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2 minutes and 37 seconds. That was how long Grantaire had been standing under the awning of this well-lit porch. The porch belonged to an imposing 3-story colonial in the equally imposing South Arroyo district of Pasadena.

In hindsight, 2 minutes and 37 seconds wasn't any time at all, but in the moment it felt like an eternity.

This naturally begged the question of why--why this mildly intoxicated, woebegotten twentysomething was counting the seconds on his watch with contrived fascination instead of finally making his decision. And what exactly was Grantaire deciding between?  Whether to ring the doorbell or use the fancy brass knocker.  It was ridiculous, and he knew that he was just stalling, but stalling was easier than confronting his demons.  The party that was bursting with life behind this very door seemed determined to let out the devil inside him. 

Just do it before you fucking lose your nerve.  He decided against using the door knocker.  The brass carving was in the shape of what looked like the head of an angry goat, and maybe Grantaire could blame the liquid courage he downed before arriving, but there was just something not right with those beady, little eyes.  So he pushed the small, round buzzer and waited several more (grueling) seconds before someone answered the door.  Grantaire recognized the teenager, but he was shit at names and didn’t have the energy to try and recall it now.

“Oh, hey Grantaire,” the young man with light brown hair greeted.  “Eponine said you might stop by. Actually, you should probably go check on her.  I heard her mumbling something about wanting to murder ‘obnoxious hooligans’ earlier, which I can only assume was in reference to…well, everyone else.”

“Thanks, man”.  Grantaire curtailed his response to avoid further conversation.  The more they talked, the more obvious it would be that he couldn’t remember this kid’s name.  Com-something? Fuck if I know.  Grantaire, a 23 year-old college drop-out, was being tortured enough by the fact that he was attending a high school party.  This gentle reminder made him want to crawl into the nearest bar and let that welcoming sweet burn of Johnnie Walker Red obliterate his judgment.

Running a languid hand through his mop of dark curls, Grantaire swallowed his nerves and pressed on, nodding at the kid before scooting through the door passed him.  Inside, it looked like every party scene in every 90s teen movie all smashed into one.  Red solo cups lined all the surfaces of the tastefully-furnished house, strobe lights flashed in time with the music on the impromptu dance floor, and in another room a scrawny kid with Buddy Holly glasses should NOT have been singing karaoke to “My Humps” (especially with the amount of pantomiming going on).  He zigzagged through the crowd of teenagers, passing drunk couples making out on the staircase, in unlit hallways, and even on the couch as some creepy loner watched and nursed his beer.  It was a wonder the cops hadn’t shown up, but an even greater wonder that the occupant of this house did not put an end to it himself.  Parties like this didn’t really seem like his scene, even if it was his birthday.  When Grantaire finally spotted Eponine, manning the beer keg in the kitchen, he stood quietly behind her and rested his chin on her bony shoulder.

“If you’re gonna be doing all the legwork for these pipsqueaks,” he said loud enough for her to hear over the blaring sound system, “you should really consider charging.”

Eponine sighed and leaned into the man, instantly recognizing her friend’s deep voice.  “I am so close to hitting up a titty bar after all this just to feel like my age again.”

Grantaire cocked an eyebrow.  “Because nothing says 22 like a purse full of ones and watching a mother of three shake her goods to ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’?”

“Shove off.”  The no-nonsense brunette palmed her friend’s face to push him off of her.  “You know what I meant.  It’s like a goddamn soap opera in here.  I’ve seen two breakups, one catfight, and several acts of disorderly conduct because no one knows how to hold their liquor.  Being here feels like I’m reliving high school, and we all know how well those four years of my life went.”

He did know and he felt his friend’s pain.  Grantaire shook his head.  “Fuckin’ Pontmercy.”  It wasn’t until after the words left his mouth that he noticed the double entendre.

“Oh, no,” Eponine said scornfully.  “That was Cosette’s job.  All I got were late night study sessions in which Marius would rave and rant about the beautiful, blonde new girl.”

