Chapter Text
For the twentieth time in twenty minutes, Enjolras asks himself what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. That’s an average of once per minute, fast speeding up to match his heart rate.
He follows the security guard through the maze of backstage pathways, stepping over coiled cords and stumbling over half-unstuck electrical tape that clings to his boots. Sometimes it’s so dark he can pretend he doesn’t know where he’s going and then they round a corner and the fluorescent lights are too bright, and he sees the dazed faces of the people who troop beside him.
Two other young men, two young women -- all of them attractive, overly done up, sharing out astonished looks whenever their eyes meet. They blink in silent code: Are we really here? Is this happening? They don’t speak, as though afraid to acknowledge their destination. The etiquette is mysterious in the backstage warren, and words spoken aloud might break the spell.
The guard draws up at last beside a door. “Phones off,” he says sternly, checks all their screens to make sure. “I get told you’re out, you’re out. No arguments. Trust me, I’ll win.” The breadth of his forearm, which bulges larger than Enjolras’ thigh, suggests he does not exaggerate.
En masse, they nod nervously. That’s when the guard cracks a smile, if smiles can be mostly flat. “Have fun,” he says, and pushes open the door.
A cloud of smoke -- mixed weed, cigarettes, and sickly sweet vapor, flavored after vanilla -- hits them first. Then raucous noise does, the sound of triumphant voices overlapping, crashing in cacophony. A tinny speaker is turned up past eleven and is piping in the act currently on stage.
Enjolras has forgotten that the concert is a triple bill. He came only to see Grantaire -- spent nearly half a month’s paycheck on a VIP ticket he tried not to regret the moment he paid for it -- and after the set, raced from the floor to the meet-and-greet area where VIPs were promised selfies and autographs for the monstrous price of admission.
The bolder fans lingered long after they were asked to leave, hopeful, hoping against hope. Enjolras surprised himself by being bold, sticking close to the door the band was bound to exit through, allowing himself one last close-up.
The selfie with Grantaire was a blur, literal and figurative, the picture nothing to post to Instagram. His hands shook too badly when Grantaire draped a casual arm around his shoulders. Grantaire offered to let him take another, but Enjolras hadn’t found his voice fast enough to speak, and the publicist was already herding Grantaire down the eager line.
So Enjolras stared, standing exactly as he had when Grantaire touched him, and maybe that’s why he remained lurking with the more professional groupies. He wasn’t used to being starstruck, had never been moved to weak-kneed speechlessness by the mere presence of another person. Then again, other people didn’t mean what Grantaire -- what Grantaire’s music -- meant to him.
To meet the avatar of the songs that got him through his most trying days in the flesh wasn’t something he was prepared for.
It didn’t help that Grantaire was as gorgeous as his best-shot album covers and magazine spreads suggested. Moody, broody, artfully greasy hair, the circles under his eyes far more pronounced in person, sure -- but still the object of Enjolras’ fantasies since Combeferre had tossed his first album into Enjolras’ lap senior year of college and said, I think you’ll like this. This guy, he doesn’t lie. He’s genuine. He tells it like it is and he doesn’t spare the system or anyone in it.
And Grantaire became the soundtrack to his life.
That’s how Enjolras ended up here, poised before the greenroom, buffeted by pungent smoke. Grantaire, his singular fanboy indulgence, even now, even with the space of years after college and law school and all the supposed wisdom a dutiful job and responsible adult living brought.
Grantaire, the only thing that made him irrational. That made him spend more money on a night than he’s spent in six months of nights.
That’s why Enjolras remained in the press when the band turned to leave the meet-and-greet, and Grantaire’s eyes swept over them, and Grantaire and the rest nodded discreetly at a lucky few before disappearing. Had it really been for him, the nod? Had Grantaire nodded at him?
When the guard offered Enjolras a backstage pass and then propped the door fifteen minutes later Enjolras was still too astonished to fully register what he was committing to. Then he found it didn’t really matter. He had to go or he would never forgive himself for what might have been. What might be.
Here he is. With the others close on his heels they go through the smoke and into the noise. The overhead lights are dimmed and Grantaire’s band is ranged on couches that have seen better days. Sidetables are crammed with bottles and ashtrays. The detritus of touring spills out from the corners, open suitcases and unslung instruments, a minefield of equipment to navigate.
Grantaire himself is laughing uproariously from the middle couch, with a body draped across his lap, and Enjolras’ beating heart sinks -- until he sees that it’s Jehan, the longtime bass player, and he’s not sitting so much as clamoring atop Grantaire to grab a lit joint from Grantaire’s outstretched hand. Grantaire lets him snatch it at last, and Jehan slides free, and all of them turn as one to examine their visitors.
The others seem to be old hands at this. They advance without invitation or hesitation, smiling past any hint of nerves, tossing their hair, batting eyelashes. They wedge themselves into seats on the couches, or perch atop thousand-dollar amps, or go to pour drinks from an unmanned but well-stocked bar.
Enjolras’ throat is dry but he doesn’t know what to do. He stands casting glances at Grantaire and away from Grantaire until Grantaire’s gaze finally alights on him.
“Come for a better selfie, Kennedy?” Grantaire tilts his head. Checks Enjolras out. His expression is mostly amused, more than a little bleary-eyed.
