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He slips in at the very last minute before the lecture is supposed to start, sliding into a seat in the back, like he expects to go unnoticed.
It's a ridiculous notion if Grantaire ever heard one; even if he hadn't been attuned to Enjolras with worrying perfection, even if something at his core didn't stir and move towards him like He was Grantaire's compass' true north, well, even then the way students' heads shifted and at least a dozen of them sat up straighter, hands moving to fix their hair, would definitely give Enjolras away.
Enjolras is many things, great and wonderful and terrible things, but he is not at all subtle.
He tries, sure, sunken low in his seat and trying for inconspicuous, face half obscured by his hair. Should have probably taken out his laptop like the majority of students and hid behind that. Would have been conducive to Grantaire's peace of mind too, because he might not be able to see Enjolras' face all the way in the back row but he can still feel his gaze.
He fumbles with the remote control for the projector a little longer than he should and he's pretty sure his voice is higher than usual, but he's been lecturing for long enough now that he stays on the topic and goes off on a rant only twice, both times completely justified. One of the rants carries him all the way to the end of the class, which passed even faster than usual somehow.
Grantaire forces himself to deal with the questions about the final project and not stare at Enjolras as he slowly picks up his things and makes his way down to Grantaire’s desk. He’s stopped on his way by a guy whose name Grantaire doesn’t recall at the moment (he’s lying, it’s Jon, but he’s forcing himself to forget because he’ll have to grade the projects and he can’t fixate on the way Jon accidentally-on-purpose touches Enjolras’ arm as he talks) and who asks if Enjolras is new to the Uni.
And seriously, he’s always looked fucking young, but no one should be taking Enjolras for a student anymore, not in that suit.
Grantaire isn’t actively eavesdropping, but Enjolras’ curt “no” carries pretty well and Grantaire sighs as he finishes explaining the requirements again. On one hand that seems to put a stop to Jon’s courting attempts, on the other it hints pretty heavily at Enjolras’ mood and doesn’t bode well for Grantaire.
“What are you doing here?” he asks before he can think better of contributing to Enjolras’ foul mood. No worries, he’ll probably put his foot in his mouth a dozen or so times before the day is over. “I mean, isn’t your flight supposed to be tomorrow?” he clarifies, frowning. He doesn’t think he has the dates wrong this time.
“Air controllers strike planned to start today evening,” Enjolras offers matter-of-factly, placing his suitcase next to the desk. “Most flights will be late, some will certainly be cancelled. My options were risking that or rescheduling, for today or Monday, and I wasn’t going to wait until Monday,” he shrugs and leans in, his lips brushing against Grantaire’s cheek in a greeting. “Hey,” he offers, a tone softer, and Grantaire can hear one of the girls oh-ing behind his back.
He waves them off goodnaturedly before looking and reaches for the handle of Enjolras’ suitcase. “You came here straight from the airport?”
“It was on the way,” Enjolras lies, clearly not bothering to even try and hide it. “I’m pretty sure my chances at a decent dinner are better at your place.”
“Did you freak out all the delivery guys in your area?” he teases, pretty sure that’s not the case; Enjolras takes care to be polite to waiters and baristas and tends to overtip, especially if he notices other patrons didn’t. His place gets the fastest delivery service Grantaire’s seen in his life.
“You have your car or are we taking a cab?” Enjolras asks in lieu of an answer, not quite pointedly changing the topic but toeing the line. There’s something on his mind, clearly, but Grantaire thinks he can play this game for a while.
“I get my own parking space, my name’s on it and all,” he points out. Doesn’t mean he always drives, but more often than not now. Enjolras nods and follows him to the car in silence that isn’t really stormy, but could yet yield a storm later in the evening.
It’s probably exhaustion from the flight more than anything else, and the whole rescheduling business, but Grantaire won’t bet his life on Enjolras not being pissed at him for some reason as well. And if he isn’t yet, well, they have time.
Enjolras lets him haul the suitcase into the trunk and sinks into the passenger seat with a sigh, resting his head against the window.
“You should have gone straight home,” Grantaire mutters. “You look like shit,” he ads. It’s only partially true; Enjolras is incapable of looking unattractive, but he certainly looks better without the dark circles under his eyes.