“It was his loss,” Grantaire said sincerely before grabbing the girl’s face between his hands and kissing her on the lips.  He always kissed her like that, but it was never anything more than platonic.  Some people gave them shit about it, but he didn’t care.  Grantaire loved Eponine to death, but just never wanted to fuck her.  So sweet, chaste kisses became their thing, to show how important they were to one another.  “And I think he might have literally been an idiot.  I mean, who honestly doesn’t pick up on any of the signals that you threw at him.  We shouldn’t have to wear big, neon signs to make our infatuations known.”

Grantaire didn’t want to wear his infatuation on his sleeve.  He wanted to shove it in a box under his bed until it collected dust and cobwebs.

Eponine was glad of the support, although she’d certainly had enough Marius talk for one evening.  “Ugh.  Let’s just forget about that high school bullshit and drink till our faces are numb.”

“But I thought you’re whole purpose in coming tonight was to keep an eye on Azelma and make sure she got a ride home?  Where’d she run off to, anyway?  Didn’t take long to abandon you, I see.”

She hummed after taking a large swig of beer.  “In the backyard with Montparnasse and his thugs.  She told me to stay away because I make her look bad or something, but I am so tempted to go test out that pool.  He’s got a hot tub, Grantaire!  A fucking hot tub!”

Grantaire could only snort and roll his eyes because hot tubs weren’t really his thing and, well, he always got a little unresponsive when they talked about him.  There was only so much he could say about that man without saying too much.

“Speak of the devil,” Eponine chimed, her gaze focused on something—someone—behind Grantaire.  “Can you believe he’s been hibernating up there the whole night?  Either he doesn’t realize of just doesn’t care that all of this is for him.”

Probably the latter.  

It took way too much effort for Grantaire to turn around.  Seeing the birthday boy was literally the only reason Grantaire even showed up tonight, but figuring out what to say to him was something entirely different and altogether daunting.  His mind was at war with itself.  Everything’s different after tonight.  Everything changes.  But the other voice in his head disagreed.  You are the same cynical drunk that gets mediocre tips at P.F. Chang’s and he is the same impassioned idealist who studies for Physics tests and writes English essays during lunch to make time for Model U.N.  They just didn’t make sense together.

Then why can’t I stop feeling this way?

When Grantaire did turn around, his world fell to pieces.  His Apollo—for that is what he called him in his dreams, and his dreams alone—was casually descending the stairs with his signature scrutinizing gaze, observing all the drunk teenagers that were somehow allowed admittance into his house.  He was wearing a red cardigan over a grey and white striped tee, and Grantaire could only marvel at how a 17 year-old teenage boy could make a Mr. Roger’s sweater look THAT good.  Excuse me, 18 now, though I can’t let that fact impair my judgment.  His hair adorned his perfectly sculpted face like a glorious golden wreath.  He wore it proudly, shoulders poised and chin tilted up as if to say, “worship me.”

Grantaire did not need to be asked to do that.  It would come oh so naturally to him.  If he had the courage to admit his feelings to the world, least of all to his Apollo, worship of this mortal god would come in all forms.  Through brushstrokes on canvas, through sighs and whispers, through kisses and touches…

Oh, shit.  He’s caught me staring.

Enjolras made eye contact with Grantaire and came to a halt on the last step of the staircase.  Grantaire should’ve looked away.  He felt the flush of embarrassment rise in his cheeks because he knew it was wrong to stare so long.  But the burning, pounding ache in his chest was so intoxicating that he didn’t want to lose this feeling just yet.

Maybe it was just his imagination creating a false sense of hope, but it almost looked as if Enjolras was trying to communicate with him through his gaze, like at any moment he was going to come over and bare his soul to Grantaire.  Maybe…

But this wonderful thought was all-too-fleeting and reality settled in the moment a distraction appeared, in the form of another man pulling on the blonde’s arm and whispering something into his ear.  It was Jehan—Grantaire actually remembered this one because the petite boy was refreshingly honest with his poetry, once spouting an ode to Grantaire entitled ‘The Pessimist Who Likes to Get Pissed’—and he must have been regaling Apollo with some dramatic tale because there were a lot of exaggerated hand gestures involved.  Enjolras nodded at Jehan before muttering something that Grantaire could also not hear.  The kitchen was a good 20 feet away from the living room staircase.