Enjolras flushes under the scrutiny, the reference to the too-preppy work casual clothes he didn’t have time to change out of before rushing to the concert -- and because Grantaire remembered how much his hands were shaking, the mess he made of their expensive picture. Enjolras swallows. His throat feels like sandpaper.
“Behave, you.” Jehan swats at Grantaire’s shoulder, then scoots aside to make a sliver of space for Enjolras.
Grantaire appears a touch chagrined, gives Enjolras a more thorough once-over. “Grab me a beer and we’ll take all the pictures you like,” he says. His voice is, impossibly, both husky with singing and smoke and still smooth as cream that Enjolras can practically taste on his tongue.
Tongue-tied, Enjolras nods. He would pull down the moon if Grantaire asked it of him, would give it a shot at least, and the force of his reaction leaves him reeling. He heads for the overstocked bar, where one of his compatriots from the VIP crowd -- a fiercely pretty girl with a buzzcut and a pierced lip -- has taken it upon herself to mix drinks.
“What’ll it be?” She winks at him, and Enjolras focuses on the artful swoop of her eyeliner to regain some focus and the ability to speak.
“Two beers,” Enjolras says, trying not to panic that he hadn’t asked what kind Grantaire preferred. Grantaire has a sponsorship deal with Six Point, sure, but does that mean he really likes their beer? That’s what she’s sliding toward him, in two tall silver cans; there’s a cooler packed full of Six Points, but what if Grantaire hates it by now? What if this is some kind of test, and Enjolras is already failing?
“Listen,” says the girl, leaning conspiratorially across the bar, so that Enjolras ducks in to hear her. “You seem sweet. I like the All-American apple pie look. This your first rodeo?” She doesn’t wait for Enjolras to answer or react, just nods as though he has confirmed it. “I’m here for Marius, and this is definitely not my first go round, so I’m going to give you some advice. I wouldn’t get my hopes up about the man of the evening. Word is, Grantaire hasn’t taken a groupie -- to heart -- in ages. Many before you have tried, and many will try again.”
“I’m not,” Enjolras says tightly, reddens, but then he bites down when her eyebrows go up. Not what? Not a groupie? Her cat’s eyes dare him to denigrate her status. Not hoping for what she’s trying to gird him against? He can’t deny that either. He takes a small sip of beer. Nods. He should be grateful for the warning, even if he feels his stomach plunge with disappointment. What the fuck is wrong with him? Did he really expect something to happen? “Thank you,” he says instead. “I’ll keep that in mind. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t worry, friend,” she says, smiling now. “We’ll still have fun. That’s a promise. You’re gonna think about this night for the rest of your life.” She toasts his can with her whiskey and slips from behind the bar to join the loveseat where Marius -- Grantaire’s drummer after Bossuet left to pursue a solo career -- is sitting with one arm around a stunning blond woman. Both Marius and the blond welcome her back with open-mouthed kisses, and Enjolras blinks at them, slightly open-mouthed himself.
He squares his shoulders and marches back to Grantaire’s couch. Jehan has scooted farther over, is now quite flush against one of the young men who came in with Enjolras, so there’s more room. Even so, when Enjolras sits beside Grantaire, they touch at the knee and shoulder through sheer necessity of space.
Grantaire turns his head. Seems a bit surprised to see him, as though he’s forgotten about Enjolras and the request for beer in the two minutes it took. Grantaire’s blue eyes are overlaid with a hazy red from weed, but his hand is steady enough as he accepts the can and tosses back a hearty swallow. His throat is a long poignant column. Even his Adam’s apple is finely formed.
Enjolras looks down, tries to find some imperfection to ground himself. Stares at Grantaire’s hands, which are calloused by guitar strings. His fingers are shapely and graceful but his nails are bitten to the quick, his cuticles raw. It should be off-putting, this found flaw, but instead Enjolras feels a surge of tenderness to be close enough to spot the human traits behind the rock god. He looks away, at the lip of his beer can, when Grantaire lazily clinks their cans together.
“So what’s your story, Supreme Court?” asks Grantaire.
Enjolras startles as the address lands close to home. His cheeks must be permanently pink at this point. “Um,” he says, then sips to clear his throat. “Not quite. Legal assistant, though. Public defender’s office.” He thinks about how boring that sounds next to someone whose last three albums have debuted at number one worldwide.
But Grantaire’s small smile grows as though he has Enjolras figured out already. “Overworked and underpaid,” he says knowingly. “Fighting the man, man. No wonder you seem so stressed out. Well, take a load off.” He starts to offer Enjolras the joint that Jehan passes over, then reconsiders with a smirk. “Suppose you can’t partake. You won’t report us, will you?”
To his own astonishment Enjolras responds with an impassioned flood of words about the dire, corrupt state of the drug war, the callous cruelty of mandatory sentencing, the racism and classism of the overburdened criminal justice system. It’s out of his mouth before he can remember who he’s addressing, an instinct and a subject too near and dear. He closes his mouth before the speech gets entirely away from him when he realizes half of the room has fallen silent and is listening.
“A lawyer!” This from Joly, lead guitar player, who is sat on the floor nearby. “This has to be a greenroom first. Dude, can I have your card? Could come in handy. I’m always afraid I’ll be arrested one day and have no one to call at 3 a.m.”
