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“Why won’t you let me see your paintings?”
He’s tracing his finger down the narrow bridge of Enjolras’ nose, following the sharp shape of it downwards. He dips a fingertip into the philtrum before dragging it back up towards his brow and flattening the crease that has formed there. Enjolras’ nose twitches like he wants to bat Grantaire away but his eyes say that he wouldn’t dare.
They’re side by side on Enjolras’ mattress, Grantaire draped over the other man’s chest and their feet entwined underneath the sheet.
“You’re not so special, I don’t let anyone see my paintings.”
“Your class sees them.”
A quick swipe back down with the finger, tapping the tip of his nose with a flourish - the movement is filled with sarcasm and earns him another nose scrunch.
“Sure," he concedes, "but they’re shitty artists, just like me.”
Enjolras opens his mouth but then snaps it shut like he has no idea how he planned to respond. He looks away, and the movement of his head to the side drag’s Grantaire’s finger across his cheek. Grantaire doesn’t miss a beat, just crooks his finger slightly so the sharp plane of his knuckle skims the crest of a cheekbone. Enjolras sighs but leans in to the touch, propping himself up on one elbow to look at Grantaire levelly.
“Would you paint me?”
Grantaire huffs and Enjolras makes an expression like he takes offense.
“Would I make such a poor subject? I realize I am no Venus.”
“Well, I am no Botticelli,” Grantaire laughs, but his mind is already forming a clear picture of the half-finished canvases hidden beneath a sheet; if anyone were to slide the edge of it they might catch a glimpse of gold and red, or a partial outline of long curls fanning madly around a thunderous figure.
He bites his lip and drops his hand from Enjolras’ face. “On the contrary, you've always made an exceptional muse.”
If this surprises Enjolras he doesn’t show it, instead makes a frustrated noise and flops backwards onto the pillow. The lie there for a minute, touching everywhere but saying nothing. Grantaire had left the window open earlier when he leaned out of it to smoke, and now he can hear the crawl of late night traffic and somewhere someone barks out laughter. Grantaire sighs.
He puts the full weight of his body on Enjolras’ and tips his head forward until the slightly sweaty skin of his forehead meets the other man’s collarbone. He presses his mouth and tastes the salt there, feels a hand come up to tangle in his hair. He sighs again and this time the sound echoes in the hollow of Enjolras’ throat. Finally, he lifts his head and looks at him.
“I would sculpt you.”
This makes Enjolras’ eyebrows climb. “Oh?”
Grantaire hums. “Yup.”
“Would you have me rendered in marble, cold and unforgiving as a saint?” Enjolras doesn't drop the elevated teasing tone, but he looks irritated and Grantaire realizes that he thinks Grantaire is mocking him. He shakes his head and huffs a laugh when the movement causes one of his more unruly curls to fall into Enjolras’ mouth.
He pushes himself up to sit cross-legged on the bed, pulling Enjolras to sit up across from him. The sheet abandons them entirely and they face each other with the slight breeze hitting their naked skin. Enjolras just looks at him, waiting.
Grantaire’s hands twitch at his sides, itching to reach for a bottle of wine before he remembers that he is not in his own bedroom, where there hides in the bedside drawer a lovely bottle of merlot, still corked. He shakes the thought and allows his hand another purpose - he reaches up and traces Enjolras’ nose again with his index finger. Enjolras makes a noise and tries to bat Grantaire’s hand away.
“Be serious.”
Grantaire shakes his head, lips curved upwards into a grin. This time he moves his hand, makes a trail across one cheekbone down to the hinge of a jaw. From there, the tips of his fingers skirt across the outline of Enjolras’ jawbone, traversing his face (sparing a brief second to dip the pad of his thumb between Enjolras' parted lips) before slipping down to rest on the spot where his blood pulses. He caresses the skin there and feels a swoop of satisfaction when Enjolras tips his head back.
His fingers leave the pulse point and walk across to the taut column of Enjolras’ throat. He hears a hitch in his breath and for a moment it occurs to him to fan his fingers outward, reaching around so that they rest on the outside of Enjolras’ neck while the pad of his thumb presses down gently into the tender skin of his throat. He takes careful note of the flush of Enjolras’ skin and his labored breathing, files that reaction away for another time. He lowers his hand so that all five of his fingers are resting across the span of Enjolras’ clavicle.
He keeps them there, a comforting pressure as he waits for Enjolras to lower his head again and meet his gaze. When he does, his face is still flushed and Grantaire spares a second to look down and see the white grip of Enjolras’ hand in the bedsheets. He hums again.
“Marble wouldn’t do. For one, I'm not skilled enough at sculpture. But also,” his teeth sink into the flesh of his bottom lip again, “there is too much…distance between the sculptor and the stone. I don’t want to use a chisel or…” his hand leaves the warm skin of Enjolras’ chest to comb through his own hair. It finds its place again before he continues, “Not marble. Clay, I think. Something I can touch.” He hardly realizes it when his fingers press slightly into Enjolras’ flesh before he finishes speaking.
Enjolras looks at him for a long moment, absorbing this information, before he smiles. He catches Grantaire’s hand in his own before crawling forward into his lap.
“And what will you do with this statue of me? Will it be your Galatea, hmm?” he jokes, with an open-mouthed kiss pressed into Grantaire’s shoulder.
Grantaire laughs and hooks his bare leg around Enjolras’ hip. “No, I don’t think so. I have no need for Aphrodites’ wish granting anymore.”