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just-french-me-up · 8 years ago

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Triptych

Enjoltaire Week | Day 1 | Painting

Summary: Three portraits are discovered in a hidden cellar in Paris, all three dating back from the nineteenth century. What's weird is that the man in the portraits looks an awful lot like Enjolras. What's weirder is that the paintings are all signed "R."

Tags: Modern AU; Reincarnation AU; Rated G

Word count: 3.5k

READ ON AO3

"Remind me why anyone would choose to watch what is considered to be the worst movie in history?"

Enjolras sat on the couch and balanced a huge bowl of popcorn on his lap. Courfeyrac's picks for movie night were usually more mainstream and understandable. Well. As understandable as romantic comedies could be, but at least they didn't require much brain activity. At least it allowed Enjolras to switch off his brain and shove handfuls of popcorn into his mouth while wondering how heteronormativity and dumb misunderstandings had become such crowd-pullers.

"That's because it's an experience!" Courfeyrac argued, slumping on the couch next to Enjolras and seriously compromising the balance of the popcorn bowl. "As your best friend, I just can't let you die a Room virgin!"

"What's so great about it, anyway?"

"Everything! The acting is so bad! It's like... You know how people say that if you let monkeys in a room full of typewriters the monkey would eventually end up rewriting Shakespeare? Well switch the monkeys with aliens who only have a vague idea of how human interactions work and you've got The Room! It's flipping fantastic!"

Enjolras shrugged. The enjoyment of intrinsically bad media was beyond him.

"There are some really interesting studies about trash movies and their ironical audience, actually," Combeferre chimed in as he joined them in the living room. He brought heavy-looking pizza plates that he settled on the coffee table before settling next to Courfeyrac. "Something about collectively liking something so bad that it gets good."

"Exactly!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, triumphant. "So sit back and brace yourself for this absolute masterpiece."

He switched on the TV and started rummaging through the pile of DVDs to find the right one. Automatically, the first channel popped up on screen. The news were still on and a generic news anchor looked at the three of them in the eyes.

"Wait," Enjolras said before Courfeyrac could switch on the DVD player.

"And tonight we come back on an incredible discovering in Paris earlier today," the news anchor announced, "when three paintings were discovered in a cellar in the Latin Quarter. The three works of art allegedly date back from the nineteenth century and predate the Haussmanian renovations of the capital. For more on this story, we go to Olivier Barron in the Latin Quarter, Olivier?"

The three paintings appeared on screen. Silence fell on the living room, leaving nothing but the artificial chatter of the television. In his seat, Enjolras turned to stone.

"-Twitter already rushed to title the works names such as 'Apollo in Red'-"

"Enjolras..."

That jaw line. That nose. The same eye colour. Enjolras' throat tightened. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

"Holy shit," Courfeyrac whispered. "Enj, it's you!"

Enjolras shuffled some papers around, trying to get his hands on notes he had written down the night before, somewhere around his third cup of coffee o'clock. There were some points about the upcoming the labour reform he really wanted to discuss during the meeting, if only he could find the damn thing. A pat on his shoulder took him by surprise.

"I think you're looking for this," Combeferre said, handing him the very notes he was looking for. "I forgot to tell you I took it. I just added a few remarks."

'A few remarks' in Combeferre's vocabulary entailed enthusiastic and colourful highlighting and additional notes scribbled in the margins that were illegible, including to Combeferre himself. Still, two minds were better than one, and Combeferre's mind was an undeniable asset. Enjolras took the revised notes with a smile.

"Thanks, I'll read though them."

Combeferre nodded and took his seat between Courfeyrac and Feuilly. Enjolras was the only one standing at this point, towering over his notes and the various things he had brought with him. The chatter began to fade. They all turned their attention towards him. The meeting officially begun.

"Okay, guys, so I thought we could start things off with some details about the labour reform and how―"

"Er-Sorry," Courfeyrac cut off, "but aren't we going to talk about the fact that they found paintings that look exactly like Enjolras?"