Enjolras doesn’t know how to tell him that there’s no chance anyone as famous as they are will ever be locked up, even if they destroy hotel rooms or are found with a tour bus full of hard drugs. But he’s feeling embarrassed enough already, overexposed.
To deflect the attention, he focuses on fishing free a business card from his wallet. He passes it over to Joly. By the time the exchange is made the chatter has resumed, and the dark-haired woman, Eponine -- he learns her name after hearing the blond woman moan it -- is coaxing Marius into dancing on a table.
After that, the night grows increasingly raucous. Alcohol flows in a steady stream from the bar, back and forth, back and forth. An assortment of drugs are passed around and consumed with alacrity. The concert on the stage beyond ends and someone puts on new music. There is wild dancing and group singing and indecent embraces, and through it all Enjolras sits beside Grantaire on the couch, touching at the knee and shoulder.
Sometimes they speak at length. Grantaire is given to bursts of sharp clarity, when the feeling moves him -- he’ll debate Enjolras, engage on an impressive variety of topics, fight with him about some issue of the day until they arrive on common ground after an exhaustive bout. His intelligence and worldly-wise awareness, once ignited, is considerable, enticing, thrilling Enjolras to the bone.
Enjolras never imagined this, despite the depth of thought Grantaire gave his lyrics. It’s something else entirely to take a theme Grantaire has sung about to the next level and pick it apart between them.
But then five minutes later Grantaire will be staring broodingly into a distance only he can see, or he will turn and accept a line of coke or a bottle that is passed him, and drop the thread of their discussion. Every time he seems to notice Enjolras again, surprise is writ across his features.
Enjolras, for his part, is well and truly fucked. If he was attracted before to the unattainable ideal, to the vaunted showman who poured heartache and rage against the machine of the world into his music, Grantaire in person, a feeling, deep-thinking human with curling black hair that looks soft up close, is a thousand times more appealing. He can forgive Grantaire the trespasses of too many substances and all-too-apparent exhaustion. Enjolras is a guest here, barely that; how can he weigh the demands of a life so impossibly far from his own?
It’s only when he feels a weary ache in his bones that he realizes it must be the middle of the night, or later than that. The room has no windows, and with his phone off he can’t track the passage of time. It’s only when Enjolras glances away from Grantaire to set down the empty can of what must be his fifth beer that he realizes the couches around them are vacant. The rest have gone.
Through his buzzing head he rewinds and pulls up memories of friendly mentions of after-parties, nightclubs, the tour bus, a hotel suite. He and Grantaire alone have stayed, and now they are alone.
“Oh,” says Enjolras, because Grantaire isn’t reacting to their newfound state. How long have they sat like this? “I guess I should probably--”
“Why are you here, Law Review?” Grantaire leans back into the couch’s embrace, his eyes on Enjolras. Did Enjolras tell him about editing the Review or is it another wry guess that’s too on the money? He doesn’t know. He can’t remember. His brain is skipping forwards and backwards in time.
Grantaire says, “Why are you really here?”
Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, what’s expected or desired, so he tells the truth. “I wanted to meet you.”
“Well.” Grantaire still won’t look away. “Are you satisfied?”
The question seems to hang in the air for a long time. Finally Enjolras licks his lips. It’s his most nervous gesture, but he realizes belatedly how it must come across. “No.”
He doesn’t imagine it: there’s a flare of heat and interest behind the blue of Grantaire’s gaze, quickly suppressed. Grantaire shakes his head. “Listen, I’m not who you think I am. I’m not what you came here for.”
It’s the most surreal conversation Enjolras has ever experienced, but his pulse is thudding hard now, and the muggy, alcohol-induced excitement in his head urges him to speak where otherwise he might be silent.
“You’re exactly what I came here for,” Enjolras hears himself say. He thinks he sounds convincing. He’s convinced.
Grantaire pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He closes his eyes briefly. Opens them. “Christ,” he mutters. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Enjolras.” Enjolras bites his lip, watches the heat surge again. Grantaire’s eyes like blue flame. He makes a decision, and then he moves deliberately, swings one leg over Grantaire and settles into his lap. Faces him. His heart is beating fit to burst at his own audacity, but he’s too far gone -- past sobriety, past propriety, focused only on the mind-bending present. “It’s Enjolras. You asked me a few hours ago. Said it sounded like a cough suppressant.”
Grantaire’s body beneath his shakes with sudden laughter. His hands stay bunched in the fabric of the couch. But he doesn’t push Enjolras away. Doesn’t pull him in. Looks, doesn’t touch. It’s more disconcerting than if he had grabbed and pawed, or shoved him loose. “Okay, Ricola. You’re killing me here.”
“Tell me what the problem is,” Enjolras suggests, his hands meeting at the base of Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire’s hair spills over his fingers, wondrously soft, not greasy at all to the touch. Soft as he guessed. He could bury his hands in that hair and not let go.
“Too many to name,” says Grantaire. “You know, I have to be on a plane to Stockholm in four hours.”
“I know,” says Enjolras. “I bought the tour shirt tonight.”
“You bought--” That seems to have been the wrong thing to say, because Grantaire’s mouth tightens, and he appears newly resolved where resolve had been chipping away. “I swore I wasn’t going to do this anymore.”
“Do what?” Now Enjolras’ expression is stubborn, too. “Say it.”
