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Dark Was The Night

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Enjolras meets Grantaire on a Monday. 

Incidentally, that is also the day he loses the last remnants of his sanity. 

Because while Enjolras has always been very good at a great many things, he has always needed at least a solid eight hours of sleep a night in order to achieve greatness. 

Unfortunately for him, a solid eight hours is something that he has no idea how to get now that all he can see every time he closes his eyes are electric blue eyes staring up at him from underneath a nest of messy black curls and pink, full lips wrapped around his cock.


It’s not like Enjolras is unfamiliar with the concept of sex dreams. And it’s not even like he doesn’t think Grantaire is an aesthetically pleasing individual. He has eyes. It’s just that there is no reason for Enjolras to be reacting this strongly to someone with whom he’s barely exchanged more than two words.

It’s all Courfeyrac’s fault, anyway. All Enjolras wanted was a roommate. Courfeyrac’s ad in the newspaper actually made him seem like an acceptably sane person and the apartment was probably the cheapest Enjolras could find that close to university grounds.

And then there was Grantaire. Because Grantaire doesn’t live with them, notexactly, but he is Courfeyrac’s best friend and he’s just always around.

Enjolras supposes it was only a matter of time until he met Grantaire but he just had no idea of the effect it’d have on him.

And it’s ridiculous. The whole thing is completely ridiculous and makes absolutely no sense and Enjolras has never even had an actual conversation with the guy and he just wants it to be over.

And yet, every single morning he still wakes up hard and aching and wantingand feeling like he hasn’t slept at all.

At this rate, he may actually manage to use all the cold water.

At least things can’t get any worse.


Unsurprisingly, things get worse.

"Courfeyrac, have you seen my - Enjolras?" Grantaire asks in a high-pitched voice and Enjolras has to resist the urge to throttle him.

Grantaire is in his living room. Grantaire is in his living room and he has a brush in his hand and there is a big canvas by the window and there is paint absolutely everywhere on his person and why is Grantaire in his living room?

"I live here," Enjolras says in what he hopes is a patient tone and gets him nothing but a raised eyebrow for his trouble. “What are you doing here?"

"I was telling Courfeyrac that I’ve got very bad lighting in my apartment and he told me I could paint in your living room. Is that not okay?" And Enjolras knowshe should say no, he knows that this will only make the dreams worse, but he looks at Grantaire and all he sees are too-blue, too-wide eyes staring hopefully back at him and he can do nothing but shrug his shoulders in defeat. 

That week, all he can dream of are paint-stained hands wrapped around his cock.


Two weeks later, he hears Grantaire laugh for the first time.

Enjolras is sitting on the couch, working on a paper on his laptop when Grantaire walks into the room holding a phone to his ear and laughing himself silly at whatever the person on the end of the line said.

It’s a melodic, musical sound, silvery and unguarded and it goes straight to Enjolras’ cock.

Enjolras isn’t even surprised when later that day he finds himself dreaming of the sounds Grantaire would make when coming, loud and unguarded, with Enjolras’s name bursting forth from his lips and Enjolras’s legs wrapped tight around his waist.


Then the dreams about the hair start.

He’s learnt to accept occasional weirdness as a normal side effect of living with Courfeyrac, but walking into the kitchen to see Courfeyrac and Grantaire attempting to braid each other’s hair still gives him pause.

“You didn’t see anything,” Courfeyrac warns threateningly. It’s like being threatened by a very defensive kitten.

“I don’t know,” Grantaire says slowly, “I think I look good in a braid.”

Enjolras shakes his head and walks slowly out of the room.

That night, he dreams of burying his hands in the artist’s hair and pulling, while watching Grantaire come apart inside him.


It only goes downhill from there.

Because apparently now Grantaire is never not around. And because he is never not around, Enjolras can’t just ignore him when he is around and hide in his bedroom waiting for him to leave.

They have to talk to each other.

It’s a problem.

The thing about Grantaire is that he never, ever shuts up. Ever. It’s both amazing and terrifying to behold. Give him a topic and off he goes, turning a conversation 180 degrees every two minutes, like it’s nothing, like it’s a perfectly normal human speech technique and Enjolras has no idea how to deal with him.

When he dreams of Grantaire talking to him in bed, he’s already expecting it.


And speaking of talking, who knew that Grantaire spoke five languages and had no problem switching between them back and forth?

Enjolras can’t even complain about this one - being talked dirty to multilingually (even if it is just in his dreams) is quite an interesting experience.


Then there is the first time he gets into an argument with Grantaire. And Enjolras is used to getting into arguments; he gets into arguments with anyone, from his teachers to the occasional politician wannabe unlucky enough to run into him on the streets, but this is different somehow. Because people tend to fall into two categories: those who agree with Enjolras and those who don’t and tend to quickly shut up when faced with an Enjolras filled with righteous rage.

Grantaire is, unsurprisingly, different.

And he’s wrong, so so wrong, about the world, about everything, but he stands his ground and shouts back at Enjolras just as fiercely.