Enjolras abandoned the stairs to follow the tiny poet toward another room of the large house.  Okay, so he’s not coming over.  It’s alright.  No, this is good, actually.  Now I don’t have to worry about my verbal diarrhea in front of him.  Unbeknownst to Grantaire—who finally tuned into Eponine’s rant about how dangerous it is for high school boys to even have a sex drive—the blonde stole one more glance at the kitchen before disappearing completely.

Lingering at the party for maybe another 30 minutes, Grantaire finally decided that it was pointless for him to be here and he might as well leave.  He doesn’t want to talk to me anyway.  Not that this was entirely news to Grantaire.   Their relationship—yeah right, more like friendship…not even that, acquaintance?—was wrought with polar opposition and gentle mockery.  Although, ‘gentle’ never really described how Enjolras felt about Grantaire’s general misgivings toward humanity.

Grantaire remembered the day he met Enjolras.  Eponine dragged him to her sister’s high school play, which Enjolras was in as well.  Enjolras floated across the stage with such passion and beauty that Grantaire legitimately thought he was a girl.  He made the mistake of sharing this reflection with Eponine, who told Azelma, who—in a fit of uncontrollable laughter—had to tell Enjolras.  And then they were introduced, and it was painful and awkward and yet Enjolras confronted it with casual indifference.  It wasn’t until Grantaire began openly disagreeing with Enjolras’ philosophies and depictions of a perfect government that the passionate blonde finally found a bone to pick with the older man. 

And it didn’t take long for Grantaire to fall in love a little bit.  Or a lot.

It wasn’t easy for Grantaire to admit this, that he had these unavoidable, insurmountable feelings.  He’d never really liked a boy before, not this way.  Well, maybe John Stamos…ooh, and Jared Leto…but they didn’t really count right?  Gender boundaries didn’t exist when having celebrity crushes.  Their unattainable anyway, so what’s the harm in finding their shirtless bodies extremely attractive?

He wasn’t gay, or at least he didn’t think he was.  Maybe gender boundaries didn’t exist at all for him anymore.  Maybe they never did and he just didn’t realize it until now.  All Grantaire knew for sure was that from the moment he met Enjolras—his Apollo, his Adonis, his Greek statue with Jared Leto eyes—his standards for a companion had skyrocketed and he was fairly certain there wasn’t another in existence that could match or soar above him.

Eponine all but clung to Grantaire when he told her he was heading out.  He felt bad for leaving her alone—especially since Azelma, now blissfully drunk, was embracing another cliché by dancing on the dining room table—but not seeing Enjolras and yet constantly feeling his presence was something Grantaire didn’t want to have to deal with anymore.  He kissed her goodbye before making his way back to the front door.

He almost got out.

“You’re leaving?”

That voice was unmistakable.  Grantaire’s pulse quickened, fingers going numb.  He tried to act casual and unaffected when he turned around to face the young man. “Hey.  Happy birthday.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows reproachfully.  “Were you planning on telling me that before you left?”

“I did it just now.”

“Only because I caught you leaving,” Enjolras replied almost bitterly.

Grantaire shoved his hands in his coat pockets.  “What does it matter anyway?  Do you really need affirmation that people actually want you to be happy on your birthday?  It’s a stupid and meaningless sentiment, in my opinion.  Besides, are you even trying to enjoy yourself tonight?  ‘Ponine told me you’ve been locked in seclusion all night.”

Enjolras cast his eyes downward, slightly ashamed at his own inability to adhere to birthday traditions and customs.  If he wasn’t so conflicted, he might laugh at the fact that they could actually (almost) agree on something.  “Alright, so maybe this isn’t entirely my idea of fun.  But Courfeyrac got all excited about planning it, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.”  Enjolras ruffled his hair in irritation.  “Anyway, that’s not the point.”

“What is?” Grantaire asked, though he was decidedly distracted by the messy state of Enjolras’ hair—hair that he wanted to fist and tug and maybe curl around his index finger.

“The point is that you never answered my original question.  Do you need to leave right now?  Because…because I want to show you something.”

