitely killing his arousal.
“No, I’m good. Kind of wondering why you haven’t tried to molest me yet though.”
Enjolras spluttered as Grantaire raised a hand to wipe his dripping curls from his eyes, “The whole shower thing, y’know? I thought I was gonna get lucky. Not that this isn’t nice, this is really nice, please don’t underestimate how nice this is for me, because it’s very nice. I just… you should be naked.”
“But- aren’t you still feeling sick?”
“Sick as a dog,” grinned Grantaire tiredly, “But that’s the thing about hangovers, I mean yeah I always wake up sweaty and sick and headachy, but also hella fucking horny, and having those magic hands of yours all over me isn’t helping any.”
Enjolras’ hands slid slowly down Grantaire’s abdomen, over his belly, and came to rest lightly on his hips. Grantaire moaned quietly, the sound almost lost under the noise of the shower, but Enjolras heard it and revelled in it, finally allowing himself to press up against Grantaire, his already hard cock grazing Grantaire’s bare ass through the material of his sodden boxers.
“Naked. Now,” breathed Grantaire as Enjolras rocked gently against him, tightening his grip on the artist’s hips.
“Bossy,” admonished Enjolras gently, leaning down to suck Grantaire’s ear lobe into his mouth, pulling another, louder groan from his boyfriend.
“Not bossy, just impatient. I need you Enj, I feel like shit and I know it’s my own fault, but I need you.”
Enjolras couldn’t refuse Grantaire anything, at least not when he was hard as a rock and they were already pressed wetly together in the heat of a shower. He pulled away for a brief moment to peel his boxers off then pulled Grantaire tightly back into his chest, a confusing rush of relief and intensified frustration coursing through him as his cock slid into the cleft of Grantaire’s ass. Grantaire’s hips canted back reflexively and it was Enjolras’ turn to moan, his cock twitching hotly as they rutted together for a moment.
“Enj-”
“What do you need?” Enjolras growled, curling a hand around the base of Grantaire’s stiff cock and beginning to pump him with teasing slowness.
“Fuck- Enj, I want- I want you, I want you to… I mean, would you fuck me? I just- fuck, I need it, need you, please, please just- ”
“Shh, I’m right here,” the panic was rising in Grantaire’s voice the way it always did when he was drunk and convinced that Enjolras would leave him at any second, “I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to give you what you need, my own good boy.”
“You’ll fuck me?” asked Grantaire, the awe in his voice making him sound bizarrely childlike. His body ached all over after its toxic ordeal, each limb protesting with a creak and a groan, his stomach roiling sickly, his head splitting… But still he was inhabited by the inimitable desire to be touched by Enjolras, to be used by Enjolras.
“No sweet boy, not right now, but I’m not going to leave you disappointed. Just relax, I’ll take care of you, I promise.” The hand Enjolras had on Grantaire’s cock sped up and the artist’s cloudy mind was so overwhelmed by the sensation that he failed to notice Enjolras’ other hand sliding between his legs until one probing finger swept over his entrance, making his entire body shudder.
“Okay?” asked Enjolras cautiously.
“Yes, please,” begged Grantaire shakily, pressing back onto Enjolras’ hand.
“Whatever you need,” soothed Enjolras, pressing his finger gently inside Grantaire and marvelling at the tightness he found, his own cock responding hungrily to the hiss of mingled pleasure and pain that skidded from Grantaire’s lips as his head fell back onto Enjolras’ shoulder.
He pressed until he couldn’t anymore, then pulled out slowly and pushed back in, fucking Grantaire slowly on his finger, on each thrust searching for that spot inside Grantaire that would make his entire body tense up in the most perfect way.
“Please,” murmured Grantaire so quietly that his words were almost washed away, “More, please.”
A second finger joined the first and Grantaire’s moans filled the bathroom as Enjolras dextrously worked Grantaire’s cock and ass at the same time, the artist’s entire body shaking from exhaustion and arousal, his shakes becoming a full body spasm as Enjolras finally found that spot and stroked it relentlessly, paying no heed to Grantaire’s mewling cries.