His remark was met with a few raised eyebrows and confused looks. Enjolras nervously raked a hand through his hair. Courfeyrac had not let this go since the night before.

"Oh come on! It was all over the news! Didn't you see it?"

"Courf, I don't think it's―"

It was already too late. All the others had already taken their phones out. Enjolras stood there awkwardly while they checked the news, and even more awkwardly when their eyes went from the screens to him in shock. Joly's jaw dropped.

"Oh my god, Enjolras, it is you!" he exclaimed.

"There's even the mole on your shoulder!" Bahorel added.

"See? It's him, I'm telling you!"

Emboldened by the number of allies on his side, Courfeyrac started listing the similarities between the painting and Enjolras, much to the latter's dismay. Why did it matter? Maybe he had a nineteenth-century look alike who had the same mole at the same place. So what? Enjolras let out a long sigh that was immediately drowned in the voices rising from the table. He shared a look with Combeferre, who picked up on his mood.

"Okay, but can we try to focus on the meeting?" Combeferre tried, rushing to Enjolras' rescue.

Almost like reprimanded students, the rest of les Amis sat back properly on their chairs and quietened down. Enjolras nodded in Combeferre's direction as a 'thank you'.

"So, as I was saying―"

"It's signed R," Feuilly said, deadpan.

"What?"

"It's signed 'R.'," he repeated. "It written right here, 'all three works are signed by the same hand, an unknown painter only identified by the letter R.' R. Like Grantaire."

There was electricity in the air. All eyes turned towards Grantaire, who looked as stunned as the rest of them. The room grew suddenly silent.

"What?" Grantaire asked, shuffling uncomfortably on his chair.

"I mean, you have to admit it's weird," Bossuet said.

Grantaire pointedly avoided looking at Enjolras in the eyes, running his hand through his curls. That was a lot of coincidences, even for Enjolras. For a second, his mind when for outlandish scenarios about how Grantaire could have planted those paintings there for whatever reason, before his logic took over. No. That cellar had been buried underground for more than a century. There was no way for Grantaire to know it was there! And experts had already dated the paintings!

Enjolras cleared his voice.

"Grantaire, did you somehow go back in time to paint me before abandoning those paintings in a random cellar?"

Grantaire snorted.

"No."

"That's what I thought," Enjolras said, giving Courfeyrac a meaningful look. "Now, if that's settled, can we go back to the labour reform and how it's going to affect us all?"

The rest of the meeting went without a hitch, with the usual amount of wits, snark, and dedication Enjolras cherished in his friends. Joly had been in charge of writing down all the ideas and suggestions for them to use as a starting point the following week. All in all, an evening well spent.

They all lingered in the backroom of the Musain for a while, talking about more casual topics while they stacked the chairs against the wall. The room emptied slowly. Enjolras was putting his things away in his satchel when Jehan came up to him.

"Hey. Can we talk?"

They looked a little hesitant. Enjolras smiled at them in an attempt to put them at ease.

"Sure. What's up?"

"It's about that thing with the paintings."

Oh. Clearly something in his expression had changed, because Jehan rushed to add:

"Just hear me out. It's just―Listen, okay? Is it okay if we sit?"

Enjolras nodded and sat on one of the few remaining chair. Jehan took another and sat across from him. They looked very serious, all of a sudden.

"Okay, so when I was in highschool, I participated in that poetry contest my school organised every year. So I wrote my poem and submitted it, but it was denied. Plagiarism. Even though I'd written it all myself. I didn't get it, so I asked what the original poem was from, just to see it for myself. It was from an old poetry collection from the nineteenth century, a book that had been sleeping in the Parisian archives for decades. And my poem was in there. Word for word. And the rest of the book was just... me. My style. It was like an out of body experience."

Enjolras listened intentely. He didn't know what to think about it. It was too weird. Stuff like that... It was only weird coincidences, right? What was it that Courfeyrac said about monkeys and typewriters? Still, he could not deny the sick feeling weighing on his stomach.

