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I'm Not Perfect

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            “Courfeyrac, if you’ve got everything set up with the other organizations on campus, I think that’s all the prep we can do for this meeting. We will meet sometime over the next few days to make sure everything’s in place for next week’s event,” Enjolras looked around the room at the nodding heads, his eyes glancing at the one that was averting his gaze, instead focusing on a piece of paper he was writing on. “Alright, then we’ll be seeing each other around.” He said his goodbyes quickly as his friends left in groups.

            “Are you good to clean up here?” Combeferre asked, grabbing his shoulder. Enjolras nodded, looking over his papers that were scattered over the table. “Alright, I’ll see you back at the dorm,” he said, leaving with Courfeyrac.

            Enjolras assumed he was alone, which was why he sat down with a sigh in the chair. Running his fingers through his hair, he realized how much was still left for this demonstration. As his mind cluttered with an agenda to do, his hands tightened up, affected by the stress. He cried out, holding his wrists tightly. He hated this, this weakness. He could feel the cramping pulse up his arms, which only caused him to be more annoyed. He attempted to work with his messed up hands, but eventually had to stop in a huff. He lay his head down on the table, trying to calm himself down.

            He then felt someone touch his shoulders, in which he jumped up. “W-what are you doing here?” he asked the ink-haired man. His hands were still rubbing his wrists, trying to alleviate a bit of the pain.

            “I’m sorry,” he apologized, not wanting to disturb him. “I was, just trying to finish something, and you seemed upset, and I just wanted –“ he stopped, unable to form his thoughts. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No, no,” he sighed, “That’s not what you did. I just, didn’t know you were here.” He looked around the empty room, noticing the paper in his hands. “What’s that?”

“Oh, that, that’s nothing,” he said, crumpling the paper in his hands and shoving it in his pocket. Enjolras was startled by the sudden destruction, and he reached forward to grab the paper, but was taken aback from the pain in his arms. Grantaire was surprised by the blonde’s pain, and he reached forward, taking a hold of his marble hands.

Grantaire held his hands gently, looking at them to avoid his gaze. Enjolras looked at the cynic, watching the care he had. “Please,” he muttered, looking down. Grantaire looked up at his Apollo in confusion. “Please, stop,” he asked quietly.

“What’s wrong?” he questioned, confused, still holding his hands. Enjolras refused to look at him, staring down at his mess of hands. Grantaire, getting no response, slowly began rubbing his hands. Enjolras shook his head, trying to pull his hands away, but wasn’t able to deny it was helping. “What is it?” he asked again.

“It’s just, just, my fucked up hands,” he whispered. Grantaire shook his head. This wasn’t normal. His Apollo was never whispering, was never hiding. Grantaire looked down at his hands, tracing the contours of his palms.

“These hands,” he started, “are not fucked up. These hands are strong, are passionate, have seen change and been the cause of it.” He moved further up to his forearms, massaging the muscles there. He looked up at the blonde quickly, feeling his eyes on him. He smiled.

Enjolras just stared at him, unable to do anything about the cynic. He flipped their hands, holding Grantaire’s as best he could. Leaning down, Grantaire kissed the palms of his hands softly, before jumping up. “I’m sorry, I just-“ he stopped. Enjolras pulled his hands back, just looking at the spots where his lips touched his skin. It was, sudden. It wasn’t something he ever expected to happen, from someone who seemed to hate him so much. If it weren’t for the pain in his wrists, he would have jumped up in shock.

Instead, Grantaire had backed off, going back over to his table where his bottle sat. He picked it up and downed a bit, before collapsing back in the chair, muttering something incoherent. Enjolras stood with a struggle and went over to the man who faced away from him. “Taire,” he called out. The artist cringed, and barely looked back at him. “Taire,” he repeated, a little stronger.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered again. Enjolras came over, now kneeling in front of him.

“Don’t be, please,” he said, taking his hands in his as best he could.

“Don’t kneel before me, dear Apollo. That is one thing I never deserve,” he said, his head down defeated.

“Stop,” Enjolras commanded, almost angrily now, but still with a touch of compassion that Grantaire was a stranger to. “Stop treating me like I’m some god or perfect being. I’m not!” He threw his hands up in the air, and cringed at the pain it brought him. “I’m not,” he repeated softly. Grantaire cupped his face, forcing them to look at each other. The blonde saw the harsh, emotional blue eyes of Grantaire, and Grantaire saw the fiery eyes of his Apollo. The connection, desire, was communicated silently, and Enjolras surged forward to kiss Grantaire.

His lips parted slightly, not making the kiss to seem desperate, but instead fueled with passion and feeling. Enjolras responded with gently putting his hand behind his neck to pull him closer to the man, as close as he could get. Grantaire pulled back, both the men panting from the power of the kiss.

“Taire,” he sighed, still feeling the pain in his hands. He pulled back to hold them more, trying to get some sort of comfort. Grantaire immediately reached forward and rubbed them, kissing every inch of his hands, moving up his arms to his neck. He was trying to kiss every inch of his Apollo, worshipping every part of the perfection that sat before him.

They both ended up on the floor, and Grantaire slowly moved down, unbuttoning Enjolras’ dress shirt, and kissed his bare chest, which of course had to be perfect. He didn’t expect anything less. Enjolras was numb, unable to feel anything except for Grantaire’s lips against his skin. Grantaire stopped when he had explored most of Enjolras’ body, but sat up quickly, still holding Enjolras’ wrists.

“Not here,” he said, motioning to the wooden floor they were sprawled upon. “Not like this,” he kissed both his hands again, putting focus on what Enjolras’ saw as a problem and flaw. Enjolras took the opportunity to kiss him. He kissed his mouth, his nose, his neck, anything to make him know that he too, had no flaws to him.

Finally they got off the floor, and they helped the other pack up their things. Grantaire shoved his hands in his pocket, feeling the paper crumpled in his pocket. He took out the scrap and unwrinkled it. Enjolras peered over his shoulder at the sketch of himself. The shading, the color, the perfection on the page, made him blush, and take a hold of Grantaire’s free hand as best he could. Grantaire pulled their joined hands up and kissed them softly before they left the café together.