“You can come whenever you want to,” whispered Enjolras in his boyfriend’s ear, speeding up his strokes on Grantaire’s cock. Almost immediately Grantaire spurted hotly into Enjolras’ hand, whimpering as he did so, his breathing short and sharp and his eyes screwed shut in a grimace as he buried his face in Enjolras’ shoulder.
“Shh, that was perfect, you’re perfect,” consoled Enjolras, slowly withdrawing his fingers and manoeuvring Grantaire more fully under the spray of the shower, gently wiping away the evidence of his orgasm with the hot water, “You’re so good for me.”
“But you haven’t…” mumbled Grantaire sleepily, allowing himself to be manipulated by Enjolras’ deft hands.
“I’m fine,” said Enjolras firmly, though he was in fact achingly hard, “Let’s just get you cleaned up and back into bed.”
“No,” said Grantaire, with equal firmness in his quiet tone, “Let me- ”
And he turned and sank to his knees, immediately pulling the head of Enjolras’ cock into his mouth and beginning to suck lightly as he curled his hand around the shaft and stroked in time with his mouth.
Any objections Enjolras had been considering making were swiftly undermined by this tactic, and the only noise he found himself capable of was a surprised moan as Grantaire ducked his head and took him deeper into his mouth.
“Fucking hell, ‘Aire,” breathed out Enjolras as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him.
Grantaire responded with as much of a smirk as he was able to form around the cock sliding between his lips. He hummed and the vibrations jolted up Enjolras’ spine, pushing him closer to the edge than he would like to be so soon.
“I can’t- I’m gonna- ”
Grantaire intensified his sucking, bobbing up and down faster but avoiding taking Enjolras into his throat lest his currently delicate gag reflex react. He made up for it with his hand matching the speed of his lips, and a few seconds later Enjolras came, hot and satisfying on Grantaire’s tongue, the student’s low groan reverberating around the bathroom.
“You- ” Enjolras managed shakily as Grantaire heaved himself to his feet, “I- You’re amazing.”
Grantaire simply shrugged, a sated smile on his tired, stubbled face.
A sudden ferocity ignited within Enjolras and he grabbed Grantaire by the shoulders, shaking him in a way that made the other boy grimace sickly.
“You are! Grantaire, listen to me for once and don’t talk back; you are amazing, you are beautiful, I want to be with you, and… I- I love you.”
Grantaire’s face went blank, his pale cheeks stark beside Enjolras’ flushed skin, the unhealthy pallor and his sudden silence making Enjolras release his too-tight grip on Grantaire’s shoulders.
“Really?” he asked so quietly and expressionlessly that Enjolras barely heard it.
“Yes,” the student replied firmly, unwilling to take back what he had known for weeks now that it was out in the open; if he didn’t own his feelings and his confession of them in this moment Grantaire would probably never trust him again.
Suddenly the artist let out a bark of disbelieving laughter, “I’ve wanted to hear that for the longest time- You don’t even know! God, Enj, I’ve loved you from the moment we met… Please tell me you mean it?”
“I mean it,” replied Enjolras forcefully, “I mean it, I mean it, I love you. I’ve loved you since… I can’t even remember. I’ve been in love with you for weeks and not known how to tell you.”
“Saying ‘I love you’ is a pretty good start,” joked Grantaire weakly, his expression still lost somewhere between shock and disbelief, not happy like Enjolras had hoped. But then again, when had Grantaire ever done what Enjolras hoped of him?
“When I saw you last night, I just… God, ‘Aire, you scared me so much. I never meant to hurt you or make you think I was angry with you. I just want to be with you, as long as you’ll have me.”
“Then you’d better stay the night at least,” offered Grantaire, and a small, uncertain smile broke through as he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, handing Enjolras a towel.
“What about Éponine?”
“I’ll text her, let her know everything’s okay. She’ll probably want to spend the night with Cosette and ‘Chetta anyway, planning our wedding and naming all our future children.”
Enjolras grinned dopily at that, “As long as she doesn’t mind… Do you want to go to bed?”
“Nah, I’ve slept for the last twelve hours, if I sleep any more I’ll turn into a sloth. Movie?”
“Sounds good, you pick.”
“Oh you’re going to regret that, lover boy.”