Work Text:
Two cups of tea sat on the table, steadily growing colder as the night worked its way through the open window. Enjolras sat sideways across a chair, elbow propped up awkwardly as he plucked through half-remembered violin music, the ones that had made the man in the far corner smile and shake his head fondly, humming along. For now, he had his shoulders hunched over a canvas, and they sat in comfortable silence punctuated by quick pizzicato notes from the violin and soft sounds of concentration from Grantaire.
It was an average evening for them, as Enjolras set aside his violin and took up the stack of cockades he’d begun work on, most pinned into place and therefore bristling like porcupines until he stitched them flat. Tedious work, to be sure, but pinning them to the breasts of his friends was worth the time it took to sew them properly.
They’d had a meeting the night before, a minor affair filled with raucous laughter, and despite his love for his friends and the causes they fought for, it always drained him to stand before them and speak, to keep his composure with Grantaire at the back of the room blowing him quick kisses, making quiet quips as he went over the agenda he’d written up the night before—Grantaire always ended up with time to plan his jokes, hovering over Enjolras’s shoulder as he planned the next meeting, catching an early glimpse of what he’d say.
He loved them, most certainly, but the quiet moments like these brought him peace unlike any other he’d found, a knit blanket over his knees, the weather not cold enough to warrant a fire yet but cool enough to leave the window open, the gas lamp on the table casting enough light to see his thread by and for Grantaire to paint by.
He hummed absently as he worked, the tuneless melody of a piece he’d nearly forgotten, sneaking glances at Grantaire between stitches. Despite all the man’s arguments to the contrary, made in the smoke-filled, hazy back room of the Café Musain, Enjolras called Grantaire beautiful, especially like this, lit up only by the light of the gas lamp on their table, the shadows of his curly hair falling soft across his face. Not that he would dare tell him that ever; he’d pick out every imperfection with an artist’s eye, pointing out where he felt his face was disproportionate or asymmetrical, wherever it defied the rules of art he’d learned abroad.
(To Enjolras, that was precisely what made him beautiful, but no matter.)
Just then, his hand missed a stitch and the pinprick pain of the needle hitting its mark lit up his finger. He gasped sharply, dropping the coil of ribbon to his lap, and stuck his finger in his mouth. It tasted faintly coppery, and he sighed. Another minor puncture wound. Grantaire hadn’t budged beyond the motion of brush on canvas; Enjolras envied his ability to remain utterly absorbed in his work no matter the nature of his surroundings.
“Enjolras,” he said, words muffled by the end of the paintbrush held between his lips, “come look?” He always phrased it as a question, an open-ended offer, but the only time Enjolras had refused to look Grantaire’s face had fallen in an instant. It was better for both of them that Enjolras look, and besides, he did truly love his art. He picked himself up out of the chair, twisting the cricks from his spine as he did—sitting sideways had benefits when it came to bowing a violin properly, but notable downsides in regards to posture and level of comfort—and made his way to rest his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. His fingers found the chain of his locket, warm metal tucked behind his untied cravat, and Enjolras found himself twisting his own matching pinky ring on the opposite unconsciously.
He leaned gently in, knocking the side of his head against Grantaire’s. “Show me?” The tips of Grantaire’s ears were chilly, and he turned to kiss the one closest, catching a noseful of unruly brown hair for his troubles. The heavy scent of oil paint always hung around him as he worked, warm and deep, clinging thickly to his throat as he breathed in, humming contentedly into his hair. He’d always thought that the sharp, pine-based tang of his violin rosin and the heady, wooden balm of Grantaire’s paints married quite well in their tiny apartment, each mellowing the other out. “What do you want me to look at?”
He tucked the paintbrush behind his opposite ear, moving one hand to point at parts of the painting and the other to rest over Enjolras’s. “What do you think, first?”
It appeared to be, roughly, one of their meetings, everyone present down to Éponine’s little brother atop the cabinetry in the corner and Musichetta, hovering between Joly and Bossuet with a faint smile on her lips. What struck him first was how vibrant everyone was, the broad sweep of motion expressed in the line of Courfeyrac’s hand, Combeferre’s fingers resting on the nosepiece of his glasses, Bahorel adjusting his cap. At one side the deep green strokes of Grantaire’s coat, and at the other, Enjolras’s red waistcoat with neat, precise edges and his hair in a falling-apart single braid.
Life in art, to be sure, and he felt himself tearing up vaguely as his eyes roamed over the scene, devouring the relief of each of his friends as if it were the last time he’d ever see them.
“It’s us,” he said, and Grantaire nodded next to him. “It’s all of us, on a normal night, in our normal places.”
“Mhm,” Grantaire agreed, turning his head to press a kiss to Enjolras’s cheek. “And? Notice anything”
“And… oh.”
