Tag: grantaire

adifferentfiction:

Grantaire who gets a big dopey smile when he’s genuinely happy is my literal weakness.

Like, Jehan says something about how cute dark curly hair is with bright blue eyes and nudges R. And it takes a while for it to register and then there’s just this massive smile on R’s face.

Or Bahorel tackles him to the ground in a fight but they end up laughing because they’re both too ticklish for this shit and once they catch their breath, R’s smiling so broadly it hurts.

Or Joly and Bossuet plan a mini flash mob for R’s birthday and his smile takes a few seconds to get there but days to leave.

And the first time Enjolras said he loves him, he thinks R’s mocking him because he’s kind of smirking but it slowly grows into this gorgeous smile that R promptly buries in Enjolras’ neck.

Ugh.

Grantaire with this rare dopey smile that is literal perfection.

Ugh.

62) Lazy Morning Kisses Before They’ve Even Opened Their Eyes, Still Mumbling Half-Incoherently, Not Wanting To Wake Up + Enjoltaire

wilwywaylan:

The sun falling through the half-drawn curtains is stretching on the comforter in long bands of light, outlining the two silhouettes huddled under. It’s cold in the room, and the blankets are pulled high, leaving only visible long strands of golden hair, slightly tangled, dark curls, very tangled, and an arm. The skin is covered in watercolor clouds and spiralling wines, and a cat is resting in the crook of it, the small paw resting possessively on the arm. The hand, large and stained with paint, is curled around another, smaller, the fingertips sporting ink spots and a few cuts here and there.

The comforter stirrs slightly, not yet the first stretches of awakeness, but it’s getting close. The arm covered in clouds tightens slightly, as does the second, bringing the other body closer. The blond curls wave a bit as both sleepers shift slightly, curling up against each other. A hand tries to pull the comforter up, to shield drowsy eyes from the light. But it uncovers both pairs of feet, exposing them to the cold. Quickly, they set to work, grasping and pulling until they are protected again.

Grantaire finally blinks against the light. There’s no need to pretend that they’re still asleep, but Enjolras will still try. He closes his eyes a little tighter, scrunches his nose, grabs Grantaire’s shrit and tries to hide against his chest. Grantaire just laughs a little ; he knows Enjolras can feel it rumble, and in return, he can feel him smile.

– Come on, sleepyhead, he finally say. Don’t you have a revolution to plan ? A government to overthrow ?

His only answer is a soft noise. Very gently, Grantaire pries open the hands closed on his shirt, and pulls Enjolras away a little, earning himself another groan at the loss of warmth and contact. But he’s now at the right distance to kiss him. First on the forehead, then on the nose which scrunches up again. Then, finally, on the lips. Enjolras kisses him back, almost eagerly. One kiss turns to three, then ten. Grantaire slides his fingers through the long blond hair, and Enjolras starts playing with his curls. But when the paint-stained hands start playing with the hem of his shirt, he draws the line.

– Not before my first cup of coffee, you fiend.

– Always so demanding.

Grantaire kisses him once more for good measure, then gathers the courage to get out of bed. He hisses a little at the cold air, and hurridly puts his pants on. Behind him, Enjolras has already burrowed back into the covers, and Grantaire knows he won’t move without his first (three) cups of coffee. He pads down to the kitchen, Jude following close. He gives her her food, starts the coffee maker, then sits at the counter to watch it, smiling all the way. 

He’s back in the room five minutes later, carrying two steaming mugs. The roll of blankets and Enjolras hasn’t moved an inch. He puts one on the nightstand, waves the other around where Enjolras’ head should be. The comforter parts a little, and a hand creeps out, grabbing the cup eagerly. 

– You’re going to spill it, Grantaire simply says.

He slides under the blankets with some difficulty, and takes his own cup. After a minute, Enjolras joins him, reclining against him, his cup held in both hands. Grantaire steals another kiss, one that tastes of coffee. Enjolras just smiles and leans his head against his shoulder. They stay like that, enjoying their coffee, the sun that warms the bed, the presence of the other against them. They’re going to get up soon, start the day, paint, go to lessons, meet with the others and plan their next actions. But for now, they are content to just bask in the too rare quiestness that belongs only to them.

oscarwildes:

we know how much R teases Enjolras for his chastity and unreachable persona, right? calls him by the names of deities and compares him to marble statues, yes? 

so what if one day he accidentally overhears a conversation between Enjolras and Combeferre and he’s only mildly guilty as he listens to Enjolras gush romantically about some mysterious Man who, by the sound of it, is perfection personified, and Enjolras sounds completely gone for this man and looks so terribly heartbroken as he talks about how The Man doesn’t so much as look at him and doesn’t even take him seriously

and Grantaire’s own heart is being torn apart and frankly he feels like passing out, but he’s mostly enraged on behalf of Enjolras, because who the bloody hell is this fool who has been lucky enough to be blessed with his Apollo’s love and is so undeserving of it???

but then Combeferre asks Enjolras in a gentle sympathetic voice why does he think so and why hasn’t he tried speaking to The Man in question before drawing hasty conclusions, and Enjolras just gives this terrible sad smile that tugs painfully at Grantaire’s heart and answers: “How could I? I imagine R thinks love’s a mystery to me.”