Grantaire shrugged convincingly.  “I can spare a few minutes.”  That’s right.  Don’t blow him off, but don’t appear too eager.  Make him think you don’t care either way, even though you do.  You really, really do.

Enjolras felt a smile forming in response, but hid it just as quickly.  “Good.  Cool.  Um, this way.  It’s in my room.”

Shit.  Grantaire wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep his composure.  The two of them in the vicinity of Enjolras’ bed on his 18^th birthday did not sound like a very healthy combination.  Except, it did.  So help me god, it did.

The beautiful blonde boy directed Grantaire—who stalked behind him wearily—to his room and went immediately to the desk in the far right corner.  “The pamphlets arrived today.  I’m bringing them to the meeting Monday night but I thought, since you helped with the design, you may want to see how they turned out.”

Grantaire forgot there even was a meeting on Monday.  The ABC Club was a student-created (Enjolras, of course) organization that focused on projects promoting the betterment of education.  Sometimes they did charity work, sometimes they get involved in protests, and sometimes they brainstormed proposals that they wanted to share with neighboring schools.  But mostly, it was just a bunch of high school and college kids dicking around and actually believing they could change the world.  Eponine was usually the one to remind him of the meetings, and he would ‘begrudgingly’ tag along—even though Enjolras’ impassioned orations gave him a private thrill.

“I think it looks really good,” Enjolras added before handing one of the pamphlets to Grantaire.  “Your illustration alone should catch everyone’s attention at the rally.”  Grantaire examined the cover carefully.  He remembered the drawing now.  He sketched it for Enjolras about a month ago.  It was a cartoon image of a kid in a hot dog outfit handing out flyers.  The thought bubble above his head revealed his dream of getting a college diploma.  And then there’s some mumbo jumbo phrasing about how he didn’t get his degree because he couldn’t afford college.  That’s right!  The college tuition hike thing! 

Grantaire really needed to start paying attention at these meetings.

“Not too shabby,” he finally said, admiring his own handiwork.  “When’s the rally?”

Enjolras gave Grantaire an incredulous look.  “You actually want to go?”

The eccentric brunette dramatically clutched his heart.  “One of these days, your utter lack of faith in me is really going to injure my self-esteem.  I’m a fragile little bird, Enjy.”

“Well, one of these days,” Enjolras started, biting back a smile, “I’m going to physically injure you for trying to get everyone else to call me that.”

“What?  It’s cute.  Like you.”  Oops.  So startled by his own words, Grantaire temporarily forgot how to breathe.  What the fuck?!?  Did I really just say that?  Why is he looking at me that way?  Enjolras’ gaze was intense and unwavering, but gave no evidence of the emotion that carefully hid behind his eyes.  “I mean, like, you know, since you’re so young and all.  You’re like a cute, little boy.”  That probably didn’t help.

Grantaire’s quick cover up seemed to have the most effect on Enjolras.  His mouth quivered, almost frowning, and his perfectly blue eyes turned lackluster and distant.  “Little boy?” he repeated, his newly furrowed brow matching his indignant tone.  “I’m eighteen.  You’re only twenty-three.  You act like there’s some huge age gap, but there’s not.  Do you know what the biggest difference is between us though?  Unlike you, I’ve actually accomplished something with my life.”

Here we go again.  He wasn’t hurt by Enjolras’ words, not really.  More than anything he was irritated.  Irritated because Enjolras never missed an opportunity to slip in with some snarky comment about how Grantaire was wasting his life away and he might as well go back to college.  “Are we doing this again?  Are you gonna stand there and judge me about my life choices when you’re so wrapped up in your own twisted ideals that you can’t even enjoy your own birthday party with friends?  I may not be a model adult, but you’re shit at being a teenager.”

Enjolras’ hands curled into fists at his side, temper rising.  “Oh, so now I’m the screw up!  Let me get this straight, I don’t know how to be a teenager because I don’t drink, swear, or feel the need to act on every raging hormone in my body.  In other words, I obey the law, keep my brain cells intact, and don’t risk getting any venereal diseases.  Yes, that does sound like a doomed existence.”

