Those utterly piercing, striking eyes land on Grantaire’s, nearly impaling him to the wall. There’s bite…there’s fury…there’s strength of will. Enjolras, despite the agony he must be feeling, pushes himself up to glare over at Grantaire, thoroughly and righteously angry that the drunkard is here now, offering to help.
Grantaire bites his lip shyly, his eyes flickering down. He spots a small chipped tile on the ground, suddenly feeling so very small under that gaze.
Why is it now that Enjolras has that effect on him? It’s never been the case before now.
Ah. Yes. That’s why. It’s because I’m offering something of myself rather than speaking out of nothing but to annoy. And he’s insulted that I would pity him this way.
But Grantaire’s thoughts are cut off painfully when he hears the painful, sickening sound of Enjolras retching, and his eyes dart up.
Combeferre is, once again, trying to give him that cup. And Enjolras, though his voice significantly weaker and now visibly shaking is still denying it.
Then again…he never told me I couldn’t rub his neck.
Enjolras, despite his denial of what Grantaire can smell is tincture of opium, is gazing up at Combeferre with—holy hell—tears tasting the corners of his eyes. It truly makes those eyes vibrantly blue…agonized and nearly pleading. It has to be the worst migraine he’s ever had.
This time, Grantaire doesn’t ask. He looks up at Combeferre for a bit of help, but gently pushes Enjolras onto his side to begin to strip off his vest and that sweat-stained chemise underneath.
He doesn’t dare look up into those eyes—not wanting to fathom what kind of disapproval he might see there, especially as that bare chest comes into view.
Shame Jacques-Louis David couldn’t have used this beautiful body in some of his paintings. Certainly Enjolras would have submitted it for the good of France.
Once bare-chested, Grantaire pushes Enjolras back down—chest down—onto the couch.
Or at least tries to.
Enjolras resists him, just a bit, trying to look back at him. Those red-rimmed blue eyes pierce back to gaze into Grantaire’s, and what Grantaire finds there nearly stops his heart.
It’s there, swimming in the heavy, terrified humiliation at being seen like this.
It’s laying underneath the deafening and utterly agonizing pain.
It’s resting somewhere beyond the tears nearly welling in the corner of his eyes…
But then, just like that, it’s gone as Enjolras suddenly lurches towards the edge of the couch to empty whatever could possibly be left in his stomach. Grantaire nearly cries when he hears the softest little whimper echo off of those lips.
"Help him," Combeferre urges, eyes darting up and flashing with a sense of panic behind those glasses.
Trying to ignore how utterly sensual this is, Grantaire buries his hand into those golden curls. Suddenly years of forgotten artist’s anatomy comes rushing back to him as he presses his fingers carefully into those temples, spreading his fingers out to apply even pressure.
He’s suddenly and horribly aware of how utterly tenseEnjolras is over all; he feels it in the tremble of those shoulders.
"…oh Enjolras," he whispers.
Enjolras doesn’t respond. He’s too busy trying to muster all of the strength not to vomit once more.
Grantaire runs his hands everywhere against the scalp, finding a few places that make Enjolras melt a little—such as his left temple. He keeps a hand firmly rubbing against that spot, careful to maintain even pressure as he senses that it’s making Enjolras relax…the tension ebbing.
He slides his other hand down Enjolras’ neck.
He pinches along the full, beautiful muscles, believing himself nearly dead to be touching his Apollo’s perfect, beautiful neck.
But then he hears that soft, whispering whimper and it makes his fingers dig in a little harder…until suddenly he feels Enjolras just…give up a large portion of that tension with a low groan. His back, bunched up with tension, suddenly just…relaxes, turning from hard marble to supple flesh.
Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief, but he doesn’t move away—especially since the moment he lifted his left hand from Enjolras’ temple, the tension began to flood back.
…well, at least I have some use to my Apollo. He can no longer call me a useless drunk.
Grantaire gives a bitter little grin at that thought, feeling an odd warmth in his chest. He can finally do something right in this man’s eyes.
"Is it helping, Enjolras?" he breathes, his voice soft. Quiet.
Enjolras tries to nod, but it ends up only hurting. He ultimately just makes a little groan, unable to speak.
part 3 if you want?
also my art history is showing