Grantaire blows out a breath. “Fuck groupies.” He closes his eyes again, keeps them shut. “Jesus. I’m sorry. You need to go. I don’t have any filter left.”
“I don’t mind,” Enjolras tells him. “I’m not known for my filter, either. I appreciate honesty.” He doesn’t go, though. He doesn’t move. Hardly dares to breathe. “Why the groupie vow of chastity?”
Even though something in him rebels at the classification, he doesn’t refute it, either, just as he couldn’t with Eponine.
Groupie, n.: a person who regularly follows a music group or other celebrity in the hope of meeting or getting to know them. Groupie, derogatory: an enthusiastic or uncritical follower.
He may have never pursued anything like this before, but too much of the definition holds true. For Grantaire, Grantaire only, Enjolras is an enthusiastic follower. This may be his singular indulgence in a rigid, upright life. In Grantaire’s lap he feels pliable, like anything could happen and that would be all right. He barely knows himself here. The feeling of escape is fantastic.
Grantaire’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying to decide whether to answer or not. Then he shrugs and says, “Because of the unbalanced power dynamic. It got old fast, and then it never seemed fair.”
Enjolras wants to kiss his pert red lips for saying so. God, how he wants to kiss him. They’re so close together. Even this should be enough, Grantaire’s face inches away, Enjolras’ legs bracketing his body, Enjolras’ fingers skimming under his hair at the nape of his neck.
Grantaire seems to be thinking aloud now: “It’s hard not to respond to hero-worship at first, you know? They make like you’re doing them a favor. Why shouldn’t I spread the love? But in the light of day, people are people are people. They have regrets.” Grantaire isn’t looking at him anymore -- he’s staring at a point over Enjolras’ shoulder. “I do. Who am I, to take what I want, when it’s being offered for the wrong reasons?”
Straddling Grantaire, Enjolras isn’t prepared for philosophical discourse. Even so, even tipsy, he can find the will to argue back. “Who are you to say what’s right or wrong for someone else? Isn’t that assuming as unequal of a dynamic -- deciding that since you’re the one with power, your instinct is unerringly the correct one?” He tips his head sideways. “Deciding that you’re the one with the power in the first place? Maybe this is empowering for me in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.”
Grantaire considers him. His eyes are glinting. “Are you -- are you trying to reason me into sex?” A slow smile turns the sides of his mouth. “This is a first. What’s your damage, Atticus Finch? I’m fascinated. You have a boyfriend?”
Enjolras can barely hear him over the sound of his heart, which seems to think he’s running a marathon, it’s going so fast. “No.”
“Girlfriend? Gender nonconforming partner?”
“No.”
“Virgin?”
“No.”
“Then what are you trying to get away from?” How is it that Grantaire can see through him so clearly? Is Enjolras that transparent? “You’re smart and hot -- can’t say that isn’t my favorite combination to have in my lap. But you wouldn’t be here without a reason. I need to know what that is.”
“I--” Enjolras’ brain kicks into overdrive, thinking about it. He decides to tell the truth. “I’ve never done anything like this. This is entirely unlike me. This is so utterly not me that no one I know would believe me if I tried to tell them. Even if I drew a diagram from memory.” Jesus, now he sounds even more lame than legal assistant at the Public Defender’s office.
“Ah,” from Grantaire, and he nods, like he gets it now. “Repressed to the teeth.” But he’s slowly unbending, relaxing, his body becoming more accommodating under Enjolras’ weight. Then he lifts a hand and runs his thumb across Enjolras’ lips, experimental, as though to test the sharp edges of Enjolras’ repression underneath.
Enjolras locks his gaze on Grantaire’s. Opens his mouth and takes Grantaire’s thumb inside. His tongue flicks against the pad of Grantaire’s finger, feels the grooves where guitar strings have cut deep.
The tip of a thumb and he’s more turned on and ready than he’s ever been. Yes, this is unlike him. And it isn’t just because of who Grantaire is or what his art has meant to Enjolras’ existence. There’s something about the man himself -- his unexpected forbearance, his biting intellect and observations, his mile-long stare -- that appeals to Enjolras more than fame and fortune ever could.
Grantaire watches him. After a moment that seems to last a year, he pushes his thumb further. Then he withdraws and repeats the motion. Then he moves his hand free, and he -- “So I guess we’re doing this. God, we’re doing this. But tell me that you understand --”
Enjolras waits, his breath caught.
‘’--that this is a one-time deal. I’m touring for the rest of the century, seems like. My time isn’t my own. My life isn’t. We do this, I get on a plane, you go back to fixing the criminal justice system. Do you understand, Enjolras?”
“Yes,” Enjolras says, to all of it. A shiver starts at the top of his spine and slides down to his toes. It's the first time Grantaire has said his proper name, and he wishes he could play it on a loop, over and over.
“Well,” says Grantaire, and he smiles for what must be the first genuine time, since it reaches all the way up to his eyes. “Fuck.”
“Yes,” Enjolras agrees again. Now that he’s getting what he wanted -- what he wants -- a thousand cautionary voices wake up and start screaming in his head. This is crazy. This is dangerous. This is wrong.
But all of them ring falsely shrill, and instead he hears Courfeyrac wheedling him to go out on a no-strings date through same app or another, or to bring someone home from the bar, for once, just try it, dude, seriously, you need to relax. How is this any more out there than those scenarios?
