Chapter Text
The first time he almost says it, they're in Enjolras' bed, laying next to each other, feet tangled in the dark red sheets.
Enjolras is on his back, neck craned over his pillow as he stares through the open window, at the stars, which shine unusually bright tonight. Cold breeze flutters the curtains, and slips into the room, ghosting over their bodies lightly, making Grantaire shiver and cling tighter to Enjolras, one arm curled over his waist, and his chin setting neatly into Enjolras' shoulder as he buries his face in his neck and inhales deeply, with delight, his face the epitome of contentment. Grantaire's pale skin practically glistens in the moonlight, his black curls blending in with the room's shadows.
He looks almost ethereal; a child of the night, of the moon, of the dark.
It goes in contrast with everything Enjolras is: bright scorching fire and glowing light.
Maybe that's why it's so addictive, thinks Enjolras.
The first time it happened, they were both drunk, and argued loudly about some issue or the other, both of them quite oblivious to the party that was happening everywhere else around them; until Enjolras couldn't help but notice how red Grantaire's mouth looked, forced into proximity so Enjolras could hear him over the loud music (so red, and so inviting, like he was deliberately teasing Enjolras); and he watched Grantaire's mouth, the mocking quirk of his lips and the sarcastic bite shaping his every word, until he couldn't hold it anymore, that unvoiced, unnamed something, which he refused to think about for as long as he could remember - he let himself go, for once, and just hooked his fingers in Grantaire's belt loops and dragged him to his bedroom, pushed him on the mattress, and left bite marks all over his torso.
And after that, well... neither of them could stay away from each other for long.
It shouldn't function, but it does, oddly enough; they somehow fit, their bodies setting and rising and moving with each other in an easy unison, like they know exactly what the other one wants and needs. The slide and push of their bodies together is a scarily familiar thing to him now, after a whole month of these nameless, late night encounters.
And Enjolras is starting to be strangely comfortable with Grantaire staying over.
For someone who has slept alone his entire life, it's a new, scary thing. Sometimes he still takes up too much of the bed, a habit from the time when he never had to share it with anyone, but Grantaire knows how to fold himself just right, even in his sleep, and set against him, filling all the space Enjolras is ready enough to give him.
Which is not a lot, but Grantaire is a man who never expected much; which is good, because Enjolras is a man who isn't ready to offer a lot.
After all, there's real life to be taken care of, protests and rallies and petitions - the whole world, waiting for him to change it; and Enjolras doesn't want anyone to slow him down in the way.
So when Grantaire murmurs "I love you", his lips hot against Enjolras' throat, burying the words in Enjolras' skin, like a secret he couldn't help but say, Enjolras, understandably, tenses up in shock.
After a moment, he opens his mouth to reply, to lie, to honour and respect and return the words, something he figured all people in relationships - if that's what they're calling it, now - must do, at one point or the other, but Grantaire presses a finger to his lips, silencing him with that one, simple gesture.
"No", he says, eyes fixing Enjolras', so brilliantly green, and a bitter smile on his lips. "Don't. I know you don't mean it, so don't say it. It's alright, it was just something I... I needed to say."
"I'm sorry", Enjolras mumbles, feeling oddly ashamed, and Grantaire huffs a laugh, burying his face back in Enjolras' neck; Enjolras can feel his vocal chords vibrating soundly against his skin, and the sensation strangely comforts him. He drags his palm lightly over Grantaire's ribs, hoping to convey his apology through his fingertips, because touching, bodies are easy for him to work with; a bite here, a tug there, and Grantaire would be coming undone in his hands, gasping and writhing and asking for more.
Feelings, though, and ways of expressing them - complicated messes of things, jumbles of emotion that made life more difficult every step of the way - are not his forte.
"Don't be", Grantaire replies, and closes his eyes. He traces the bones and veins of Enjolras' right hand with his fingers idly while he talks, his voice softer than usual. "I'm happy enough as it is, to a point that is ridiculously stupid. Just... don't lie to me because you feel like it's the right thing to do."
Enjolras takes a moment to admire his sudden eloquence, and doesn't say anything in return, his chest filling with relief, and swelling with affection for this strange, dark young man, who knows him so unexpectedly well; so, instead, he just laces his fingers with Grantaire's, and pulls him closer still, until their limbs interweave and settle against each other once more, and their breathing evens and slows down as they fall asleep in each other's arms, in the dark room, speckled with blue moonlight.