"Do you know who wrote the poetry collection?"

Jehan shook their head.

"I asked, but the people at the archives just told me it was seized propriety from someone who had committed treason. Then maybe someone deemed the poetry good enough to archive it. There was no name on it. The last poem was written in 1832, and the pages are all blank, so I guess the poet was arrested around that time."

"Sounds like a free thinker," Enjolras smiled. "Maybe you have more in common than poetry. So you think it's a similar thing? That it's a coincidence?"

"I don't know," Jehan sighed. "But it's weird, right? I mean surely it means something. Stuff like that wouldn't randomly pop up unless there was an explanation behind it, even if it's not a scientific one."

That where Jehan differed from Enjolras. While Jehan accepted the metaphysical and the paranormal as a natural aspect of life, Enjolras' mind favoured more rational interpretations. It was weird, for sure. But people simply did not exist in two timelines. That didn't happen. They would know about it by now if it existed.

Enjolras rubbed his neck. It was stiff from staying up too late doing research on that fucking labour reform.

"I don't know what to tell you, Jehan. It's just beyond my understanding, you know? Maybe someone really looked like me, two hundred years ago. It happens. People have look alike, even today. As for the poem... I just don't know."

Jehan smiled at him softly and rubbed his shoulder.

"It's getting late, Enj'. Courf and Ferre are waiting for you. Get some rest, okay?"

"Thanks, Jehan. I'll try."

When Enjolras went to bed that night, he dreamt of a book of blank pages, and when he looked down, he had a rose in his breast pocket. The colour had bled onto his shirt, and the stain kept growing, and growing, and growing.

When he woke up, he could still smell a hint of gunpowder.

The following days were spend avoiding the news, which was highly inconvenient because a) Enjolras liked to keep himself informed and b) you never know how much news exposure there is until you try to avoid it. Enjolras just couldn't bear to see his face on the screen, or whoever's face it was. It freaked him out. It would have freaked anyone out. He didn't even know how Jehan coped with the fact that there was a book out there that mirrors their lyricism.

Eventually, he resorted to studying in his room, in the hope of avoiding the clutter of thoughts that raged in his mind. It's nothing, his reason kept telling him. In two centuries, at least two people were bound to look alike.

Still, he couldn't focus. He kept rereading the same sentence from his textbook over and over, none of it making much sense to a very noisy mind. Frustrated, Enjolras snapped the book closed and leant back against his chair. On his desk, his laptop was open on the google search page. He hesitated. Reason held back his hand, but another voice whispered to his ear. What if there was really something going on? Curiosity killed the cat, reason retorted. Enjolras took a deep breath.

Fuck it.

A quick search informed him that the paintings were being studied by experts in Paris, so that they could properly date it. A website had uploaded close up photographs of details, ranging from the golden laurel wreath crowning the model's head to his beauty marks. An uncomfortable feeling weighed on Enjolras' stomach. Even the details were uncanny.

The signature was studied under every angle, with matching hypothesis about who the painter could have been according to the loop of the R. People had really spent time on this. Enjolras was a stranger to art history and discoveries, so perhaps those paintings were a gold mine for people who worked in that field. Perhaps it was their Howard Carter discovering Tutankhamun's tomb moment.

He went back to the google homepage and typed "1832 France." The first results mentioned something about a cholera epidemic. Enjolras kept scrolling until something caught his eye. Republican Insurrection in Paris, 1832. Jean Maximilien Lamarque. He clicked the wikipedia link and started reading. Barricades, students, National Guard, Faubourg Saint-Martin... His eyes were glued to the screen.

That's something I could see myself participate in, Enjolras thought, before the uneasy feeling overwhelmed him again. That event felt too close for comfort. Yet, Enjolras kept on reading.

A knock on the door made him jump. He almost knocked his chair over, and himself with it. The sky had gone dark outside, and Enjolras's eyes had the greatest difficulty to adjust to the darkness. Someone switched the lights on.

"Are you okay?" Combeferre's voice asked.

