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The first time they touch, it's when they've already known each other for going on three months. They debate and they talk and they snap but Grantaire is always across the room and Enjolras is always at the front of it, leading his fiery group. When Grantaire stays after the others have left and approaches the head of the table, where Enjolras is sitting and editing, it feels like a shift. And when he reaches out to put a hand on Enjolras' wrist, to apologize for a wayward too-far comment earlier, they both gasp, and their eyes meet, round and incredulous, and before Enjolras can say a thing Grantaire is mumbling another apology and is out the door.
It's Enjolras who asks Grantaire out to lunch. It's Enjolras who decides where they're going. The blond nearly takes it so far as to order for Grantaire, but is silenced with a Look. It becomes apparent very quickly that Enjolras is a leader not only in his revolutionary group. He can't seem to let the title go anywhere, in fact. Grantaire doesn't mind it, really. When Enjolras lets his bullheaded desire for control show in a mile-wide possessive streak, Grantaire probably shouldn't think it's as hot as he does.
It doesn't stop him from thinking it'd be nice to be the one in control for once.
The first time they hold hands, they're coming back from a film and it's late fall and there's a bite to the air. Grantaire laces his strong fingers through Enjolras' longer ones and Enjolras immediately blushes, looking away but tightening his hold. By the time they reach his apartment, his grip is sweaty and almost painfully strong, but Grantaire doesn't mind. He just sees him off with a wave and a smile, and wonders how slow he should take this.
The first time they kiss, it's almost winter and they're outside, walking through dim frost-covered streets and softly discussing the latest political move made in the fight for equality. That progress is finally being made is something they for once agree on, and when they pass under a streetlight, Enjolras is more than lit up, he's a spotlight, and his teeth are showing and his cheeks are flushed and Grantaire can't help it – he backs him against the wall and gets a hand on his jaw, crowding him but not yet letting their lips touch. His eyes ask permission, and though Enjolras seems to have otherwise lost the ability to move and his eyes are wider than Grantaire's ever seen them, he nods. And Grantaire glides forward and guides their mouths together and they're soaring.
It doesn't escape his notice that all the times they've done anything remotely physical, he's been the one to initiate it. He muses on that for quite some time before deciding on a course of action.
The first time they kiss, with wandering hands and tongues, it's deep in the heart of winter and they're inside Enjolras' flat, and Enjolras is reading a book and holding one of Grantaire's hands while he idly sketches with the other. He waits until Enjolras finishes a chapter, and then he sets his sketchpad down and grabs the book, marking it by folding down a page corner and tossing it onto the coffee table before turning into Enjolras and kissing him deeply. They end up mostly horizontal, Enjolras still propped up against the couch arm with Grantaire above him, his own skillful tongue coaxing Enjolras' clumsy, inexperienced one into something at once romantic and endearing. He doesn't let it go far, pulling off when shirts have barely been breached and sauntering off to make them dinner with a grin, leaving Enjolras taken aback and flustered on the couch.
The first time he touches Enjolras with decidedly less-than-innocent intent, winter is on the brink of melting into spring, and they are kissing in Grantaire's living room, by the door, and he slips his leg between Enjolras' and the blonde gasps and hits the wall so hard Grantaire is afraid he's hurt himself. But the look on Enjolras face isn't panic or disgust, only an open sort of awe, and so Grantaire draws near again, and resumes his position kissing down Enjolras neck, and just barely rolls his hips. Enjolras gasps again, a soft sound, his hands above Grantaire's shoulders, alternately clenching and fluttering. Grantaire drags his lips back up to Enjolras' and then pulls away, staring into the other man's blown pupils.
“Let me?”
Enjolras just nods, curls flying, and Grantaire lets out a breath, smiling, and leads them to his bedroom.
“You've never done this before,” he says on the way, and Enjolras just shakes his head, gaze fierce on the wall. Grantaire puts fingers on his chin and waits for their gazes to meet, then smiles and says, “it's okay.”
They end up on his bed, Enjolras flat against the pillows looking up, Grantaire mouthing at his collarbone while he pulls at his buttons.
He is easy the first time, undressing himself only to his boxers and focusing solely on Enjolras. He takes him in hand, nothing new this way but a hand on him that is not his own. It doesn't take long, and Grantaire watches with rapture as Enjolras clutches at his back and arms and whimpers into his mouth, slim hips moving without his mental permission. He is virginal and bothered, and he's soon coming between them, high, nonsensical noises floating from his lips.