Enjolras, inexplicably, smiles at that. Not one of his full blown grins that have a tendency to stop Grantaire’s heart, but a quick twitch of his lips, corners pulling up like he can’t help it. “Thanks,” he says, mock earnestly.
“I didn’t-”
He stops when Enjolras leans over and rests his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, breathing out slowly. Grantaire reaches out instinctively, arm around Enjolras and his hand pressing on the back of Enjolras’ neck.
Enjolras has always been a tactile person, if not exactly an affectionate one; except when he is, in the unguarded moments of evenings and dawns. Grantaire is still getting used to this, even though he should know better, he’s learned the lesson about all good things after all.
“Grantaire,” Enjolras mutters, voice tinged with frustration. He rests his forehead on Grantaire’s shoulder briefly before he fully pulls away, like he’s gathering strength to deal with something.
“I’ll just drive, then,” he mutters and hides his disappointment when Enjolras draws back obligingly and fastens his seat belts, his movements a little slow and sluggish, a true testament to how tired he must be. Grantaire doesn’t live far away from the campus, but Enjolras is half asleep when they arrive at his place. “Come on, one floor up and you can sleep in an actual bed,” Grantaire offers.
“Bed sounds heavenly,” Enjolras agrees and lets himself be steered towards the staircase. He leans against the door as Grantaire fumbles with the keys and closes his eyes, looking all too lovely for someone seemingly dead on his feet. He turns on his heel when the door opens and walks into the apartment backwards, pulling Grantaire in with him. They both stumble a little, Grantaire trying to maneuver the suitcase in the small space and Enjolras proceeding to kick off his shoes as he walks and Grantaire barely avoids tripping over one. He stumbles into Enjolras anyway, immediately pulled closer and kissed.
He has to say he didn’t expect Enjolras’ eager hands like this, tugging at his shirt impatiently, like he’s been waiting for this. “What happened to the bed idea?”
“Exactly where we’re going,” Enjolras mutters against his jaw, trailing his mouth down to Grantaire’s neck.
“Fine, what happened to sleeping off your flight?”
“Never said anything about that,” his breath is warm and wet when he speaks, lips moving over Grantaire’s skin. “Well,” Enjolras mutters, tilting his head. “We probably will at some point.”
“I thought you--” he starts and refuses to finish; he misjudges Enjolras’ moods often enough, always erring on the side of the worst case scenario, and watching Enjolras’ face fall every time he admits that gets a little old. “You mentioned dinner,” he says instead.
Enjolras’ answering grin is sharp, almost dangerous. “There’s something I could say to that.”
Grantaire groans. “Please don’t.” Usually Enjolras’ penchant for terrible puns is charming, but there are places he really doesn’t want to go. “I’m pretty sure I have some leftover--”
“R,” Enjolras says firmly, hand on Grantaire’s chin, tilting his head to look up and straight at Enjolras. “I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I want to suck you off for what is surely hours now.”
Grantaire makes an undignified sound in the back of his throat and then nods slowly. “Yeah, I’ve never liked food anyway,” he says, getting a snort out of Enjolras.
The thing about Enjolras that Grantaire loves and hates in equal measures, depending on the circumstances, is his single-mindedness when he finds a goal to pursue. They’ve argued about that one a myriad times in the past, but on occasions such as this it’s hard to complain, not when Grantaire finds himself disposed of his shirt and pushed into the bedroom in a matter of seconds, his body pliant and malleable under Enjolras’ hands.
He’s pushed onto the bed and falls willingly, staring up at Enjolras. He’s a vision, he always is, but never more so than in moments like this, with his skin flushed and his hair a wild halo, eyes dark and hungry when he looks down at Grantaire, like there’s nothing he wants more.
Grantaire is prone to long rambles on the subject, he’s known to offer his kingdom for a brush and a canvas to paint Enjolras on, known to wax poetics and make comparisons to deities, but he’s learned that while Enjolras will fluster and flush at that, wave him off and yet reach out for his hand under the table, he’ll much more happily accept not praise but caress, not compliments but exploration.
So instead of giving in to poetry, he reaches out and tugs at Enjolras’ sleeve pointedly. “Shirt. Off,” he mutters petulantly and Enjolras grins down at him, looking less tired by the second.
“As you wish,” he offers politely and unbuttons the shirt agonizingly slowly, clearly on purpose, his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s.
