Everyone finds out they’re fucking, specifically, the Monday after prom, when half the senior class is still trying to wash glitter out of their hair and hide their Plan B receipts from their parents. Yearbooks are being passed around, skinny black Sharpies bleeding ink and ex’s and oh’s and the kind of burning, overwrought nostalgia Draco already wishes he had an eraser for.
It’s just a rumor until it isn’t.
It’s just a rumor until the iPad camera shutter snap echoes and echoes and echoes around the cavernous interior of the empty auditorium—and, oh, Draco will have to remember to laugh at that, later; getting caught, finally, on an actual fucking stage—when he doesn’t have her dressed pushed up and his boxers pushed down and the taste of her tart and sweet and wet on the tip of his tongue—
Everyone finds out.
That isn’t the real secret, though.
It wouldn’t be a big deal, if it was anyone else.
It wouldn’t be a big deal, if it wasn’t Hermione fucking Granger.
“What do you mean, that wasn’t the first time?” Potter’s voice cracks, slightly, on the last two words.
Hermione wore a Yale sweatshirt to school the day she got her acceptance letter.
Navy blue and bright, bright white. Crewneck. Her jeans were tucked unevenly into the tops of her boots, and all Draco could think about was how much better she’d look in Dartmouth green. In Princeton orange.
In nothing at all.
“After the shit he’s said?” Potter demands, sounding angry in a way that almost—almost—surprises Draco. Almost might as well be the story of his fucking life. “To you? About you? After the shit he’s done?”
Hermione’s mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “Yes,” she says simply, before reaching for Draco’s hand.
Draco had gotten better, over the years, at pretending.
It was a learned behavior. A conditional response to a childhood spent digesting the morals of Disney movies and anti-bullying campaigns and half-hearted reprimands to be nice. To be better. Smiles could be faked. Compliments could be forced.
Letters of recommendation, however—character references, long-winded tributes to his sportsmanship and his discipline and his superior time management skills—those couldn’t be.
“I’m in love with him,” Hermione says, and it’s a little bit surreal how deeply Draco understands her honesty. “People can surprise you, Harry, even when you don’t expect them to.” She hesitates, curling her fingers into Draco’s palm. “Especially when you don’t expect them to.”
“Looks like we’ll be at school together next year,” Draco remarked the Friday before spring break.
Hermione’s lips parted. Pink and full and bare. “You—Malfoys go to Harvard.”
He shrugged. Her sheets were itchy against his shoulder blades, patchwork red and gold flannel warm with residual body heat. “You’re the only thing I don’t want to leave behind,” he said.
Or; a relationship told through its softest moments; from firsts to lasts and everything in between.
For Enjoltaire week 2017, day #3: soft.
Their first date is what can only be described as soft.
They meet for dinner inside of a small Thai cafe, and Grantaire’s heart does somersaults all the way through his meal. Enjolras keeps smiling at him, warmly, tentatively, and Grantaire feels himself blushing every time.
They hold hands on the walk home; what started off as Enjolras’ fingertips lightly grazing Grantaire’s wrist gradually evolved until their hands were linked, fingers intertwined. Enjolras swings their hands lightly as they walk in tandem and Grantaire thinks his jaw is going to break from all the smiling he’s been doing.
There’s no kissing before Enjolras walks up the steps to his apartment and waves a small goodbye to Grantaire; instead they hug loosely for a few moments, promising to have dinner again sometime. Enjolras breaks contact with a smile and Grantaire lets himself wonder how he ever got so lucky as to have that smile bestowed upon him.
It’s snowing, the first time they kiss.
Grantaire remembers it vividly, because Enjolras was wearing that scarf that he got last Christmas- the red, white, and blue one that Courfeyrac bought him as a joke, yet Enjolras treasures with every fibre of his being.
He’s also wearing mittens, like, honest to God, actual red fluffy mittens that tickle the sides of Grantaire’s face when Enjolras cups it between his palms.
“I’d really like to kiss you.” Enjolras says, tracing the outline of Grantaire’s lips with one mitten-clad thumb. “Your lips look very kissable right now.”
“It’s probably the cold.” Grantaire says, stupidly, because Enjolras just asked to kiss him and sure, they’ve gone on a few dates at this point, but still.
Enjolras smiles, his eyes creasing around the edges. “Probably.” he agrees, moving one hand down to Grantaire’s neck. “Can I?”
Grantaire can’t find the words to express just how much Enjolras can, so instead he nods, feeling the ghost of Enjolras’ lips upon his almost as soon as he moves his head.
Enjolras’ lips are soft, which is unsurprising. His kisses are short, fleeting things, a warm mouth pressing against Grantaire’s for the barest of seconds before pulling away again. Grantaire brings his own hand up to Enjolras’ face, coaxes his lips into staying a little longer, makes the kisses slower, more languid.
It’s almost perfect, and Enjolras smiles when their lips part, eyes still closed, as if he’s taking time to immortalise the memory behind his eyelids.
Grantaire’s never felt happier.
Perhaps Grantaire’s favourite fact that he’s learnt about Enjolras is the way he kisses. Or, more specifically, the way he reacts to being kissed.
Lying side by side after a busy evening of studying together and watching cat videos on YouTube, Grantaire leans over to press a single kiss to Enjolras’ temple, letting his lips linger against Enjolras’ skin a moment longer than necessary.
As expected, Enjolras’ eyelids flutter closed. Grantaire smiles warmly. They re-open as Grantaire pulls away, tracing his movement through dark lashes.
“You’re cute, you know that?” Grantaire asks quietly.
Enjolras scrunches up his nose, which, as Grantaire said, cute.
“You’re doing nothing to disprove my point there, Enj.”