Grantaire does pass out this time.

The Cold on Your Cheeks – Enjoltaire

writing-orpheus:

It’s a pure day – beautiful and linen-white, and as Grantaire tastes the cleanness of it on his lips, it’s difficult to think of anything that is less than sublime, less than crystal-perfect.

Perhaps difficult is the wrong word – everything wrong is still there, after all – but it’s much easier than usual to ignore that, soften his own soul to the world, empty away all dreams of anger and frustration and despair into the November sky.

Strangers glance past in their own chrysalides, one an old man of burnt clay with a black folder – a notebook, perhaps; one a father with his child, moss-eyed with crumbling fingers; one a tall woman smiling into the air, hair richly coiled around her head. People-watching is, after all, a parisian sport, and one Grantaire loves to indulge himself in, to create mythologies of the mundane, to find his own heavens in what he knows of heathenry. Ah, for that is what he used to do with Enjolras, of course: Grantaire, the conjuror, who fell for the stars themselves, the sun, who forged such majesty the real thing could hardly live up to it.

And in many ways, he didn’t. Enjolras is warm, yes, vast and broiling with ardency and cunning in every way, and yet awkward, and yet funny, and yet ridiculous in his own self. Enjolras is the man who speaks of love with more conviction than almost any other, and yet blushes to say it, and yet giggles at Grantaire’s words with more youthfulness than anything else he does.

Oh, Enjolras, that gorgeous man.

Expectation fidgets inside Grantaire, melts him to champagne. Enjolras texted him five minutes ago to say he’s on his way, and he can hardly blame Paris itself for its own traffic catastrophes. He looks at his watch. Enjolras is two minutes late – a feat for a man as painfully punctual as him.

Fuck the traffic.

When Enjolras does arrive, five minutes late, he appears as a smudge of red against the buildings, hair hung in coils around his head a bleached-blond dream. His eyes are dark and charming, and the edges of his cheeks are dusted with ink-smudges.

He takes Grantaire;s hands as soon as he gets close enough – his are cold and needle-sharp – and Grantaire laughs when he pouts: “How long have you been standing there?”

“Aeons. Millenia.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “You’ve been taken by the fae and returned to a different world.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes but tucks himself under Grantaire’s chin all the same. Something like home flutters in his chest at the warmth.

“Cold,” Enjolras mutters from the spot in front of Grantaire’s heartbeat. “Warm me up, R.”

The cold air glints off the bones in his hands, wrapped around Enjolras as they are. “If you want to get warm we need to move, mon ange. And we were supposed to leave ten minutes ago.”

“Cold,” Enjolras insists, lifting his head up so that that shock of blond hair glitters around him and the softness of his cheeks darkens to ochre. A bruise deep inside Grantaire bleeds and heals all at once. “Warm me up, Grantaire.”

And Grantaire does what he knows, and he talks, and he wreaths promises from the air the way Enjolras does at protests, uses that hurt isolation, uses that bleakness of the mind he’s so determined to destroy, uses every time he waxed lyric on his now-boyfriend’s beauty, kindness, passion. “You have every star inside you, Enjolras – Jove would quiver and fear your revolution. You could be Odysseus, the king, cunning Odysseus made immortal, made into the sky himself. There may be nothing in you that is not imperfect and fallible, but there is also nothing in you that is not sublime in every way. I say I love you it is to say I know you and that there is nothing in the world more beautiful than that.” The words render themself a dark watercolour, vibrant and divine.

And then Enjolras is kissing him, and he’s not all that good at it but he’s learning, and everything cold becomes him, becomes Enjolras deified and Enjolras humanised and Enjolras laughing into Grantaire’s mouth. Hot breath, sweetness.

“Why are you laughing?” he asks, silken-voiced in love.

Enjolras grins up at the sky, heart alight, and cries out softly: “It’s snowing, Grantaire!”

Snowing, yes – shadowy silver flakes cutting down from the clouds in a sudden gasping that makes marble of the world around them. Perhaps they won’t get to the museum exhibit today; perhaps they just let themselves be in love in the first snow of the year, perhaps they just defy Jove for such a thing as happiness.

They become art there in the mirror-shard winter, and they kiss and hold each other until the world is a masterpiece, too.