For the E/R prompts: Grantaire asks Enjolras if he's ever been kissed, and Enjolras declines to answer. But Grantaire keeps goading him...
A spiritual sequel to the handcuffed together ficlet, because why not.
Grantaire made a show of stretching and getting as comfortable as he could against the stone wall without pulling on the chain that connected his hand to Enjolras’. “Come, we haven’t aught else to do to pass the time. It isn’t safe to talk politics or wise to talk art - what better subject than ourselves, when that’s all we have for the moment?”
Enjolras remained stubbornly silent.
“Very well,” said Grantaire gamely, “I’ll start. My first was pretty Mariette, when I was all of sixteen. I fancied myself in love.”
Enjolras’ stomach clenched with a familiar ache. Stupid to feel so over a story a decade old, and a man he had no claim on. He said nothing.
Grantaire continued, oblivious. “I begged and pleaded and brought her flowers I found in the field, and she gave me a laugh and a kiss for my troubles. Told me I wasn’t half so ugly as the other girls said. She’d kiss any boy who made her laugh, but one oughtn’t hold that against her - not when it’s it’s how I got that kiss myself.”
He sounded a little wistful, softer than his usual brash self. “Back then, I thought it was the worst thing in the world to be in love without being loved in return! But faith, it isn’t so bad. I needn’t have broken my own heart over it - though I recovered fast enough, never fear.” This last was said with a note of cheer that rang false, as though Grantaire regretted something he had said - or something he hadn’t.
Enjolras said nothing. There was nothing for him to say.
Grantaire, as ever, talked enough for two men. “If you won’t tell me of your first kiss, I will fabricate a tale of my own. Her name was Marianne and you adored her from afar, though her father was a wicked baron. He-”
“Hush,” said Enjolras, more gently than he might have in the past. He sought out Grantaire’s chained hand with his own and twined their fingers together. He brought their hands together to his lips, and kissed Grantaire’s softly.
He had meant for the kiss to be light and chaste, as a parent kissing a child or comrade greeting comrade in the street. Grantaire’s hand was warm and solid and surprisingly real against his lips, and he tarried a moment longer than he should have, letting his lips rest against Grantaire’s skin. He was reminded, absurdly, of the Romances he had so loved as a child about noble knights defending their people, and riding off to fight monsters with only a kiss on the hand of their lady love to wish them on their way.
But Enjolras was no child to dream so, and Grantaire was no gentle lady to give him a favor for courage in the fight ahead. He dropped Grataire’s hand abruptly, trusting to the dark light of the cell to hide the faint flush on his face.
“There,” he said, when he could trust himself to speak. He was pleased to hear his own voice come out cool and even, dispassionate and disinterested as he himself was not. “Now you need not imagine; you have seen it for yourself and there is nothing more to tell.”
Grantaire was silent at last, looking gratifying stunned.