"Yeah. I've just been staring at the screen for too long," Enjolras said, rubbing his eyes.

Though blurry, his vision got slightly better. For one thing, he could see Combeferre standing by the door. He was holding steaming mug in each of his hands.

"Is that coffee?"

"Infusion, actually," Combeferre smiled. "I came to see if you wanted one. You've been in here for hours, we were starting to get a little worried."

"I'm fine. I was just reading stuff."

Enjolras scratched his scalp and lifted his arm to accept Combeferrre's plant water. It wasn't coffee, but he had to admit he was parched. Combeferre sat on the bed next to him.

"Anything interesting?"

"Just history stuff. Very educational."

Enjolras closed the various tabs he had opened on the June Rebellion, accidentally missing the one about the three paintings. "Apollo in Red." The name seemed to have stuck.

"I thought you weren't interested in those," Combeferre pointed out, taking a sip out of his mug.

"I don't. I mean, I do but it's not... It's weird, right? I keep telling myself that it's not weird and that those kind of coincidences happen all the time, but it's still weird."

"Well it doesn't happen every day, that's for sure."

There was a moment of silence during which Enjolras sighed and dragged his hand across his face. His mind was buzzing.

"You look like you could use a break," Combeferre said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. "Come. Courf is making dinner."

Enjolras nodded slowly. Maybe he did need a break. He followed Combeferre to the kitchen, holding his warm mug against his chest. In his room, Apollo in Red shone in the dark.

A few weeks passed. Enjolras still heard about Apollo in Red here and there, but it was quickly replaced by other, fresher stories. His heart still made a double back-flip when he heard that the experts had situated the completion of the pieces around the 1820s early 1830s. After that, he did his best to direct his mind towards the future to avoid dwelling on the distant past. Whatever happened to that sitter or the poet of Jehan's book, they were long gone. There was no time like the present.

Yet, in spite of his best efforts, Enjolras couldn't seem to escape the past. One morning, Courfeyrac presented him with a museum ticket, sliding the piece of paper across the breakfast bar.

"Thank you?" he said, a little confused. And sleepy.

"They're putting the paintings on display today," Courfeyrac explained. "Now you can see them from up close."

Enjolras' gaze went from Courfeyrac to the ticket. It was too early for this. He didn't even know if he wanted to be awake right now.

"Or you can just go to the museum after class," Courfeyrac shrugged, since Enjolras hadn't said anything. "For fun. Or whatever you go to museums for. Elevate your understanding of humanity, or some shit."

Enjolras let out a hoarse chuckle in his mug.

"I guess I'll consider that as a cultural outing. Thanks, Courf."

He carried the ticket around in his wallet for the rest of the day. By the end of it, Enjolras had forgotten up to its existence. It's only when he looked for his métro pass that he noticed the piece of paper stuck between his ID and his insurance card. The museum was only three stations away. For a minute, Enjolras stood there, debating whether or not he wanted to dive head first into the uncanny and the unexplainable. He looked at his watch. The museum was closing in an hour. The past can't hurt you, he thought as he got into the coach, waiting through the three stations.

There weren't as many people at the museum as he had expected. Perhaps because closing hour was slowly but surely ticking by. Enjolras didn't need to look for the painting for long. They had made sure to guide people right to the jewel of the exhibition. As Enjolras entered the oval room where the paintings were kept, his attention wasn't directed to the paintings, but to a familiar face, standing a few yards away.

Grantaire.

Enjolras' heart did a somersault. There was something about seeing Grantaire here, right next to Apollo in Red, but Enjolras couldn't quite pin point it. One of his hands held nervously on to the strap of his satchel as he came closer.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound casual, though the atmosphere didn't quite work in his favour. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, apparently I painted these, so I thought I might as well go and see them. My first exhibition. It's a very emotional moment."

Enjolras could tell he was joking, or endeavouring to. Maybe that's how he dealt with the uncanny and the unexplainable. On the wall, one of the paintings stared back at him. It was like looking in a mirror, but with a 180 year reflection delay. Enjolras lowered his eyes, stared down by his own image.