“Glad to know you can still be sarcastic when you need to,” Grantaire mused, trying desperately to ignore the bit about ‘raging hormones’.  “I’m sure that’s the closest thing to resemble fun in your dictionary.  Or maybe it’s not the sarcasm, but the act of belittling others while making yourself seem superior that gets you off.”

The blonde was positively fuming now.  “I do not—”

“What amazes me still,” Grantaire continued, not in the mood to be interrupted, “is that all of these people are here tonight for you, in spite of the fact that you’ve picked apart all of their flaws at some point or another.  Although, we can all safely say that I’ve got the short end of the stick in that department.”  Grantaire couldn’t stop himself and he didn’t know why.  This wasn’t right, Enjolras didn’t really deserve this, but his tongue was running rampant and there was no turning back.

Several seconds passed in silence.  It was all heavy breathing and red faces—which could’ve been interpreted differently, but that fantasy was far from Grantaire’s mind at the moment—and harsh stares.  There was a ringing in Grantaire’s ears that he couldn’t displace.  He wondered how Enjolras would respond to all of his insults.

“Then why do you stay?”

Grantaire was not expecting that.  He expected more flames and accusations.  Instead, Enjolras’s breathing started to even out and his cold, marble-like expression softened into one that was almost…vulnerable?  That can’t be right.

That look alone had the ability to break Grantaire down completely.  He’d been burying his feelings for months and months, and the pressure built with every glance or laugh or touch of fingers.  But this look?  It begged Grantaire to be honest with him.  Enjolras genuinely wanted to know why Grantaire stuck around when he didn’t have to, especially after all the times the youthful blonde did find cause to yell at him.

But Grantaire couldn’t do it.  Not yet.

“I often ask myself that same question.  Well, I’ve certainly done enough partying for one evening.  I think I can find my way out.”  And he did.  And Enjolras was alone and confused.  And Grantaire was ready to surrender his credit card to the nearest bartender.

There was a hole in the wall bar a mile down the road called The Corinth Lounge, and it must have been Grantaire’s lucky day because out front was a big neon sign advertising half price tequila shots—he wanted to get drunk and he wanted to get drunk fast.

But he never made it through the front door.

Those stupid voices were back again—taunting, pleading, arguing.  He just sat in his parked car, watching half of the letters in the bar sign flicker intermittently, letting the voices in his head battle each other like two teenage girls.

You missed it.  He gave you an opening and you didn’t take it.  Worse than that, you made him feel like shit.  Did you not see the look on his face?

Please.  Even if you did have the balls to tell him that the reason you stay is because you’re hopelessly in love with him, there was no guarantee that he would’ve reacted positively.  In case you’ve forgotten, everyone who knows him says that he’s never shown the slightest interest in pursuing a relationship. The odds are not in your favor.

But he does care.  You aren’t the casual acquaintances you thought you were.  He harps on you about not accomplishing anything because he knows you’re better than that.

Bullshit.

It’s true!  He obviously thinks you’re a talented artist, the pamphlets explain that well enough.  And when he asked why you stayed, he was being sincere.  His face didn’t have that harsh, chastising look that he usually exhibits.  He wanted you to tell him the truth because your opinion matters to him.

…Fuck…

Does this mean we have to go apologize to him now?

Grantaire leaned his head against the steering wheel, causing the horn to beep loudly.  “This really blows.”

He’d been sitting in that parking lot for a lot longer than he thought.  The party was fizzling out when Grantaire pulled up to the curb on the other side of the street.  He watched two girls fall in a drunken heap on the front lawn and laugh hysterically about it.  Each car was packed to capacity as there weren’t many partygoers eager to be the DD.

Eventually they had all left—the music off, interior lights vanishing one by one—and the house Grantaire looked up at through his car door window was just another  house, ready to turn in for the night.  It was probably still a mess in there, and it was strange that none of Enjolras’ friends stayed behind to help him with the cleanup. 

Grantaire finally got out of his car, half-considering going up to the house to at least lend a hand.

