#9 we’re hiding from the authorities and it’s very close quarters in here, I can feel your body against mine.
“’Let’s break into the second largest private organization in Paris, Grantaire, it’ll be a great idea, Grantaire,’” Grantaire grumbles to himself and Enjolras, who is resolutely ignoring him. “’Nothing will go wrong, Grantaire, Feuilly has eyes on us the whole time, Grantaire. No one will know we’re there, Gr–”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, “Could you find it within yourself to please be quiet.”
“Since you asked so nicely,” Grantaire says.
Ten minutes ago, they were in the server rooms, downloading supposedly incriminating evidence of insurance fraud and, hopefully, proof of a major international cover up five years ago that could land the CEO, if not his entire team, in prison.
That is, if they managed to get the files before security interrupted them and sent them on the chase of their lifetime. Or, the chase of the last three months, anyways. It’s been a while since Grantaire has had to actually be on site for a job, and longer since they managed to screw up this badly.
God, he’s so out of shape.
Now, they are hiding in the women’s sublevel one bathroom storage closet, out of breath and pressed so close Grantaire is in danger of having permanent bruising from where Enjolras’ computer digs into his stomach. They’d have slightly more room, but Grantaire has already gotten his foot stuck in the industrial-sized mop bucket just behind them, occupying most of the space, and knocked over at least three bottles of cleaning fluid. Something pungent is soaking into his shoe.
At sub two, they lost connection with Feuilly, but at sub one they should be able to communicate with him. It’s probably the bathroom, service is always the shittiest in bathrooms, no pun in tended.
On the plus side, this is the most time he’s spent with Enjolras in ages. Or, it would be a plus, rather, if he weren’t certain Enjolras would like to throttle him, but then, when doesn’t Enjolras want to throttle him?
“Do you think–” he starts.
“No,” Enjolras grits out. Even just the two of them speaking together reminder enough of just how close they are.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” he says.
Enjolras doesn’t answer. There’s no light in the closet, and they were sure to click off the automatic lights in the bathroom, so there is no way for Grantaire to visually establish an expression, but if Grantaire had to guess, it’s the one where he stares right over Grantaire’s head, brow carefully blank, the only giveaway of his irritation: the flattening of his full bow lips.
Instead of pushing his luck, and honestly, he’s pushed it quite enough tonight, he really doesn’t want to think about the legal consequences of what they do, and to whom, let alone what a private company might do to them if they discover what Les Amis were trying to expose, Grantaire keeps his silence.
When the quiet stretches on, Enjolras heaves a sigh, “What.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Oh,” Grantaire has to think, momentarily forgetting. Sometimes he doesn’t think before he speaks, saying the first shit that comes to his head. So long as it gets a rise out of Enjolras, he doesn’t care. Then he breathes, and he remembers. “Oh, yeah. Do you think you could move your computer, you’re stabbing my liver, and I kinda need that.”
Enjolras moves his arm suddenly, driving the edge of the computer harder into Grantaire’s stomach, earning a grunt. “Oh, sorry.” The pressure disappears, and Enjolras shifts so the computer is out of the way. There’s a shelving unit next to them, and Grantaire hears the thunk of the computer dropping onto the board.
In doing so, he moves his leg, one going between Grantaire’s – which makes sense, of course, space conservation and all that, he’s not using that space, why shouldn’t Enjolras be allowed to press his thigh up against Grantaire’s, there’s nothing wrong with that, no – and one on the outside of Grantaire’s other leg. This is all fine and dandy.
“Feuilly, anything?” Enjolras whispers and the dead air on the other end is enough to tell them they’re alone.
“He might be busy,” Grantaire offers. Feuilly’s main operative was to loop the video feed and keep an eye on security — though they’d thought they wouldn’t need much on that end since they were supposed to have a perfect schedule of their rounds. They hadn’t been counting on a new manager, new hires, throwing off the established patterns.
He doesn’t need light to know the tension in Enjolras’ upper body — which Grantaire is very conscious of right now, thank you very much — is acquiescence and reluctant concession to their predicament. Enjolras shrugs, and the movement shouldn’t send sparks along every inch of Grantaire’s skin, but it does.
He takes a deep breath, and, yep, Enjolras is definitely closer. He wonders if Enjolras notices, if Enjolras is aware of what this looks like (or would look like if they weren’t in complete darkness), if he knows his knee is so close to – Enjolras shifts again, and Grantaire has to bite back a gasp.
