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“-in the name of the Republic!” Enjolras bellows, his cheeks flushed brightly with the force of his passion. Every inch of him is so hot and ready, tensed as if the battle is already upon them. He loves it almost as much as he loves France itself. “Vive la France!”
As he steps down from the table, the other occupants of their little corner shift awkwardly, glancing at each other to be sure they were all on the same page.
They were.
Enjolras was one of those people so caught up in their cause that they forgot to take care of themselves. Comebeferre too often would find him feverish and bright-eyed with sleep deprivation, not having eaten since the morning of the day before, too busy locked away planning a revolution to worry about such mundane matters. This was not, however, something that Combeferre could really help him with. Or rather that he didn’t wish to help with. At all. The bespectacled man has excused himself with a mumble, cheeks burning for his friend, under the pretense of needing to use the loo.
The kicker was that Enjolras didn’t even seem to notice. But then, their fearless leader was oblivious on the best of days.
Just look at Grantaire, the black sheep of the group, who believed in the Republic about as much as he wanted a blister on his foot. (Not at all.) Everyone knew, not just the Amis but the other patrons of the Musain, that Grantaire wouldn’t be here if not for his golden Apollo. Courfeyrac had caught a glimpse of one of his drawings once, a beautiful depiction of the very same man now sporting a massive erection that had drawn every pair of eyes in the vicinity except for his own.
Jehan looked like he wanted to pass out, hiding his face in Courfeyrac’s shoulder either to suppress giggles or to spare himself the embarrassment. Because Enjolras was sure to be embarrassed… that was, if he ever noticed.
And for a moment after he had climbed down it seems like nobody is going to. They all fear (no, respect) Enjolras and his silver tongue, his mastery of words and of passion and of the ideals that they would never have dared imagine or fight for on their own. Well, except maybe Feuilly, whose regarding his younger counterpart with a sort of empathy that Courfeyrac has a sneaking suspicion means he’s been in the same position, albeit with a bit more experience under his belt.
Combeferre still hasn’t returned and everyone is dissolving into quiet side conversations. Enjolras is bemused and a little bit upset by the way all eyes turn from him, some with a bitten lip and some with a restrained smile (like the one threatening to rip Bahorel from ear to ear) and finally, upon realizing the absence of his guide, he turns to his center.
And being who he is, Courfeyrac comes right out and says it.
“Your assets are looking quite prominent this evening,” he says by way of explanation. Enjolras stares at him for an absurdly long time and the nearest to him, Jehan and Bahorel and (of course) Grantaire, all hold their breath. Then, with a quick glance downwards, the expression becomes one of restrained horror.
He composes himself quickly and Courfeyrac makes subdue his smirk, not wanting to scare him off. Not yet. He’ll tease him about this later. “Ah, yes, thank you for… pointing that out.” There’s a strained edge to his voice as he edges away, cheeks flushed for an entirely different reason now. If there’s one bodily function that Enjolras can completely neglect it’s his own libido, and apparently it was becoming frustrated with him. “I suppose I’ll just…”
And he’s off, striding swiftly into the back room in what can only be described as chagrin. Their fearless leader reduced to a stammering mess of a man who probably didn’t even know what to do with his own cock. Courfeyrac sighs and looks around.
“Well? Someone go with him.” He would, but Jehan is comfortably seated in his lap now and he’s far too comfortable to move. There’s not a sound in the cafe. And then-
“I’ll go.” Grantaire is up and stumbling, eyes impossibly wide at this unexpected opportunity, snagging a bottle as he goes sprinting after his idol. Courfeyrac suppresses a grin.
——
Enjolras let’s the door slam behind him, turned away from the wood and the embarrassment that had followed as it swung shut. He mops at his face, sweaty with the burgeoning summer heat and his own electric excitement, and falls into the nearest seat. All around him are papers and papers, crates of munition and other supplies for his soon-to-be soldiers of the barricades. The thought of the coming revolution does nothing to quell the throb against his leg or the thrum of his heartbeat, loud now that he’s here alone.
He can’t say he’s ashamed of his predicament, but it certainly wasn’t anything he wished to discuss with his raunchier friends. If only Combeferre had been about- where had he gone to?- he might have someone to make conversation with that had nothing to do with his, as Courfeyrac so kindly put it, “assets”.
The shades are drawn, dimming the room, and he lights a candle on the desk before him. It’s soft glow casts long shadows, his own the longest- the curly head of which is disrupted by the door swinging open again abruptly.
“Grantaire.” A thrill of unease tightens his stomach, but Enjolras is practiced in controlling his more unsavory emotions. His expression remains guarded as the drunkard stumbles into the room, eyes uncharacteristically bright. What on earth has possessed him?
“Enjolras,” he breathes in reply, and before he knows it the man is on his knees before him, hands going for the clasp of his trousers.
He freezes.
“Are you mad?!” He has to make a concerted effort to keep his voice low and moderately even as he hisses the words, eyes narrowed, pushing the chair back and away from Grantaire’s grabbing hands. The other man’s eyes widen further, and he stops in his tracks.
“No, please just-” He looks down at himself and seems embarrassed for a moment, a flush darker than the one gracing Apollo’s fair features coloring his cheeks. “I want to help.”
“Help with what?” Enjolras continues to stare at him as though he’s grown another head. Despite himself, his trousers are uncomfortably tight, even more so at the brief contact Grantaire’s calloused hand had provided. He’s not sure exactly why his hands are calloused, except that he’s fairly certain the drunkard doubles as an artist. Paintbrushes, perhaps. An admirable skill if only he weren’t so obnoxious in the daylight. “I don’t require any assistance, Grantaire.”
