courfeyr:

harveyspeckles:

wanweirds:

do you ever just think about the fact

that when Grantaire dies

Victor Hugo says he’s been hit by a coup de foudre

and in english we read that as him being struck down by lightning (in the penguin translation it just says he falls at enjolras’ feet) but

eugh coup de foudre is a EUPHAMISM FOR LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

fucking

victor

hugo

and cry

#s t rUCK TO THE BONE IN A MOMENT O F BREA TH LES S DELIG HT

I’ve seen this post a whole bunch of times but something only just clicked-

Early on during the introduction to Les Amis, Grantaire is described as not understanding exactly what he feels for Enjolras, bar knowing it’s a fascination. Hit by a coup de foudre at the very last second, Grantaire finally realises that what he’s feeling for Enjolras is love.

And then he dies.

definitelygrantaire:

enj-didnt-die-for-this-shit:

g-taire:

@plantpanty  oh goodness!!! ty!!!!

#4. we slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair

Enjolras is so comfortable when he wakes, he is more than willing to simply ignore the golden light against his eyelids and curl more comfortably against the warmth beside him. It is only when he realizes the warmth is breathing does he freeze, eyes snapping open. 

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they do, he catches the edge of an inked shoulder, delicate vines tracing the skin from elbow to collarbone.

When they went to sleep, they’d been two separate people, the distance between them a chasm of carefully tugged up sheets and longing. Now, what Enjolras took to be a firm pillow is actually Grantaire’s upper arm, and his other, the one branded with tattoos of Grantaire’s own design, is thrown heavily over Enjolras’ waist, tangled with the blankets. He is acutely aware of the pressure every time he inhales. 

He shifts to check the time, his arm trapped between them. The sweep of Grantaire’s lashes flutter against his cheeks, but he doesn’t wake. A glance at his watch tells him it’s still early, and if he strains his ears, he can’t hear any of their friends moving yet in the living room. 

He bites his lip, eyes darting over Grantaire’s chest, the pulse points of his neck, his face. Rarely do they get this close, and Enjolras itches to be closer, burrow himself against Grantaire’s chest, let himself be folded up in Grantaire’s arms, and stay there.

The ferocity of the thought makes him pull back a little, barely catching himself from jerking out of bed entirely. 

“Are you getting up?” Grantaire murmurs, without opening his eyes, and Enjolras stills, heart pounding. Grantaire’s arm isn’t tight around him, and Enjolras even feels the pressure lighten, like Grantaire had lifted it slightly, giving him the opportunity to get up if he wants to. He doesn’t want to. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers back, though they’re the only ones in the room. 

The pressure returns, and Grantaire says, face still half-squashed into the pillow, “Go back to sleep, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras shifts, bringing them closer, but doesn’t close his eyes. Instead, he traces his eyes along the slope of Grantaire’s nose, the morning light casting his face half in shadow. His curls cast silhouettes across his forehead, and Enjolras feels the urge to brush them back, run his fingers through and let them tangle there. 

He follows the slant of Grantaire’s stubbled cheeks down to his lips, parted and pink. Enjolras licks his own, but shakes himself, tearing his gaze away, darting up to find Grantaire’s eyes, impossibly, unfairly blue, staring back. 

“Jesus,” he breathes, blood rushing to his cheeks, and he looks away, anywhere but Grantaire. 

“Just me,” Grantaire says, rough voice curiously bemused. He doesn’t sound uncomfortable, Enjolras detects the familiar notes of a smile in his tone, and he risks peeking a glance. 

Grantaire looks back, eyes half lidded and bleary, blinking slowly. He looks so comfortable and cozy, Enjolras just wants to curl up against him again, breathe him in and stay there all morning. “What?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras turns his face into the pillow, hiding his blush. “Nothing.”

Grantaire is quiet for so long Enjolras thinks he might have gone back to sleep, but when he sneaks a look, he finds Grantaire is still looking at him. It is almost enough to return Enjolras to the refuge of the pillow. 

Instead, he pushes himself up on his elbow. Grantaire’s arm falls between them and he makes no motion to move it. Enjolras misses the warmth of it on his waist. 

From his new vantage point, he can see the creases the pillow left on Grantaire’s cheeks, the curls on that side squashed and flattened. He’s turned his face a little, tracking Enjolras, and Enjolras finds himself emboldened, smiling down at Grantaire. “What?” Grantaire asks again, a surprised curl pulling his own lips up. The arm Enjolras slept on is free now, but he leaves it, brushing his fingertips lightly against Enjolras’ lower back. 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a moment, breathing careful and deliberate. There is something soft in Grantaire’s gaze Enjolras has seen before, something unrelated to the early hour and the warmth of the bed. 

Seeing him like this, smiling, languid and subdued, but not morose and self depreciating, makes something fragile flutter in Enjolras’ chest. 

(No, not something, Courfeyrac would argue. It’s his heart, or adrenaline, though he’s sure Courfeyrac would have chosen much more flowery language to describe it.)

It’s not just that though. It’s not just affection, though he knows that’s been there for a while now. There’s the pride that swells within him of late, when he sees Grantaire, so much healthier, doing so much better, and they’re able to communicate with one another of late. And there’s that tenuous hope, when he sees Grantaire smile at him. That’s there too. 

Seeing him like this, with his mussed curls and unfocused gaze, makes Enjolras want a lot of things; namely the ability to wake up to that sleepy smile every morning. 

Without thinking, he leans down a little, just catching himself before he does something stupid. 

Grantaire’s breath catches, eyes blown wide, and Enjolras can feel the way his upper body lifts just enough, searching, but he too stops himself, their lips inches from one another. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Enjolras whispers.

“You’re not.” Grantaire’s voice is almost inaudible.

It’s enough. Enjolras closes the distance, slotting their mouths together, a chaste press of sleep-clumsy lips. His balance almost overturns, leaning too heavily on his elbow, and he must place a hand on Grantaire’s chest to steady himself.

This makes Grantaire still, maybe reminding him of the abnormality of the situation. Under Enjolras’ fingertips, he can feet Grantaire’s heart rabbiting against his ribcage, and Enjolras pulls away. “Are you okay?” he whispers, eyes darting over Grantaire’s face, searching for any sign of discomfort. 

Grantaire swallows and nods. Enjolras raises his brows, a silent inquiry. This gets a smile, crooked and not totally full, out of Grantaire, which doesn’t reassure Enjolras. “I just– are you sure?” Grantaire says, a ruddy blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks, and his eyes are bright and awake now, looking away from Enjolras. 

“Yes,” Enjolras says without hesitation. He’s thought too much about this to be uncertain. Grantaire’s surprise makes Enjolras’ stomach twist, so he asks, “May I kiss you again?” He likes the ‘again.’

Grantaire nods, and this time there’s no clumsiness, Grantaire’s hand coming up to cup the back of Enjolras’ neck to deepen the kiss and stay there, thumb rubbing against the edge of Enjolras’ jaw. 

It’s a longer kiss, still shorter than what Enjolras might want, but they can hear their friends moving in the other room, grumbles and laughter, and when Enjolras pulls away, Grantaire is grinning up at him. “C’mon,” Enjolras murmurs, leaning down to press one last hearty kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth, and sits up. 

The smile fades, uncertain, for a moment when Enjolras stands, Grantaire’s eyes following him. “Come on,” Enjolras says again, holding out a hand, flourishing his fingers for Grantaire to take. There’s only a moment of hesitation before Grantaire grasps it with renewed confidence.