He in uninhibited and uncontrolled where Grantaire is, for once, calm and ahead. It is new, and invigorating, because this Grantaire can do. In this area, he can lead.
The first time they make love, it is the height of spring and the plants are blooming wildly outside, flowery fragrances drifting in on the breeze through their cracked window. Enjolras is seated on the end of their bed, Grantaire standing between his legs, both of them unclothed, torsos pressed together and arms and lips entwined. They've done many things together; been sweaty and ecstatic many times; used mouths and hands and hips – but there is one thing they've not yet reached; a culminating act they've not yet finished. Today feels different, and so Grantaire leans close to Enjolras and whispers in his ear, requesting permission, and Enjolras holds him tightly and whispers 'yes. Please.'
They back further onto the bed, Enjolras bright-eyed and quivering with anticipation, and Grantaire reaches over to the things he's kept for a time like this. He tells Enjolras to turn over, and though the blond looks hesitant, he does so. Grantaire peppers kisses to the back of his neck and tells him lowly everything he's going to do, wrapping an arm around his waist and verbally preparing him. Yet when he coats his hand in lube and slides a first finger partly in, Enjolras tenses everywhere and he immediately pulls out.
“What's wrong?”
Enjolras frowns. “I can't see you.”
“It's easier this way.”
“I don't care. I need to see you.”
As soon as they're facing, Enjolras smiles, and Grantaire sees the tension drain from his body. His heart swells and he draws a hand down Enjolras' face.
“Shall we try again, then?”
This time is successful. He continues his running dialogue, and when he reaches down to prepare Enjolras the blonde receives him beautifully, brows furrowed but body open until Grantaire manages to reach that spot and Enjolras is lost, arching and losing all the breath from his lungs.
Grantaire moves as slowly as he can; draws this step out as long as he can, but Enjolras has not done this before and Grantaire's fingers, while talented, can only do so much.
And so when he finally fits them together, Enjolras winces and grabs his arms in a bruising grip.
“Okay?” Grantaire whispers, stock still but carefully relaxed.
“I – it's different,” Enjolras replies, voice strained. “Give me a moment.”
And Grantaire does; he gives him all the time he needs. And when Enjolras settles back again, his muscles are no longer bowstring-tight, and he looks at Grantaire and nods.
The sun-warmed air spins around them as Grantaire begins moving, small movements at the start, hitching Enjolras' legs around his waist and bracing his arms on either side of a golden head and marble shoulders.
Enjolras never loses his gaze, though his eyes quickly change from alert and anxious to desire-clouded. His lips part, giving access to airy moans. Grantaire shifts and increases the depths of his motions, and Enjolras nails dig into his shoulders, his exhales ascending into rapid, desperate puffs of air. Grantaire's focus is unmatched even through his own gripping arousal, and he ducks his head to lave at Enjolras collarbone and chest. He works his lips over a nipple just as he thrusts, deeper than before, and Enjolras cries out, head thrown back, heavenly voice tossed into the wind.
“Grantaire,” he sings, eyes watering and cheeks flushed with pleasure.
Grantaire feels like a musician and Enjolras his instrument, tuned into a frequency of their very own.
In the beginning, when it had been them only touching or Grantaire using that sarcastic mouth, Enjolras had held himself back. He'd enjoyed every act but not the loss of control that came with it. His cheeks had at times flushed with something other than zeal when he'd made an odd sound, or moved the wrong way, or thrust too soon. But Grantaire, educated, gracious Grantaire, had been quick to soothe, and to kiss, and to happily inform.
And now Enjolras comes apart willingly and beautifully beneath him, on the edge of crashing, mouth open and muscles rippling and voice wrecked but still in use.
Grantaire reaches between them to circle his fist around Enjolras' erection, and they are almost lost, careening together towards an explosion, and Enjolras' clumsy hips snap up and up, and Grantaire follows his every move, and they are so in love.
Enjolras falls first, his release hitting their chests and stomachs as he trembles and keens and holds Grantaire as though they cannot be separated. The artist follows soon after, hitting his peak while tangling his tongue with Enjolras', gasping into his mouth, and Enjolras smiles.
They lay together in the afterward, trading gentle kisses, inhaling spring's perfume.
Brick by mental brick, Enjolras builds back up his mental fortitude; his innate control. Grantaire happily watches it happen, content in the knowledge that he'd brought it down and he will do so again. This is their imbalanced relationship that works only for them; that they fix with heated debates and fill with shocking affection.
Grantaire needs no more than this, and he rolls over to tell his opposite that with a press of his lips.