“Please.” His eyes are dark and only slightly bloodshot. It’s hard not to notice the way one of his hands has strayed to his lap, and the thought doesn’t repulse Enjolras quite enough. “Let me be of use, for once. Anything you like.” His eyes flicker between the revolutionary’s legs, however, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious what he has in mind.
Now, Enjolras isn’t blind. In fact, he prides himself on his alertness; and he has a passing knowledge of sexual desire, sexual acts. It doesn’t matter that his friends don’t believe him. It doesn’t matter, either, that he’s most definitely a virgin. He knows what it’s like to take himself in hand. He’s done it before, just… not often. He’s not one to publicize his sins.
And the way Grantaire is looking at him now, pupils dilated and tongue darting to wet his lips, is reminding him of his cock throbbing in his trousers. How would a mouth feel, tight and wet wrapped around his member…
Gods, he’s corrupt. France is more important than your little problem, Enjolras.
But Grantaire has crawled forward on his hands and knees now, staring up in such heady reverence that he feels a thrill of heat course through his veins and down into his gut. Even so, he puts a hand to his forehead to stop him, getting slowly to his feet. Grantaire’s hair is softer than it looks, curling around his fingers invitingly and for a moment he wonders what it would be like to tangle them there and pull him down, thrust-
He really must control himself.
“Your bottle will be lonely,” he hints, a warning behind the words. His voice has lost some of it’s conviction- he imagines that he can hear the arousal in his own husky timbre. Heat rushes to his groin as Grantaire pushes his head up into the hand resting there like a cat, needy, seeking attention.
“You wouldn’t tell a drunk to drink, would you, Enjolras? I’m nearly sober.” His eyes are wide with sincerity, but there’s a purpose behind his words and his lips are curving into a secret smile. “If you keep my mouth otherwise occupied perhaps I’ll stay that way.”
Enjolras pauses with his lips parted, grimacing at the truth in his words. Faced with a real decision, he almost feels queasy- he’s never thought to do this sort of thing with another person before, especially not Grantaire, who is either as sober as he says he is or acting the part well.
Well. He really can’t justify sending him back to the bottle, then. Not if he has a chance to turn his life around, to make him see this seriously. His fingers curl into his hair.
“You will sit for the rest of the meeting, without disrupting, and you won’t touch another drop,” he instructs sternly. A look of utter shock and unthinking ecstasy crosses the drunkard’s face before he settles on a filthy grin.
“Absolutely, of course,” he agrees easily. His hands are on the clasp again, opening his trousers easily and reaching inside. Enjolras knees nearly buckle as a hand wraps firmly around his flushed length, drawing it out into the open. He squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth to avoid making any embarrassing noises that he would be mocked for later. “Your wish is my command, dear Apollo.”
A few quick strokes and then that smart mouth has descended on him, cutting off his smug remarks to tease at the head. Enjolras curses under his breath. His toes curl in his boots, breath hitching already. This is not at all what he had imagined. It was far better. He’d barely had time to be apprehensive before he was coiled like a spring, Grantaire’s head bobbing slowly down as he engulfs the length.
It’s clear that this isn’t the first time Grantaire has done this. This shouldn’t be surprising- whether or not he preferred the company of men, which Enjolras neither cared nor thought about, a helpless drunkard was easy to persuade and easier to arouse. Grantaire had never had over much self worth. And Enjolras might feel a twinge of guilt for exacerbating that tendency if he weren’t busy tilting his hips towards Grantaire’s mouth with a low moan trapped in the back of his throat.
Grantaire’s eyes were closed, but now they open again to glance upwards at the blissful expression on Enjolras face. He wants to grin. It’s so rare to see their leader, his revered Apollo, in any state of relaxation for long. He wants to draw this out, too, but with the noises he’s making and the way his cock is pulsing in his throat, he doesn’t think that’s an option.
Still. He draws back, releasing his still-hard cock with an obscene slurping noise that makes Enjolras’ eyes snap open almost wildly. He restrains himself from demanding to know why he’d stopped, but Grantaire can see it in the thin line of his mouth.
“You’re not making this very fun for me, Apollo. I would like to hear you,” he purrs, his hand wrapped firmly around the base. Watching his face, he leans down and deliberately licks a circle around the sensitive head, flicking it over the slit at the very tip.
It’s worth it. Enjolras sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers curling painfully into his dark curls. Grantaire groans and palms the front of his own trousers as discreetly as possible before descending again.
It’s quick work making him come. His tongue presses firmly to the underside and the revolutionary’s tight control is slipping, his bitten lips parting to pant towards his orgasm. Moments before the final rush of heat he tips his head back, words escaping in a low groan of a jumble. “Grantaire-“
He feels the other man’s thighs tense and welcomes it gladly, sucking hard at the shaft and swallowing ever bitter mouthful of it. As he pulls away he laughs, catching Enjolras stumbling forward with a look of sheer lust on his face. There’s a sight Grantaire will be committing to memory.
True to form, however, Enjolras composes himself in record time. Minutes later he’s fastened his trousers and straightened himself out, running a hand through the mess of his hair in an effort to make himself presentable. He mumbles to himself something along the lines of indecent before turning back to the resident drunkard. Blue eyes are clear and guarded once more as they meet Grantaire’s. Grantaire, well, he’s a little disappointed. He’d hoped to have a more lasting effect.
Enjolras licks his lips, looking at him for a moment as though he’s never seen him properly before. He speaks slowly, voice low and still a little bit breathless.
“Not a drop.”
With that he’s swept out of the room, closing the door with a slam behind him and leaving Grantaire to the candlelight and the dusty floor and the notes on a revolution he’s never cared for at all, except for it’s precious golden-haired leader.
He wastes no time, unbuttoning his trousers and thrusting a hand down into them to stroke himself furiously.
If he closes his eyes he can still see the helpless, wrecked look on Enjolras’ face as he came.