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They had been fighting lately, about drink and politics and Grantaire’s steadfast refusal to put his books back on the bookshelf. He was slipping back into insomniac patterns, and would read for hours (the dim glow from his lamp keeping Enjolras awake) before the book would fall to the floor with a thud and he would be asleep at long last. Enjolras, leaving for work as the dawn chorus started, would fall over them - and then tip forwards to fall on top of Grantaire, and wake him. 

 The charade had been going on for weeks now, but Grantaire was irritated to find that even with bags under his eyes, Enjolras was still irresistible. He wandered into the kitchen one morning, having not bothered sleeping, and saw Enjolras filling up the kettle, and he was wearing trousers which were slightly too tight to be anything other than obscene. 

"Hey," he said quietly, and Enjolras jolted, spilling water all over his hands. He smoothed the droplets from his trousers - slowly enough that it was obvious that he knew what this would do to Grantaire - but smiled. 

"Hey yourself," he replied, refilling the kettle and setting it to boil. The kitchen was filled with its gurgling, and Enjolras and Grantaire pretended not to glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes. "You didn’t sleep, did you? I heard you moving around," he said. 

"I slept on the sofa - well, I say sleep. I mean that I fell asleep watching some crap reality show. The one with the implants won," he added helpfully, and he saw Enjolras’s face quirk into a small smile. 

"Are those new trousers?" he asked, instead of kissing Enjolras. 

Enjolras shrugged. “They’re fairly new, but I think they’re a little tight - what do you think?” and he pirouetted in front of Grantaire. He revised his opinion: the trousers were definitely obscene. 

"Very tight," he said nonchalantly, as if he weren’t blushing. "You wear them to work?" he said quickly, in an attempt to stop the ticker-tape of images in his mind. 

"Of course. We’re supposed to look professional, even if it means that the Communists say we’re bourgeois for daring to wear a colour," and he sighed at that. "It’s like the bloody Spanish civil war right now. I expect purges any day - who thought that a little protest group could get so fractured? But yes, I wear these to work," and he was flushed a little now. 

"And, erm," Grantaire began, shifting his hips slightly, "how is work? Apart from the Communists?”

Enjolras laughed. “Same old, same old. When you’re feeling a little happier you must come in - Courfeyrac’s started burning papers he dislikes again, so you can probably smoke in there. He thinks I shouldn’t call it work because I’m not getting paid, but I’m getting paid from the collectivisation of - “ 

 ”Let’s not talk about politics,” Grantaire said quietly. 

"Fine," Enjolras said, dismissively, but smiled, disarmingly wickedly. "When you come in to work, we can test out the desk-strength. Been thinking about it for a while - you fucking me on the desk with that view of Paris out the window, and all the city around us and not knowing a thing. You could wear your leather jacket," he said optimistically. 

Grantaire cursed under his breath, but returned Enjolras’s beaming smile. “I thought you disliked that jacket for reasons of animal cruelty?” he asked, and slid his thumbnail across Enjolras’s collarbones, just visible through his shirt. 

Enjolras shivered at that, and fumbled with the coffee pot. “Well, yes, but you do look very good in it,” he mumbled.”I like it because it’s yours,” he added, so quietly that Grantaire had to hold his breath to listen. 

"Have we tested out the kitchen yet, as a location for fucking?" he said, matter-of-factly, and watched Enjolras pull a bottle of lube from behind the breadbin. He took the coffee cup from him, and set it on the table, and then reached out to dig his thumbs into the curves of Enjolras’s hips. "I like it when you look so - " he waved a hand at the expensive suit - "ravishable," he said, and kissed him as if the microwave weren’t beeping, as if the car alarms outside were harmonious and as if the world weren’t going to the dogs. 

"Been thinking about this for a while," Enjolras said, as he leaned back against the kitchen counter and undid his shirt buttons, agonisingly slowly. "You opening me up - " and he gasped as Grantaire slid a finger inside him - "you - you giving me what I need. Maybe holding me down a little, and then fucking me into the kitchen counter," he added. 

"You’re rambling," said Grantaire, trying not to laugh, but he hissed under his breath as Enjolras reached to grope at the curve of his arse, and then began stroking Grantaire, slowly, and it was obvious that he had played the piano when he was younger. Grantaire twisted his finger until Enjolras tilted his hips. "Want another?" he asked, casually. 

"You’re a dick," Enjolras told him. "Get a move on, please," and his breath caught on the last word so Grantaire kissed him, and fucked Enjolras with his fingers until he was a mess of birds-nest hair and swearing. "Fuck me," Enjolras whispered, and then louder: "Fuck me, please,” and that was the hottest thing Grantaire had ever heard, and Enjolras slid his pyjama bottoms to the floor and tugged at his own trousers, and pulled them both to the floor - “cupboard doors in backs, never an excellent aphrodisiac,” he mumbled - and spread his legs and arched his back. 

Grantaire paused to take in the sight of him, and smiled. Enjolras saw, and called him a bastard and beggedhim, and so Grantaire reached out to hold onto his hips and slid himself in, and he knew that they would have bruises from each others hands and mouths, and Enjolras shoved his legs on top of Grantaire’s shoulders in an alarming display of athleticism for so early in the morning. 

They came at almost the same time, as the first shaft of sunlight was turning Enjolras’s hair to a brighter gold than usual, and when Enjolras bit down on the junction between Grantaire’s neck and his shoulder - a necessity to keep him from shouting after the neighbours had complained - he muttered that he loved him even though he was a dick, and then Grantaire had come, fingers curled around Enjolras still. 

"You’re a dick," he said comfortably, and licked his fingers clean.