“I don’t think anyone realises what a tease you are,” he says flatly.
“I always fulfill my promises,” Enjolras tells him, the prim ‘excuse you’ clear in his voice, his gaze daring Grantaire to challenge his words. He won’t dare, obviously, and at this very moment he doesn’t particularly want to. Enjolras’ gaze softens and he settles in between Grantaire’s legs, hands gentle on his thighs as he pushes them apart. “Especially to you.”
Grantaire groans, loud and uncontrollable, whatever response he could hope to make dying on his tongue when Enjolras takes his cock out and starts stroking him, watching him fall apart a little too quickly.
Oh, who the fuck is he kidding, he doesn’t care about how undignified he looks or sounds, not when Enjolras leans in and licks a stripe up his cock, taking him into his mouth next. There’s no finesse about it, not this time; Enjolras approaches everything via extensive research and sex wasn’t an exception. Grantaire really enjoyed the period of study. But he’s not being artful or methodical about it now; he sucks Grantaire’s dick like he’s dying for it, like he’s missed it beyond words.
The worst (best, oh god, best) part about it is that he’s making contented noises around Grantaire’s dick and it takes Grantaire entirely too long to realise that he’s also bringing himself off, his left hand on his own cock, rough and clumsy and careless. It takes just about twenty seconds or so of watching Enjolras for Grantaire to come embarrassingly hard, into his mouth and on his chin.
Enjolras closes his eyes and moans obscenely and Grantaire feels like his bones are liquid and his muscles useless, but he shifts towards him anyway, reaches out to stroke Enjolras’ cock. It doesn’t take long for Enjolras to come into their joined hands and stumble forward, leaving open mouthed lazy kisses all over Grantaire’s jaw.
“So,” Grantaire drawls, propping himself up on his elbows once he has his breathing sort of under control. “How was the summit?”
“Tedious,” Enjolras mutters and buries his face in Grantaire’s neck. “I missed you quite terribly.”
“I think I can tell,” Grantaire says fondly and kisses his forehead before getting up, much to Enjolras’ protest, and finding a towel to at least make feeble attempts at cleaning them up. Enjolras lets him, but proceeds to frown expectantly until Grantaire settles back down and opens his arms invitingly. “Is that why you were in a mood earlier?” he asks softly and Enjolras’ lips move against his collarbone.
“I wasn’t--” Enjolras starts and seems to reconsider, his fingers curling around Grantaire’s arm. “Tomorrow,” he says instead. “Sleep now,” he decides and somehow shifts even closer to Grantaire.
He thinks about asking again; Enjolras has never been mercurial, that’s Grantaire’s shtick more than anyone else’s, but there’s clearly something going on with him today. It’s way too easy though to lean back and let Enjolras settle in and close his eyes. Everything else can wait.
He wakes up to the faint sound of a radio playing in the kitchen, one of the stations with constant chatter and no music that’s on only when Enjolras is over. He can hear Enjolras moving around too, a rare sound of pots and pans clinking. That happens sometimes, when Enjolras has a day off and not much to do with himself, and it usually means pancakes.
Let him tell you, Grantaire is out of bed like a shot.
Enjolras is just finishing up a batch, wearing what seems to be, judging by the paint flecks, Grantaire’s pajama pants. “You are my favourite,” Grantaire says, knowing full well his voice doesn’t quite come out as teasing and light as he intended, but he doesn’t care all that much; Enjolras knows pretty well the extent of his feelings and hasn’t run yet, so there’s something to be said for that. “Also, I’m pretty sure I was mostly out of flour.”
“I’ve borrowed some from Jess.”
“You went like this?” Grantaire asks, encompassing with a wave of his hand the pajama pants and Enjolras’ bare chest and the way his hair is a mess but looks amazing at the same time and well, apparently there is a good reason why his neighbour shows him thumbs up every time he sees her.
Enjolras shrugs and piles up the pancakes onto Grantaire’s plate. “Syrup or powdered sugar?”
“Dealer’s choice,” Grantaire offers magnanimously. He doesn’t have a clear preference, but Enjolras is a die-hard powdered sugar and lemon fan, so that’s what they’re having, along with dark coffee (Enjolras oversweetens his, but there’s no helping some people).