He’d missed it at first, too focused on the painting at large to notice the two details: a gold band around his and Grantaire’s ring fingers, the same shade as Enjolras’s pinky ring. Pulling back suddenly, Grantaire stuffed a hand into his pocket and pulled out a tiny velvet box, a smile blossoming in his eyes.
“Hope adding it to the painting wasn’t presumptuous,” he joked, prying the box open gently, “but gold’s always been your color.”
The ring nestled on a bed of crushed velvet, winking in the lamplight, and Enjolras was already nodding furiously. “Yes, yes, of course, Grantaire, I—” he laced his fingers in Grantaire’s, squeezing tight as he leaned in for an enthusiastic kiss. “Does anyone know?”
He chuckled, carefully picking the ring up and snagging Enjolras’s finger to slide it on. “Bahorel helped me find the ring, at the shop down Rue Charlot, but other than him, no.” He grinned manically again, surging forward for another kiss. “I’d hoped you’d say yes,” he admitted lowly, “Bahorel said you would, but I wasn’t sure.”
The ring was a new, comfortable weight on his finger, and it clinked up against his pre-existing ring gently. “I don’t know what world you’re living in where I’d ever say no to you, especially about this.”
He grinned widely, the smile that first made Enjolras’s heart twist and acknowledge that he’d felt something for the man, and pulled a ring to match Enjolras’s from his opposite pocket to slide onto his finger. “Need to match you, eh?” he said, and Enjolras’s face split in two with a grin to match.
Grantaire blushed then, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, ring glinting dull gold on his finger, and instead bumping the paintbrush behind his ear, smudging white paint across his cheek before the brush clattered to the desk. He didn’t seem to notice, eyes skimming over the painting again, and Enjolras reached out with a patient hand to wipe it away with a quick pass of his thumb, eyes widening in horror when instead it smudged into a wide line stretching from the corner of his lip to his eyebrow.
“Oh, no,” he muttered, rubbing more furiously in vain as Grantaire began to shake with quiet laughter.
“Oil paint, Enj, it doesn’t come off like that,” he said, “soap and olive oil.” He nodded towards the kitchen, moving to stand up and catching Enjolras by the wrist. “Time for you to learn how to get paint off properly.” He pressed a bottle of soap into his hand, gesturing at the sink. “Soap and water and scrubbing, that’s the only way.”
Enjolras scooped up the dish towel, flipping the tap on warm and wetting it before rubbing soap into the corner. “Is it hard to get off?”
Grantaire nodded, and presented his cheek. “It’s a bitch.”
Enjolras sighed fondly, tucking his fingertips under Grantaire’s chin to turn his cheek closer. The paint had gotten everywhere, flecks strayed into the tips of his hair, and he set to scrubbing gently, rubbing small circles into his skin as the blue gradually came away. His eyes slipped closed under Enjolras’s ministrations, shoulders relaxing slowly.
When the paint was finally gone, Enjolras didn’t pull his hand away quite yet, setting the dish cloth down and savoring the warm steadiness of Grantaire’s skin against his hand, the scratch of his two-day beard on his palm. A grin spread across Grantaire’s face as his eyes opened, stretching into Enjolras’s hand, and a giggle escaped his lips, quickly stifled before his dam broke and he clapped his hand over Enjolras’s, pulling him along as he spun into the center of the room.
“I’ll have to teach you to really dance now, you know,” he said, setting a fast pace for a waltz, “all the proper techniques and whatnot. Won’t have you embarrassing us at our wedding.” He wrapped an arm around Enjolras’s waist to dip him low, and nipped his nose with a quick kiss before whirling him back into motion, the mention of a wedding, their wedding, thrown out so casually.
The tea on the table had gone stone-cold, long forgotten by the time they settled down from twirling around the room, out of breath with joy and laughter, and collapsed on the sofa together. Enjolras turned to regard Grantaire, cheeks flushed from dancing and hair, previously tied up partially neatly in a bun, half-down, flyaway curls in tufts around his ears. After a second, he barked out a laugh. “Oh, my God, how did you get more paint on your face? We weren’t even near your desk.”
“Just leave it, hazard of the trade,” he replied brightly. “I’ll get it off later, dear fiancé.” The word brought a spreading warmth to Enjolras’s heart, and he nudged a stray curl back off Grantaire’s forehead with his fingertips.
“There,” he said, grinning softly. “Beautiful, if painty.”
Grantaire’s gaze dropped. “You’re the beautiful one, Apollo,” he countered, tossing out the nickname as if it proved his point.
“I reserve the right to say that the man I’m going to marry is beautiful, Grantaire, paint splatters and all.” As if to punctuate his argument, he lifted Grantaire’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to his ring finger.
“I’ll splatter you in paint,” he grumbled back, but a smile was already spreading his cheeks and the tops of his ears burned bright red.
“Looking forward to it.”