Enjolras simply gives him an affectionate roll of the eyes before leaning in closer to Grantaire’s side. “You’re cuter.” he mumbles into the fabric of Grantaire’s sweatshirt.
Grantaire kisses his forehead again.
Sometimes love is a big thing; a grand gesture or large announcement, the penultimate confession scene in a movie or dramatic chase for the protagonist to follow their heart.
Othertimes, it’s a smaller entity; late night conversations or shared feelings, the soft touches of natural intimacy or the simple comfort of another tangible being.
The first time Enjolras tells Grantaire that he loves him, they’re on the couch in Grantaire’s apartment, watching the best of the best cheesy rom-com films Netflix has to offer.
The credits are rolling, but instead of getting up, Enjolras and Grantaire stay cocooned on the couch, too content to move.
Grantaire is debating whether it would be a good idea to turn the autoplay on, when Enjolras laces their fingers together.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “I love you.”
Grantaire’s heart does a funny dive within his chest and he smiles before he’s even processed the full meaning of Enjolras’ words. Enjolras is staring at him intently, as if he’s trying to convey the extent of his love through his eyes alone. It’s almost enough to make Grantaire teary-eyed.
“I love you too.” Grantaire says back, even quieter, delighting in the way Enjolras seems to practically glow with the newfound knowledge.
He smiles, and Enjolras smiles back, like they’ve just shared some sort of secret.
“Soft.” Grantaire mumbles, running his fingers through Enjolras’ hair gently. Enjolras makes a small sound and buries himself further into the duvet. He’s never been a morning person and Grantaire chuckles to himself at all the memories he has of trying to coax a sleepy Enjolras into wakefulness with coffee and kisses.
“C’mon, sleepyhead, time to wake up. Bright and early.” Grantaire says, despite the fact that it’s eight ‘o clock on a Sunday.
“You wake up.” retorts Enjolras- not his best work, but Grantaire supposes he can be forgiven on account of how his brain still has a little longer to go before it’s functioning properly.
“I am awake, love.”
Enjolras grumbles, but maneuvers himself so that he’s half-laying across Grantaire’s chest, giving Grantaire better access to his curls. Enjolras sighs as Grantaire strokes his hair out of his face, one hand curled up against his hip and the other splayed out against Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire smiles as he brings Enjolras’ hand to his mouth to lay a kiss against his knuckles. “Coffee?” Grantaire asks quietly.
“God, yes. Please.”
Grantaire hums. “Alright. Be right back.”
Enjolras’ hand wraps around Grantaire’s wrist as he makes a sound of protest. “Stay.” he semi-whines.
Grantaire laughs. “Enj, if you want the coffee I have to go and fetch it.”
“Stay,” Enjolras repeats, tugging Grantaire back down to lay with him. “I’d rather have you. Coffee later, cuddling now.”
Grantaire is only too happy to oblige.
Grantaire is systematically working the tension out of his boyfriend’s shoulders and upper back, cherishing the little contented hums Enjolras makes whenever he rubs a particular spot.
“You’re always so tense.” Grantaire mutters, leaning down to press kisses against Enjolras’ shoulders.
“Mmmm, I wonder why.” mumbles back Enjolras, though the corners of his mouth are turned up ever so slightly.
They both know why; it’s a combination of stress,
wearing a binder for eight hours a day, and the weight of a messenger bag that somehow always ends up heavier than it started off. (Grantaire has tried to convince Enjolras to stop making so many trips to the library to no avail; Enjolras devours books almost as quickly as Combeferre- which is saying something, given the man’s infamous reputation for reading the entirety of War and Peace in two nights.)
Grantaire’s glad he can be of help- even if it is only in this small way. It’s easily intimate, being with Enjolras like this, and Grantaire’s beyond grateful that it’s normal for them to share moments like this together- a few years ago he wouldn’t have believed it to be possible.
Enjolras hums as Grantaire rubs his shoulders, and then Grantaire’s hands are being gently swatted away as Enjolras moves to sit up, a contented smile sitting on his face. “Thank you.” he says, trailing light fingers down Grantaire’s jawline before moving to bring their mouths together. The kiss is slow and languid and Grantaire smiles onto Enjolras’ lips, feeling Enjolras do the same.
“Mmmmmm,” Enjolras murmurs as they break apart, “Your turn now, c’mon, roll over.”
“Enj, you don’t have to-”
“Oh, hush you; you know I do, now roll over.”
“Bossy.” Grantaire chides, yet obliging all the same. It’s practically routine by now, anyway- no matter how much he protests, Enjolras will always insist on returning the favour, probably in the interests of equality or something similar. (It’s not like Grantaire’s complaining; Enjolras gives quite satisfactory backrubs.)
“I love you.”
Grantaire doesn’t need to turn around to know that Enjolras is smiling when he replies, “I love you too.”
They get married on a Wednesday. Everything is hectic and everybody is stressing out and Grantaire almost works himself into a panic attack which he hasn’t done since he was eighteen, thank you very much.
Despite this, the ceremony is wonderful. There’s laughter and smiles and Grantaire feels so spectacularly happy he could shout it from the top of the Eiffel Tower and still the grin would not be swept off his face.
Now it’s late, and Enjolras stands in the doorway to their room, shirt untucked and tie hanging haphazardly around his neck. Grantaire doesn’t think he’s ever looked more beautiful.
“Come here, you.” he says, patting the side of the bed next to him. Enjolras huffs and rolls his eyes, although he’s clearly just as giddy as Grantaire.
“Yes, husband.” Enjolras replies dutifully, grinning as he walks over. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Enjolras immediately pulls Grantaire in for a kiss. It’s soft and delicate and so, so lovely that Grantaire has to break away for smiling too much.
“Husband.” Grantaire says, fitting his mouth around the word. “I’m going to enjoy getting used to that.”