"Did Jehan tell you about their poem? The one that got denied for their poetry contest?"

Grantaire nodded, still looking at the paintings.

"Do you really thing it's remotely possible that this is me?"

"Maybe," Grantaire shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because it doesn't exist! It just doesn't happen like that. There's no way that could be me. I'm me, I am one person."

Voicing all the thoughts and doubts that had been reeling in his mind for so long felt liberating, though he had to keep his tone in check. Grantaire smirked at him.

"Now who's the skeptic, Apollo?"

"You can't be serious. It doesn't make sense."

"We're on a blue ball adrift in the universe, rotating around a giant ball of fire that will swallow us all one day. Nothing makes sense. Me painting you almost two centuries ago makes more sense than that."

Enjolras opened his mouth, but realised he had nothing to say to that. Yes. Maybe things didn't make sense. Maybe trying to make sense of it didn't make sense. He took a couple steps back and sat on a plastic bench. Grantaire followed him.

"So what if this is actually me? What does that mean?"

Grantaire shrugged.

"We may never know. But I have to say, my shading game was on point on that one."

"It's very beautifully done indeed," Enjolras agreed, giving him an amused look.

"Thank you."

"So that means we were close, right? If I sat for one of your pieces. Well. Three of your pieces."

He didn't really know if he was joking in all good fun or actually talking seriously anymore. For some reason, it felt right.

"Close enough for you to accept being drapped naked in a red sheet. It'd say that's pretty fucking close."

"How close?"

"Very close."

As close as they were now. Enjolras realised his hand was almost touching Grantaire's. To his own surprise, he found that he didn't mind it. On the contrary. That too, felt right.

"How much do you know about the June Rebellion?" Enjolras asked.

"What I've read online, why?"

"Well, I thought maybe you'd like to hear about it. It's all fascinating stuff. Maybe around a coffee, or something?"

He barely recognised the chirp in his own voice. Grantaire looked at him, as though he couldn't believe the words Enjolras had uttered. His face softened a second later.

"Yeah. Coffee sounds nice."

#les miserables #enjoltaire #enjoltaireweek2017 #exrweek2017 #enjolras #grantaire #exr #granjolras #written stuff #mine #les mis fic #les miserables fanfiction #les mis #les amis #courfeyrac #combeferrre #jehan #the ending is open because of course they fall in love #the luv

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thelawsofdaylight · 8 years ago

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Softly, My Love

Or; a relationship told through its softest moments; from firsts to lasts and everything in between.

For Enjoltaire week 2017, day #3: soft.

Their first date is what can only be described as soft.

They meet for dinner inside of a small Thai cafe, and Grantaire’s heart does somersaults all the way through his meal. Enjolras keeps smiling at him, warmly, tentatively, and Grantaire feels himself blushing every time.

They hold hands on the walk home; what started off as Enjolras’ fingertips lightly grazing Grantaire’s wrist gradually evolved until their hands were linked, fingers intertwined. Enjolras swings their hands lightly as they walk in tandem and Grantaire thinks his jaw is going to break from all the smiling he’s been doing.

There’s no kissing before Enjolras walks up the steps to his apartment and waves a small goodbye to Grantaire; instead they hug loosely for a few moments, promising to have dinner again sometime. Enjolras breaks contact with a smile and Grantaire lets himself wonder how he ever got so lucky as to have that smile bestowed upon him.

It’s snowing, the first time they kiss.

Grantaire remembers it vividly, because Enjolras was wearing that scarf that he got last Christmas- the red, white, and blue one that Courfeyrac bought him as a joke, yet Enjolras treasures with every fibre of his being.

He’s also wearing mittens, like, honest to God, actual red fluffy mittens that tickle the sides of Grantaire’s face when Enjolras cups it between his palms.

“I’d really like to kiss you.” Enjolras says, tracing the outline of Grantaire’s lips with one mitten-clad thumb. “Your lips look very kissable right now.”