But most of the lights were out by now.  Maybe Enjolras had chosen sleep over cleaning up tonight.  Why did I wait until everyone had left?  I should’ve just gone in the moment I arrived.  Perhaps this was a conversation best left for another day.  Unfortunately, that meant that Grantaire would be agonizing over their argument until he did get a chance to talk to him.  Fucking Apollo.  Why does he insist on invading my thoughts all the time?

There was no time to consider the answer to that question because in the next instant the lamp in the living room turned on, and then the one in the hallway, and then the front door was unlatching…

“Grantaire?” a faraway voice questioned, peaking his head out the door.

Of course he saw me from across the road.  I’m not exactly stealthy when it comes to stalking.  Grantaire only nodded in acknowledgement.

Enjolras closed the distance between him and Grantaire until he was standing in the middle of the empty street.  “You came back.”

Grantaire shifted uncomfortable before leaning against his car.  “I wasn’t that far.”  It was a painful truth, having literally sat in his car and listened to the bickering voices in his head for two hours—well, a good portion of that time was actually just thinking about Enjolras.  “Anyway, we kinda ended on a bad note and I didn’t want that to be how you remembered your birthday.”

“So, you’re going to apologize.”  It wasn’t even a question.

The dark-haired man held back a bitter laugh.  It was so like Enjolras to preemptively make a decision for someone, based on what he thought was the right thing to do.  “Am I the only one apologizing here?  Because, last time I checked, it takes two people to start an argument.”  Well, one if you’re me.

Enjolras huffed and folded his arms across his chest.  “I’ll admit that I was a bit hotheaded at one point, but that’s only because you called me a little boy!  I put up with that enough every time I try to organize an event for the club.  I don’t need it from you too.”

“I know,” Grantaire replied softly, staring at the asphalt.  “I didn’t mean it.  You’re way more mature than I am.  It was just a cover.”

“A cover for what?”

Grantaire scratched the thin layer of scruff on his neck.  “My own stupidity—listen, Enjolras, I really am sorry for all those awful things I said to you early.  My head wasn’t clear and I just acted that way as a defense mechanism.”

Enjolras inspected Grantaire curiously.  “Why do you need to defend yourself around me?”

“Okay,” Grantaire said slowly, clenching his fists, “I really need you to not ask me any questions for like five minutes.  Better yet, no comments at all.  Alright?”  The blonde silently complied.  “Now, I’ve been thinking a lot about how to approach this.  More often than not, I’ve been thinking about how to skirt around it for the rest of my life, but that clearly can’t continue because it only causes me to think about it more—and when I think about it I start talking to myself, and when I talk to myself they turn into this messed up character voices that…”

Grantaire looked up to meet Enjolras’ glare, which begged the older man to get to his point.  “Right.  Well, you know how you asked me why I stick around, even though you constantly remind me of my worthlessness?”

It really was hard for Enjolras to stay quiet.  “I do not!  I only wish you would—”

“My five minutes are not up yet,” Grantaire interceded, taking on the same tone that a scolding parent would use on a small child.  Enjolras pursed his lips reluctantly.  “As I was saying, you asked me a question, but I didn’t give you an answer.  I have one, I’ve always had it, but I wasn’t ready to tell you.  The thing is, Enjolras, I don’t stay in spite of you—I stay because of you.” 

It’s now or never.  Just lay all your cards on the table.  “I attend regular meetings for a club I don’t really care about, I go to high school parties that make me feel excruciatingly awkward (and kinda like a pedophile), and I willingly accept Eponine’s invites to all of Azelma’s school functions just to see you, to be near you.  I stay because when I leave, it hurts so much more.”  Grantaire’s palms were definitely sweating now.  He’s gonna bolt.  He’s gonna tell me to stop coming to the meetings and then avoid me until he gets accepted to that fancy college where he doesn’t have to worry about me anymore.

“I understand if this is something you’re not looking for at the moment,” he continued.  “I’ve seen the way you abruptly turn down the girls at your school, as if you’re offended that they even bothered to waste your time by flirting with you.  I respect that, in some weird way, and I wanted you to know that I’m not pouring my heart because I expect these affections to be returned.  I’m doing it because if I keep it locked away for much longer, I might explode or fall into a never-ending cycle of inebriation.  It might come back to haunt me, but at least you know now and I don’t have to constantly worry about you finding out.”