It’s exactly like a hookup with a willing stranger and exactly unlike it; he knows everything there is to publically know about Grantaire, and more besides; they’ve talked for hours. Listen to Courfeyrac, Enjolras thinks. Courfeyrac would already be naked by now.
So Enjolras goes first. He leans back in Grantaire’s lap, and undoes the buttons on his ridiculous collared work shirt that he’d ironed in the morning. He takes it off and throws it out of sight -- to show that he can be impulsive.
Grantaire’s hands come up to support the lean. One spans the jut of Enjolras’ hipbone; the other spreads across his lower back. His hands are hot as brands. His hands are big, and strong; they’ve primarily been occupied in playing instruments for a decade. Enjolras has a wild thought, that if he makes a sound right then and Grantaire shifts his hold, Enjolras will change key accordingly. He’ll be played.
Grantaire’s hands move, range across Enjolras’ revealed skin with a slowness that seems to take them both by surprise. Grantaire traces across Enjolras’ stomach with two fingers like he’s mapping out the lines of his abs, like he’ll need to draw them one day from memory. Up, up, ever upward, the clever fingers find and tease one nipple, then the other, and Enjolras bites his lip hard enough to hurt, his body arching in response. He can feel Grantaire getting hard against his thigh now, and he rocks back and forth in a bid to increase friction.
Enjolras reaches, gets the hem of Grantaire’s black t-shirt in his hands, tugs, and Grantaire lifts his arms to let it be yanked over his head. His shoulders are broad, the muscles of his biceps finely corded. His arms are almost entirely encased in tattoos -- pictures, patterns, words, Tarot cards, faces -- and at each shoulder, below the collarbone, twin birds diving in flight, their feathered bodies a riot of color.
Enjolras can’t help himself, can’t stop. He tilts in, gets his mouth on salt-sweet skin, tongues along the body of the left bird, whose downward trajectory would let it land on Grantaire’s heart. He can feel Grantaire’s breath hitch in his chest. He lifts his head and looks at Grantaire’s face, uses his thumb to complete the exploration of the bird. “What are they?”
“Swallows,” says Grantaire, his focus on Enjolras’ mouth. “Old maritime tradition. One swallow meant five thousand nautical miles traveled. It marked an experienced sailor. That much distance was hard to earn.” His eyes meet Enjolras’ eyes. “I have a lot of miles on me.”
“They’re beautiful,” says Enjolras. Pictures enough have been snapped of Grantaire without his shirt on -- he’s taken it off at shows and festivals where heat or the energy of the set demanded it -- but Enjolras never noticed the birds before. Maybe they are recent additions. Grantaire hasn’t dropped his eyes, and the intensity of their shared gaze is more arousing than anything intangible has any right to be.
Enjolras -- swallows. “Do you want to fuck me?”
“Very much yes.” Grantaire starts to work Enjolras’ belt free. “Now that we’ve established that our power dynamic is egalitarian, I feel perfectly comfortable letting you know that I’ve wanted to fuck you since that disastrous selfie. You should’ve seen your face. The disappointment. It was cute.” Belt unbelted, snaps unsnapped, zipper unzipped, Grantaire puts his hand up and palms Enjolras’ cheek. “You have no idea what you look like, do you.” It’s not pitched like a question. “The lack of vanity’s refreshing. That’s pretty rare for me these days -- to see anything new under the sun.”
“How do I look?” Enjolras asks it before he can remind himself they’re not in some romantic scene -- those words, the confession from Grantaire, Grantaire’s obvious appreciation and attraction, should be enough.
The air feels too heavy around them now. To ask was a mistake, and Grantaire drops his hand. His features, which had begun to soften at the edges, draw firm; he raises one dark eyebrow to a sarcastic height.
“Like you should’ve been riding my dick five minutes ago,” Grantaire says. “C’mon.” He rolls his hips, the length of hardness beneath jeans prominent and promising.
Enjolras nods, no longer trusting himself to speak. He concentrates on swinging his leg free, peeling himself off Grantaire. Then he manages, “Do you have--”
Grantaire points towards the nearest corner. “Joly’s bag. He’s always prepared. He won’t mind. Hell, he’d be thrilled to facilitate safety first.”
Enjolras paces over to the indicated suitcase. His heart feels lodged in his throat. It’s rude and invasive to rifle through someone else’s stuff, but he’s too deep into this to let that stop him now. He unzips the bag and is relieved to find it neatly packed and organized. In the cosmetics case there are condoms and foil packets of lube amongst the toiletries. He watches his unsteady hands to steady them as he collects supplies.
On the couch, Grantaire is kicking free of boots and then his jeans and boxer-briefs -- black, all black, soon in a pile at his feet. His cock is long and thick, proud from its base of dark hair. He’s bigger than anything Enjolras has seen outside of porn, impossibly, achingly big. God, how Enjolras will ache.
His knees feel weak as he walks back. He wants to go to his knees. Get his mouth around Grantaire’s cock and see how much he can take. Have Grantaire pull his hair and push him further when Enjolras thinks he’s reached his limit. Wants to gag and choke and beg for more.
He pauses at the parted apex of Grantaire’s thighs, considers putting the plan into action. But Grantaire had said Like you should’ve been riding my dick five minutes ago. So instead he slips out of his pants, attempts to make the motion smooth. He doesn’t give a show, but he tries not to betray his nerves, his excitement.