“This place gets amazing light,” Enjolras says, halfway into the plate, and Grantaire frowns at him from over his mug. “How often do you actually use the guest room?” he asks next, spearing bits of pancakes with his fork, and Grantaire stares at him incredulously. “What?”
“That’s my line, I think,” Grantaire mutters. “Why are we discussing the merits of my apartment?”
“You love it,” Enjolras says matter-of-factly, like it’s a valid point in whatever conversation he thinks they’re having. “And I mean, it’s a nice place. Good proximity to the campus, too.”
“I know,” Grantaire says slowly. “That’s why I chose it. Enjolras?” he prompts.
“I like my place, but it’s nothing special. Certainly doesn’t get this much light; it’s probably not that good a place for an artist.”
“Yes, which is--” he stops when the line of conversation suddenly starts making sense. Or seems like it does, because Enjolras can’t be saying what Grantaire thinks he’s saying. “Are you thinking of moving in? I mean, here. I mean, with me?”
Enjolras gives him a look before frowning. “Yes, was I not clear?” And then, a little softer. “Only if you were amenable, of course.”
The temptation to kiss him is enormous, and so is the need to sink to his knees and nuzzle his cheek against Enjolras’ thigh, suck him off here in the kitchen and maybe fuck him after, lazy and unhurried, as everything smells of pancakes and coffee and Enjolras. The softness and hesitance is rare enough in Enjolras to be almost irresistible.
Grantaire folds his hands carefully and tilts his head. “I think I’ve missed part of this conversation. And I think it’s because a great part of this conversation took place in your own head, Enjolras.”
There’s a moment where Enjolras sits back and considers; they’ve been here before, both of them, making assumptions and rehashing scenarios in their heads and all too often taking the wrong thing for granted. They’ve gotten better with time, but not by much.
“I’ve been considering this for a while,” says Enjolras finally, his tone level as it is when he’s giving a presentation, but his hands twitch with uncharacteristic nervousness. “It makes sense, logistically, we’re spending most nights together anyway, and a fair share of most days. I think it’s time we--”
“Enjolras,” Grantaire mutters, reaching out, his hand covering Enjolras’ fingers. Enjolras immediately turns his hand palm up, laces his fingers with Grantaire’s. “Don’t try to be reasonable, tell me why,” he asks with a smile. It’s been a done deal for him since Enjolras started talking, it’s been a done deal for years, but he needs to hear this now. Wants to.
“I’ve been considering this for a while, but when I was rescheduling my flight… Usually I wouldn’t care about having to wait until Monday. But I needed to get home, to you. That’s… new, but not exactly new, if you know what I mean.”
“You missed me, is this a reason enough? I’m terrible to live with, I’ll drive you up the wall.”
“Like you don’t already,” Enjolras mutters, rolling his eyes for a good measure. He squeezes Grantaire’s hand. “Some of your habits are downright awful, and so are some of mine, I’ve been informed,” he says haughtily. “But still, you are my home,” he says and Grantaire’s chest tightens painfully, like he’s had his breath knocked out of it. “This would be so much easier if I could give you a key to my place and ask you to move in,” Enjolras adds, disgruntled.
Grantaire laughs, a little breathlessly. “Why don’t you?”
“You have the key already, for one. And you love this place, I can’t ask you to move into mine.”
“Yours has a better shower,” Grantaire says wistfully.
“Yeah, that. We’re getting a much better one for this place.”
“I haven’t yet said yes and you’re redecorating already?”
Enjolras shifts closer, sitting on the edge of his seat and leaning towards Grantaire. “Please say yes.”
Grantaire laughs, pulling him closer, and Enjolras obligingly steps in between his legs, head bowed as he looks down at Grantaire expectantly. “You’ve said the same thing when you asked me out, you know?”
“I remember,” Enjolras says softly. Grantaire tilts his head further up and leans into Enjolras hand when it touches his cheek.
“You still haven’t learned that with you, the answer is always yes?” He’s regretted it once, the way it was impossible to deny Enjolras anything, but now he thinks it’s an affliction they share. Not in arguments, not when it’s about Enjolras’ causes or Grantaire’s habits, they’ll still dig their heels and remain forever stubborn. But when a question is asked, when one of them needs or wants or wishes; there’s only one answer possible.
“Good. I think I’ll have a few more questions, then,” Enjolras says softly right before they kiss.