Grantaire couldn’t find the nerve to look up so he could gage Enjolras’ expression.  Did he really want to know what the blonde was thinking?  What if it was bad?  What if he was disgusted by Grantaire’s admission?  The ‘what ifs’ swarming around his head felt like a giant raincloud hell-bent on drenching him in misery.

“Am I allowed to talk yet?”

The timid voice that asked the question was so unexpected that Grantaire had to look up to make sure he was still talking to Enjolras.  The angelic youth still stood there, his arms hugging his chest and his cheeks tinted pink.  Grantaire nodded in the affirmative.

“I always thought you hated me,” he said meekly as he stared at Grantaire through his long lashes.  “You found a way to argue almost everything I said, like I was some dumb teenager who didn’t know what I was talking about.”

Grantaire shrugged.  “I liked the fire in your eyes.”

Enjolras ignored the small flutter in his stomach.  “I thought you tolerated me but liked everyone else.  But then you came to my party.  Yes, I invited you, but I honestly wasn’t expecting you to show.  But you did, and it made me think that maybe I did matter…to you.”

“And what does that mean to you?” Grantaire asked, unable to deflect the hope in his voice.

Enjolras nervously tucked a few blonde curls behind his ear.  “I…I don’t know just yet.  You have to understand, this is not a discussion I’ve ever let get this far.  I am by no means impulsive, but for the first time I kind of what to be and I want to do something a little reckless and out of character.”

“What are your impulses telling you right now?”  The husky drawl of Grantaire’s voice was evident.  Desire slowly built in his abdomen as he moved a bit closer now, until his Apollo was only an arm’s length away from him.

“I’m not sure I want to tell you that,” he replied with a bashful grin, the blush on his cheeks stretching to his ears and neck.

Grantaire couldn’t help but memorize everything that was Enjolras—the way his hands curled and stretched erratically, the way his red sweater clung to his biceps like a second skin, the way the soft skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled (which didn’t occur often).  Grantaire didn’t want to push Enjolras into anything he didn’t want to do, but there was an arousing pull to this godlike creature that was unavoidable.  “Well, if you did want to give into your wild side just this once, now is kinda the perfect time.  Neither of us is drunk and no one’s around to witness their fearless leader acting on—what was it you said?  ‘Every raging hormone in your body’?”

“You know you’re ruining any chance you might’ve had by making fun of me.”

“You say that,” Grantaire said with a sly smirk, picking at some imaginary lint on Enjolras’ sweater as a flimsy excuse to touch him, “and yet you’re still smiling, which makes me think you might be flirting with me.  Plus, that blush on your face has turned you into the cutest tomato I have ever seen.”

Enjolras looked down because he didn’t want Grantaire analyzing his facial expressions anymore.  He didn’t say anything though.  No quick-witted response to throw at Grantaire, which had become a part of their usual banter.  This worried Grantaire, thinking he might have embarrassed Enjolras a little too much.  This was, after all, something the blonde was not at all used to.

Grantaire took a small step back.  “Sorry.  But it is cute though.  And now that’s the third time in one night that I’ve called you ‘cute’.  You probably don’t even like the sentiment because it sounds a bit juvenile, but I don’t mean it that way.  You’re more than cute.  Unbelievably attractive, actually.  If you recall, I initially thought you were a girl because of how beautiful you looked…uh, that doesn’t sound like a compliment either.  This shouldn’t be so difficult.  I mean, I think about you all the time and—”

Grantaire’s words were cut off by lips.  These lips were soft, yet trembling.  They were lips that had a deep-seated longing but dared not open, pushing against Grantaire’s own speechless mouth with bruising force.  Enjoras was shy and inexperienced at kissing, Grantaire expected this much, but what he didn’t expect was how badly he still craved the awkward pressure of those lips.  He wanted to guide them.  He wanted to spend forever teaching Enjolras how to kiss him, if it only meant they could stay permanently attached this way.

All too soon it ended, and Grantaire couldn’t deny the whimper that escaped after feeling cold air where warm, supple lips used to be.  After Grantaire’s overstimulated senses had a chance to calm down, he hazarded a glance at Enjolras.  The boy’s head was down again.