Excitement is evident enough from his own hard cock -- maybe not made for primetime porn, but he’s never gotten any complaints -- and Grantaire’s approving eyes on him widen just a little, and beneath his eyes he’s smiling now. A smoldering sort of smile, as though he’s tasted something forbidden. He reaches out; his fingers circle Enjolras’ wrist, and he hauls him back across his lap.
They haven’t kissed. Grantaire hasn’t kissed him, nor seemed inclined to be kissed, but it doesn’t matter. Grantaire’s hands are all over him, without any semblance of restraint now, and he wraps Enjolras’ cock in a closed fist and starts to jerk him off like it’s an imperative, like this is the main event.
The callouses on Grantaire’s hand feel wonderfully rough and electrically new and for a moment Enjolras lets himself look down through his eyelashes at the sight of Grantaire like every one of his college fantasies made real. He had a poster of Grantaire tacked up to the dorm room ceiling, and sometimes, at night, he’d stare and let himself pretend --
Real. This is real, and it’s happening, and Enjolras is gasping, thrusting into Grantaire’s grip, set aflame but wasting time in burning. He puts his handful of supplies on the back of the couch, then tears into one of the foil packets with his teeth. Slicks up his own fingers, makes them as wet as he can.
Then Enjolras curves the other hand over Grantaire’s shoulder for balance -- just above the swallow tattoo -- and looks at Grantaire looking as he starts to open himself up. He works one finger in before he’s forced to pause, practically panting, fighting the conflicting emotional and physical reactions that surge: how badly he wants, how ready he felt starting hours ago, a slow boil now volcanic with the force of his desire -- all contrasted with his unyielding, out-of-practice body.
When had he last let someone fuck him? He can’t remember, can’t see their face at all with Grantaire so near.
Two fingers. Enjolras bites his lip until he tastes blood. Grantaire is still stroking his cock, so that Enjolras’ lower body is buffeted by their joint movement; and it already feels so good just like this that it’s taking all of his considerable willpower not to scream.
“Goddamn,” says Grantaire. There’s a rawness to his voice that changes its tone. No affectation, no performance, no persona layers it. Is this what he really sounds like? “God. You look--”
But once more he won’t finish the thought, and instead releases Enjolras’ cock -- Enjolras groans -- to open a packet himself. Grantaire’s finger, tapered and longer than Enjolras’, is almost delicate in its approach as it slides into him, adding the stretch that Enjolras needs. They prepare him together, quickly in sync, in-out-in, and it’s the singular hottest and most devastatingly intimate act that Enjolras has experienced.
When Grantaire starts to ease him toward a fourth, Enjolras opens his mouth and thinks this time he’ll scream and there’s nothing to prevent it; but Grantaire murmurs something about security outside the door and gives him the fingers of his other hand instead. Enjolras sucks them greedily, without any sense of shame. His brain is alive and lit up with sensation and there’s no space for anything else. No space inside him but Grantaire keeps making more. He takes the fourth.
If Enjolras were capable of clear thought he might think about how much care and time Grantaire is giving him, when he wouldn’t have objected to brusque handling and impatient advances -- expected that; almost anticipated callous indifference. Instead it’s clear that Grantaire has pride in his work and an interest in mutual satisfaction.
Instead it’s something else, drawn-out and thorough, curious, exploratory, exquisite. Grantaire mindful to expertly crook his fingers so that Enjolras moves against him and is ready to come just from this. Ready, ready, ready.
He mouths this at last, to the hollow of Grantaire’s throat: “Ready,” and “Please,” and then he strings it together. “I’m ready, Grantaire, please.”
Hs voice is half a sob, unrecognizable, and he keeps his head down, pressed to Grantaire’s neck, so that Grantaire won’t have to see how undone he is. God, he promised a musical legend fun sexytimes and here he is trying not to shake apart, a needy, wanton mess that must have always existed just below the surface of his skin --
“Shh, shh,” from Grantaire -- not a silencing sound, but a soothing one, and the loss of his fingers is stark and shocking except they’re soon settling on Enjolras’ hips, sweeping over his shoulderblades, gliding along the joints of his spine. “You’re good, you’re so good. Will you help me out?” And he tips his head to indicate the condom on the couch cushion nearby.
Enjolras only just manages not to make an all-out grab for it. As he unrolls the condom down Grantaire’s cock he realizes it’s the first time he’s dared to touch him like this, and that if he’s ready so is Grantaire and Grantaire has been waiting and patient. Grantaire is rock-hard, which means everything they did to make Enjolras prepared turned him on, too, which means that Enjolras does, which means --
“Hey, Chief Justice, I can hear you overthinking,” Grantaire says, “none of that,” and he lines up his cock and lifts his hips, and then he’s inside Enjolras.
Enjolras opens his mouth but no sound is forthcoming. He opens himself instead: Grantaire comes into him, slow and sure. The first few inches seem monumental, an event. Enjolras shuts his eyes.
Grantaire moves carefully, rocks his lower body with calculated momentum. Then he pauses, holds still, lets Enjolras adjust. Grantaire is halfway in and even that feels like more than Enjolras can handle, and Enjolras is holding his breath so that his treacherous, panicky brain doesn’t betray him.