“It’s probably the cold.” Grantaire says, stupidly, because Enjolras just asked to kiss him and sure, they’ve gone on a few dates at this point, but still.

Enjolras smiles, his eyes creasing around the edges. “Probably.” he agrees, moving one hand down to Grantaire’s neck. “Can I?”

Grantaire can’t find the words to express just how much Enjolras can, so instead he nods, feeling the ghost of Enjolras’ lips upon his almost as soon as he moves his head.

Enjolras’ lips are soft, which is unsurprising. His kisses are short, fleeting things, a warm mouth pressing against Grantaire’s for the barest of seconds before pulling away again. Grantaire brings his own hand up to Enjolras’ face, coaxes his lips into staying a little longer, makes the kisses slower, more languid.

It’s almost perfect, and Enjolras smiles when their lips part, eyes still closed, as if he’s taking time to immortalise the memory behind his eyelids.

Grantaire’s never felt happier.

Perhaps Grantaire’s favourite fact that he’s learnt about Enjolras is the way he kisses. Or, more specifically, the way he reacts to being kissed.

Lying side by side after a busy evening of studying together and watching cat videos on YouTube, Grantaire leans over to press a single kiss to Enjolras’ temple, letting his lips linger against Enjolras’ skin a moment longer than necessary.

As expected, Enjolras’ eyelids flutter closed. Grantaire smiles warmly. They re-open as Grantaire pulls away, tracing his movement through dark lashes.

“You’re cute, you know that?” Grantaire asks quietly.

Enjolras scrunches up his nose, which, as Grantaire said, cute.

“You’re doing nothing to disprove my point there, Enj.”

Enjolras simply gives him an affectionate roll of the eyes before leaning in closer to Grantaire’s side. “You’re cuter.” he mumbles into the fabric of Grantaire’s sweatshirt.

Grantaire kisses his forehead again.

Sometimes love is a big thing; a grand gesture or large announcement, the penultimate confession scene in a movie or dramatic chase for the protagonist to follow their heart.

Othertimes, it’s a smaller entity; late night conversations or shared feelings, the soft touches of natural intimacy or the simple comfort of another tangible being.

The first time Enjolras tells Grantaire that he loves him, they’re on the couch in Grantaire’s apartment, watching the best of the best cheesy rom-com films Netflix has to offer.

The credits are rolling, but instead of getting up, Enjolras and Grantaire stay cocooned on the couch, too content to move.

Grantaire is debating whether it would be a good idea to turn the autoplay on, when Enjolras laces their fingers together.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “I love you.”

Grantaire’s heart does a funny dive within his chest and he smiles before he’s even processed the full meaning of Enjolras’ words. Enjolras is staring at him intently, as if he’s trying to convey the extent of his love through his eyes alone. It’s almost enough to make Grantaire teary-eyed.

“I love you too.” Grantaire says back, even quieter, delighting in the way Enjolras seems to practically glow with the newfound knowledge.

He smiles, and Enjolras smiles back, like they’ve just shared some sort of secret.

“Soft.” Grantaire mumbles, running his fingers through Enjolras’ hair gently. Enjolras makes a small sound and buries himself further into the duvet. He’s never been a morning person and Grantaire chuckles to himself at all the memories he has of trying to coax a sleepy Enjolras into wakefulness with coffee and kisses.

“C’mon, sleepyhead, time to wake up. Bright and early.” Grantaire says, despite the fact that it’s eight ‘o clock on a Sunday.

“You wake up.” retorts Enjolras- not his best work, but Grantaire supposes he can be forgiven on account of how his brain still has a little longer to go before it’s functioning properly.

“I am awake, love.”

Enjolras grumbles, but maneuvers himself so that he’s half-laying across Grantaire’s chest, giving Grantaire better access to his curls. Enjolras sighs as Grantaire strokes his hair out of his face, one hand curled up against his hip and the other splayed out against Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire smiles as he brings Enjolras’ hand to his mouth to lay a kiss against his knuckles. “Coffee?” Grantaire asks quietly.