Grantaire had certainly had enough of this bashful foreplay.  He surged forward, grabbing a surprised, but not reluctant, Enjolras by the belt loop of his jeans.  His other hand cradled the blonde’s cheek—ignoring (for now) his impatient desire to run his fingers through those perfect blonde locks.  “That’s not fair,” he whispered.  “You didn’t give me the chance to do that properly.”

And then he attacked his Apollo’s already swollen lips, claiming ownership there.  Grantaire’s urgency was building; he wanted to bite those lips until they were raw and lick the inside of his mouth as if it was the only thing he was allowed to taste for the rest of his life.  But there was a hesitancy in Enjolras that Grantaire could not ignore.  So, with great restraint, he kissed him slowly, tenderly, sucking on each of Enjolras’ delicate lips until he might instigate a heady response from the young man.

It didn’t take long for Enjolras to succumb. 

One of his hands instinctively reached out to fist at the front of Grantaire’s t-shirt, pulling him closer as if there was still too much space between them.  His mouth relaxed a little more, opening and moving in a way that mirrored Grantaire’s.  It felt so good and so right, both of their bodies flooded with adrenaline, craving more.

Grantaire gently brushed his tongue against Enjolras’ bottom lip—fuck, this is some sweet torture—tracing the plump outline with care.  Enjolras responded by opening his mouth further, granting the older man better access.  He didn’t waver, plunging his tongue into the blonde’s mouth and committing to memory every hot, delicious surface.  Their tongues touched and created this wave of electricity that coursed through every extremity of their bodies.

Enjolras was clawing at him now—something Grantaire could definitely get used to.  Before either of them realized it, the young, inexperienced kisser had the veteran lover backed up against his car, hips writhing against Grantaire in a way that would make anyone blush.  Grantaire was so surprised by the action that he momentarily stopped his ministrations of the young blonde’s mouth.  This alerted Enjolras—realizing he might have gotten too carried away—and so he pulled back, creating a considerable amount of distance between their aching lips.

“No, no, no.  Why’d you stop?”  Perhaps Grantaire sounded like a needy child, but for the love of god, he did not care.

Enjolras was still recovering; Grantaire could see the content, glazed-over look in his eyes.  “It’s late,” he finally mustered. 

“So?” Grantaire said, pulling Enjolras near him once more.  “I’m not done giving you your birthday present yet.”

“It’s well past midnight.  It’s not my birthday anymore.”

Grantaire smirked.  “Yes, but this is an ongoing present.  Which means I may have to stop by on weekends or stay late after club meetings to make sure you receive it.”  Enjolras responded with a coy smile, resting his head on Grantaire’s shoulder.  Another action that just felt right.  “I must be a really good friend to devote so much time and effort into a birthday gift.  Although, I have been waiting for this particular birthday to arrive for months.”

Enjolras knew exactly how Grantaire felt.  As his 18^th birthday slowly approached, all he could think about was Grantaire and what might happen…

But that wasn’t on Enjolras’ mind at present.  It was something else the dark-haired man said.  He picked up his head and voiced his concern.  “Friend?”

“Or more?” Grantaire responded, also testing the waters of what they should call their relationship.  Relationship.  Could I really be in a relationship with Enjolras?  “Listen, I know you don’t want to move too fast, and I completely understand.  But you can’t not let me kiss you anymore.  Seriously, I’m going to add it my list of necessities for basic survival.  If you don’t kiss me, I could die.”

Enjolras slapped Grantaire’s arm playfully.  “Do you have to make everything a joke?  We’re supposed to be having a serious conversation.  We need to figure out what this, what we are.”

Grantaire thought about it for a moment—he only needed a moment—before grabbing Enjolras’ hands and lacing their fingers together.  “Well, why don’t we discuss this over dinner tomorrow night?”

With a perfectly endearing sigh, Enjolras replied.  “I think I can clear my schedule for that.”

The time and place was set, and Grantaire finally got in his car to start for home—that is, after another 20 minute heated make-out session with Enjolras.

Happy birthday, indeed.