“Enjolras,” says Grantaire, and Christ, his name on Grantaire’s lips, his name said in Grantaire’s voice, will never not be the most erotic experience Enjolras can imagine. Grantaire touches the back of Enjolras’ neck. “Stay with me. I don’t want to be something to endure.”
“No,” says Enjolras, opens his eyes fast. “No, you’re--” But he doesn’t know what to say: you feel too good and you’re too much and I don’t have the words for what you are; you’re what I’ve wanted beyond reason for as long as I can remember and I can’t breathe now that you’re happening to me; if I let you all the way in I won’t know how to be without this anymore. So instead he says, “Just let me--” and he gathers up his tattered pride and fortitude and regains a measure of self-control.
He thinks about how, in this position, the balance of power is truly equitable: Grantaire could have bent him over the side of the couch, or had him on his hands and knees on the floor, or climbed over him and parted his thighs and driven deep without pause; and all of those positions are moments that Enjolras wants, too. But Grantaire pictured them like this, envisioned Enjolras above him, sinking down. Like this, with Grantaire keeping still, it’s Enjolras’ choice to set their pace, it’s Enjolras who directs their progress.
“Just let me--” Enjolras says, a statement without a conclusion that can be vocalized. Grantaire does, Grantaire lets, Grantaire watches with questioning eyes, and that decides Enjolras. Enjolras goes up onto his knees, then goes down, down, down. His thighs are shaking, and sweat trickles along the path of his spine, but he repeats the motion again, and again, takes more of Grantaire each time.
It feels like forever until he’s seated, and also, in the end, it’s mere seconds, as every rise and fall feels better, and when he holds all of Grantaire inside him at last he’s so full-up he doesn’t know what to do. There’s no room for logic or process anymore, and all his past sexual references don’t align with this. It hurts like the best thing that’s ever happened to him and isn’t his to keep.
He stays like that for a long time, full-up, astride Grantaire, unmoving, until the lack of motion becomes unbearable. Grantaire’s lips are parted and he’s breathing fast now, brow furrowed in concentration, and it occurs to Enjolras that it’s a remarkable test of endurance for Grantaire to remain steady. To have Enjolras work Grantaire’s cock into him without so much as an impatient thrust.
Only a shivering tension across Grantaire’s skin, and the way his teeth flash out once across his lower lip, betray the effort it costs to stay calm.
Enjolras tries to reward Grantaire’s restraint and his own accomplishment, draws Grantaire almost entirely out and then takes him back inside with a quick snap of his hips. It feels so good that he bends his back to anchor Grantaire’s cock within him, then repeats the movement to chase the electrifying sensation that lights up all his nerve-endings at once.
Enjolras’ reward is a low groan from Grantaire, a sound new and raw, unlike anything he’s heard before. He’s listened to Grantaire’s songs for years, heard him laugh in radio interviews, watched him wax poetic in the documentary about the making of the last record, seen him alive with energy live on stage.
But in all of that abundance of noise there was nothing like this, pure responsive feeling that sounds torn unbidden from his throat, that appears to surprise Grantaire as much as it excites Enjolras.
After that it’s Enjolras’ mission to hear it again, and he’s never felt so inspired or determined to reach a goal. He starts to set up a rhythm, up and down, down and up, bringing them together without waiting to register each stroke, so that their speed is punishing but is teasing, too, presents the sharp edge of satisfaction without going over it.
“Fuck,” says Grantaire, fervent. His hands curl around and under Enjolras’ hips, helping the rise and fall, lifting and tugging him back into place. His fingers dig in for purchase. “Okay, you’re no virgin. I believe you. But God, fuck, so tight--” and he lets free a torrent of praising invective so filthily descriptive that Enjolras laughs, shakes with laughter. He’s beside himself with pleasure both bodily and born of the discovery that Grantaire can maintain a stream of consciousness, even when Enjolras commits to ride him to within an inch of their lives.
They go on and on and on. It’s strange not to kiss at all during sex but somehow it’s even more exceptional with their eyes locked instead of their mouths, every action registered, every shift in breath and bitten lip recorded. Sweat wets Enjolras’ hair and there’s a line of it down Grantaire’s throat from their exertion. He ducks his head and tastes: his tongue flickers at the curve of Grantaire’s neck, licks salt-slick skin.
Grantaire groans again beneath him, and he rolls his hips with unleashed urgency. Enjolras holds still then and lets Grantaire take over their motion, revels in the sudden, desperate drive of his cock. Grantaire’s fingernails carve into his skin, his fingers are gripping close enough now to bruise, and Enjolras hears himself saying, “Yes, yes,” because Grantaire has found the perfect angle to fuck into him and because Enjolras wants the bruises, wants blue-red-purple marks to be there tomorrow when Grantaire isn’t there anymore but some proofs will remain.
“Is this what you wanted,” says Grantaire, thrusting deep, deep, deep, splitting Enjolras in half, separating Enjolras from everything he’s known about himself before. He doesn’t say it like a question, and Enjolras just keeps saying: Yes. Yes.
So Grantaire doesn’t stop, fucks him faster, harder, their rhythm starting to unravel as the end of the movement approaches. He gets one hand around Enjolras’ cock, which is straining between them, and Enjolras cries out. At the last second Enjolras remembers about the security beyond the greenroom door, and he bites into Grantaire’s shoulder to smother the sound.