And oh, he’s smart, he is so, so smart, and Enjolras wonders how anyone can be so knowledgeable about so many things and yet still arrive at all the wrong conclusions. Enjolras doesn’t even know how it began, and it doesn’t even matter, because he knows what they’re arguing about now and they battle with words, arguments flying back and forth and Grantaire won’t back down and it’s one of the most exhilarating experiences of Enjolras’s life.

A part of him wants to make Grantaire shut up.

A part of him wants Grantaire to never stop talking.

At night, he dreams of Grantaire arguing with him even while being fucked into the mattress.

Enjolras recognizes he may have a problem.


The first time he goes to Grantaire’s apartment and actually steps into his bedroom to pick up a book for Courfeyrac, he knows that that will now be the background setting to all his dreams.


And then Grantaire gets a tattoo.

It’s a tiny thing on his right wrist, three simple words spelling out “so it goes” and all of Enjolras’s dreams are now filled with dreams of Grantaire’s wrists tied to his bedpost.


It’s funny, the way the dreams keep evolving.  They’re still there, still intense, and they still make him wake up with the same asphyxiating need to bend Grantaire over the nearest flat surface but they become… more, somehow.

Grantaire’s in his living room, again, because when is he not in Enjolras’s living room? But now Gavroche, Éponine’s ten-years old brother is there as well and there is a bruise forming on his face and Enjolras isn’t sure what he was expecting from Grantaire but it wasn’t this.

Grantaire is, for lack of a better word, gentle. He is very gentle and his hands are very soft and very careful on Gavroche’s face and it isn’t long before Gavroche starts telling him what happened (and Enjolras is very much aware that those words are intended for Grantaire’s ears only).

That night, he dreams of slow, lingering kisses, hands gripping each other,  and mingled breaths, low gasps and racing hearts filling the silence.


For the first time in six months, Enjolras doesn’t dream of sex with Grantaire. Instead, he dreams of waking up with Grantaire on his bed, with legs tangled together and black curls brushing his chin. He dreams of paint stains on his furniture and a large canvas by the window. He dreams of boxing gloves on the bedside table and his bed becoming their bed. He dreams of being happy.

For the first time in twenty-one years, Enjolras wakes up knowing he’s in love.


He doesn’t panic, not exactly,  but he may very thoughtfully consider just how little he knows about what he’s doing.

Dating isn’t his thing. Relationships aren’t his thing. Hell, even people aren’t really his thing. Cats could maybe be his thing, although a cactus would probably be the safer choice.

He supposes he could probably ask Courfeyrac and God knows Courfeyrac would be more than willing to help but a) he’s Grantaire’s best friend and b) he’s Courfeyrac. And he doesn’t know whatever weird thing Courfeyrac and Combeferre have got going on with each other and he is most definitely not going to ask until one of them decides to tell him, but right now he can’t be sure that his best friend won’t feel the need to share his pathetic attempts at romance with his annoying roommate.

Google it is, then.

And then some more Googling.

And more.

For two weeks straight, he does nothing but Google wooing techniques and having extremely intricate dreams about Grantaire (the sex dreams come back with a vengeance after that night, but now they’re not so much having sex as they are making love).  At this rate, he may actually write an extremely well-researched, well-structured, very publishable article out of all his research. God knows the folks at Cosmo could actually stand to read it.

And then he makes the rookie mistake of falling asleep on the couch, with his laptop lying on top of him.

When he closes his eyes there is no one else in the apartment, but when he opens them again there is a very warm, very heavy weight on his legs.

“What?” Enjolras shrieks.

“Hello,” Grantaire purrs. “You’re in love with me.”

“No, I’m not,” Enjolras says defensively, before his brain can catch up with his mouth.

Grantaire narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Then why were you googling ‘how to woo a cynic’?”

“Science?” Enjolras asks in a voice that definitely sounds too squeaky to belong to him.

Grantaire raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “And why were you moaning my name on your sleep?”

Which, yeah. Enjolras has no idea how to deal with that. But judging by the way Grantaire keeps edging closer and closer to him, maybe wooing techniques won’t be necessary after all.

“You were doing very interesting things in my dream,” he says with his best attempt at a wicked smile. Judging by the way Grantaire gulps, wickedness is definitely achieved.

“I’m much better in real life than in dreams,” he says, leaning down slowly and stopping only when he’s very close to Enjolras’ lips.

“We’ll have to see about that,” Enjolras says and brings Grantaire’s head down for a kiss.

He’s very pleased - but not at all surprised - at the way none of his dreams managed to come even anywhere near the reality of having Grantaire like this. Dreams could never tell him just how soft Grantaire’s hair is under his hands, how sparks fly absolutely everywhere when Grantaire runs his hands down Enjolras’ torso or the absolutely delightful noises Grantaire makes when Enjolras bites his lower lip.


That night, after Grantaire falls asleep beside him, looking deliciously fucked-out and competely happy, Enjolras dreams of nothing but being loved.