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.