“God, yes. Please.”

Grantaire hums. “Alright. Be right back.”

Enjolras’ hand wraps around Grantaire’s wrist as he makes a sound of protest. “Stay.” he semi-whines.

Grantaire laughs. “Enj, if you want the coffee I have to go and fetch it.”

“Stay,” Enjolras repeats, tugging Grantaire back down to lay with him. “I’d rather have you. Coffee later, cuddling now.”

Grantaire is only too happy to oblige.

Grantaire is systematically working the tension out of his boyfriend’s shoulders and upper back, cherishing the little contented hums Enjolras makes whenever he rubs a particular spot.

“You’re always so tense.” Grantaire mutters, leaning down to press kisses against Enjolras’ shoulders.

“Mmmm, I wonder why.” mumbles back Enjolras, though the corners of his mouth are turned up ever so slightly.

They both know why; it’s a combination of stress, wearing a binder for eight hours a day, and the weight of a messenger bag that somehow always ends up heavier than it started off. (Grantaire has tried to convince Enjolras to stop making so many trips to the library to no avail; Enjolras devours books almost as quickly as Combeferre- which is saying something, given the man’s infamous reputation for reading the entirety of War and Peace in two nights.)

Grantaire’s glad he can be of help- even if it is only in this small way. It’s easily intimate, being with Enjolras like this, and Grantaire’s beyond grateful that it’s normal for them to share moments like this together- a few years ago he wouldn’t have believed it to be possible.

Enjolras hums as Grantaire rubs his shoulders, and then Grantaire’s hands are being gently swatted away as Enjolras moves to sit up, a contented smile sitting on his face. “Thank you.” he says, trailing light fingers down Grantaire’s jawline before moving to bring their mouths together. The kiss is slow and languid and Grantaire smiles onto Enjolras’ lips, feeling Enjolras do the same.

“Mmmmmm,” Enjolras murmurs as they break apart, “Your turn now, c’mon, roll over.”

“Enj, you don’t have to-”

“Oh, hush you; you know I do, now roll over.”

“Bossy.” Grantaire chides, yet obliging all the same. It’s practically routine by now, anyway- no matter how much he protests, Enjolras will always insist on returning the favour, probably in the interests of equality or something similar. (It’s not like Grantaire’s complaining; Enjolras gives quite satisfactory backrubs.)

“Enj?”

“Mhmm?”

“I love you.”

Grantaire doesn’t need to turn around to know that Enjolras is smiling when he replies, “I love you too.”

They get married on a Wednesday. Everything is hectic and everybody is stressing out and Grantaire almost works himself into a panic attack which he hasn’t done since he was eighteen, thank you very much.

Despite this, the ceremony is wonderful. There’s laughter and smiles and Grantaire feels so spectacularly happy he could shout it from the top of the Eiffel Tower and still the grin would not be swept off his face.

Now it’s late, and Enjolras stands in the doorway to their room, shirt untucked and tie hanging haphazardly around his neck. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever looked more beautiful.

“Come here, you.” he says, patting the side of the bed next to him. Enjolras huffs and rolls his eyes, although he’s clearly just as giddy as Grantaire.

“Yes, husband.” Enjolras replies dutifully, grinning as he walks over. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Enjolras immediately pulls Grantaire in for a kiss. It’s soft and delicate and so, so lovely that Grantaire has to break away for smiling too much.

“Husband.” Grantaire says, fitting his mouth around the word. “I’m going to enjoy getting used to that.”

Enjolras beams at him.

#enjoltaireweek2017 #exrweek2017 #enjoltaire #enjoltaire fic #exr #my writing #i had like 3 more parts planned for this but it's 1:30 am and i have school tomorrow #plus it's already late oops technically we're on day 4 but shhhhh #maybe if i upload it to ao3 i'll write more #anyway this is probably the fluffiest thing i've ever written #which is..... saying something #ENJOY

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