All it takes it three strokes from Grantaire’s hand and inside him and he’s coming, coming completely apart. Surely Grantaire can see how it takes him like an earthquake, shatters all the foundations he thought he had, breaks down his barriers and reduces internal walls to rubble.
It’s a release so well-wrought and wrung from him that afterward Enjolras is in total collapse, boneless against Grantaire’s chest, open-mouthed and trying to remember how to breathe so that he can survive the aftershock of Grantaire arching up into him and following.
Grantaire isn’t silent in orgasm, he isn’t quiet ever, Enjolras knows now, and the noise he makes is better than all of his albums combined. Surprised satisfaction at how hard he comes is evident in his expression, in how long he holds himself in Enjolras, in how deep his fingernails bite.
The bruises will last for days, Enjolras thinks. They’ll still be there when Grantaire’s in Sweden, in Croatia, in Germany. They’ll be there long after Grantaire’s forgotten about this.
The thought shouldn’t hurt so much -- shouldn’t ache, like the ache left behind when Grantaire starts to slide free at last. Enjolras thought he knew what he was getting into, had signed up for it, had, for God’s sake, reasoned Grantaire into doing this in the first place.
Even so, it hurts. Enjolras hurts. He clings to the pain as a reminder, as another proof. When the ache is gone he’ll be entirely himself again, rigid and predictable, not the kind of person to straddle a rock star.
So he stays like that, above Grantaire, until Grantaire says, “You okay, John Grisham?” and Enjolras grins despite himself and the unforgiving maelstrom of his thoughts. He moves slowly to sit beside Grantaire. Starts to grope around for his clothes.
“I’m good,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t say I don’t know what I am anymore, because I want what I can’t have, and I’ve had what I shouldn’t have tried to want. “You?”
“Yeah, wow,” says Grantaire, which isn’t an answer, so much as a general acknowledgment of their success, and is generous of him. Maybe Enjolras’ face looks as poleaxed as he feels, because Grantaire treads delicately, seems almost protective. “I mean, thanks, man. Guess I needed that more than I knew.”
Turns out that after you’ve been fucked by the person you’ve lusted after for years and it was fantastic enough to liquefy your brain it’s difficult to keep up your side of the conversation. Enjolras nods, like it’s all cool, man.
Enjolras doesn’t feel ashamed -- not that; he’d do it again in a second, if Grantaire gave the slightest sign -- but he’s suddenly, intensely uncertain, all the bold adrenaline and alcohol that had spurred him on burned off. Shy beside Grantaire, who’d been inside him a minute before, he pulls on his jeans and shirt with furtive modesty. Isn’t it a groupie’s role, now, to slink graciously away? His hands are busy with his shirt buttons. “Well. I’ll--”
“Feel free to sleep it off here,” says Grantaire breezily. He hooks his boxers between his toes and drags them on, but doesn’t look overly concerned about the rest of his clothes. The black cloth makes his skin golden in contrast. “Flight’s in a couple hours. I gotta pack up or Jehan’ll be back and yelling soon.”
Grantaire pushes a hand through his disheveled hair, and that’s when Enjolras reads how his lines have changed: the tension is gone from Grantaire’s shoulders, the spiky sarcasm from his tone. He looks better now than ever, softer, amiable, a young man instead of an idol. He tilts his head when Enjolras can’t stop staring at him. “Don’t believe me that Jehan can yell when we’re running late? Just stick around and see.”
“I,” says Enjolras. Stops. Doesn’t know how to start. His heart is thudding painfully in his chest. If it’s disconcerting not to know how to act after fucking your favorite celebrity, it’s unmooring to be around him as a real person, with a real job, even if that position is one beyond most people’s wildest dreams. Grantaire, the rock star with whom he’s just had the best sex of his life, is now a human being who has to pack and be on a plane for his next gig, with the sun already rising somewhere beyond their windowless room. “You’re not going to sleep?”
“Nah. Used to it. I’ll crash on the plane.” Grantaire shrugs. The circles under his eyes make more sense. “Like I said, though, feel free.” He gets up, heads for a suitcase in the far corner whose contents have exploded in every direction, leans over to start making order from the chaos there.
Enjolras feels dismissed and yet, in the same instant, bizarrely trusted. Every logical bone in his body, all of them, are screaming at him to salvage some kind of dignity and leave. Go now. Nothing more will come of this. Yet he can’t make himself move. His body is heavy and his eyelids are heavier, and it’s so much easier to lie down, his head pillowed on his arm. So much more appealing to let this ride out to the very end, not to sacrifice any time spent here.
In a few more hours it will be like this never happened. He’ll stay, but not fall asleep; he’ll stay and listen to the sounds of Grantaire active around him. He’ll lie where he’d lowered himself, inch by inch, to hold Grantaire inside him; he’ll hold onto this a few moments more.
“Here,” he hears, and then Grantaire is beside the couch, draping something warm across him. It’s a leather jacket, heavy and solid and soft in a beaten-in way. It smells of smoke and Grantaire, and it weighs on Enjolras like a mountain. He couldn’t move then, he thinks, if he tried.
“Thank you,” says Enjolras, perhaps a touch too earnestly, too all-encompassing. But Grantaire is already moving away, and Enjolras, despite his resolution and determination to do nothing of the kind, falls asleep.