Except, it’s not him that’s being obvious right now (though, at this point, yeah, okay, he is).
They both freeze at the same time and Grantaire can practically hear the creak of Enjolras’ teeth as he clenches his jaw.
Grantaire tries to relax, thinking of every horrid thing that’s ever happened to him, tries to think of his nan naked, except he never really saw his nan until her funeral, so there’s nothing to base it on. Angela Merkel comes to mind, and that almost works, until Enjolras moves again, the entire length of his thigh pressed against Grantaire’s.
Sucking in a gasp, Grantaire considers his options:
- They ignore this and escape and never speak of it again (possibly.)
- They ignore this for now and talk about it later (not likely.)
- They fuck in this tiny storage room and everything works out (in his dreams, maybe. Yeah, definitely in his dreams.)
- Grantaire makes a total ass of himself and can’t look Enjolras in the eye for the interminable future (ding ding ding, we have a winner.)
Number one sounded like a good plan. Ignore everything. No boners, no heavy breathing, no pressed up against each other in a small space with very little room to do anything except —
Enjolras changes positions again, except it doesn’t do anything to relieve the friction.
“We’re not talking about it.” Grantaire wishes he could see Enjolras’ face, because while the tone is a hundred parts annoyed and angry and absolutely, completely, totally refusing to be embarrassed, there is also a breath of arousal, and wow if that isn’t just the greatest punch to the gut. “It’s an adrenaline reaction.”
“Right,” Grantaire says, and tries his damnedest not to move. The last thing he wants is to make Enjolras uncomfortable. He swallows, and tries to take a step back, forgetting the mop bucket behind him. There’s a loud clatter as he scrambles to find something to hold on to, Enjolras’ reaching out and tugging him upright.
“The fuck are you doing?” Enjolras hisses.
“I don’t know!” Grantaire snaps. Trying to salvage what’s left of my dignity.
“Well, stop moving!” That last request he can follow, fingers tight on Enjolras’ upper arm. Enjolras’ hands are gripping his sides, and somehow they’ve managed to get even closer than before, and Enjolras’ thigh is pressed firmly against Grantaire’s groin. It’s not uncomfortable, but given the circumstances, it would probably be better if that leg were not there, unless they wanted to deal with soaked pants and try explaining that to Courfeyrac when they got back. It might be better than trying to run with an erection though.
This is ridiculous. Was he a horrible person in some past life? Is this karma coming down on him, punishing him for not taking action to better the world’s woes? If that were the case, Enjolras wouldn’t be punished alongside him then, so it must be something else. Some other horrid karmic event.
“Enjolras—“ Grantaire tries.
“I told you, we’re not—“ Enjolras has his ear pressed to the door, except that in order to do that, he has to lean forward, Grantaire’s mouth very close to the crook of Enjolras’ shoulder, loose golden curls tickling his cheek. At Enjolras’ every word, his breath ghosts over Grantaire’s face. He suppresses the shiver the thought that gives him, Enjolras’ mouth so close to his, but he can’t stop the thought from going south.
“I know, I just think, I don’t know,” Enjolras’ shampoo smells amazing, he smelled like lemongrass and sweat and something a little musky — what is he talking about this is ridiculous. “We could try relocating, or,” Grantaire tips his head back away from Enjolras’ neck before he does something he regretted, “you could move your thigh from my dick, or honestly—“
“Grantaire, shut up—“
“I would, but,” He’s babbling, god this couldn’t get any worse. No, it could, he shouts mentally, hoping the cosmic powers of the universe doesn’t take it upon itself to prove him wrong. “You’ve got your thigh right there, and it’s really distracting when I’m trying to think of literally anything in the world other than the fact that you’re right here, up against me, and you’ve got a boner, and I’ve got a boner, and —“
Grantaire is cut off by Enjolras’ mouth on his, open and insistent, and he groans into the action, earning a biting squeeze to the hip as punishment, but Enjolras swallowing down the sounds his mouth might have made does nothing to stop the sounds emitting from Grantaire’s throat.
If there had been no space between them before, they’ve broken the laws of physics, because, barring the layers of fabric, they are somehow closer, hips rolling off one another’s, Enjolras’ grip on Grantaire’s sides bruising.
And, okay, they’re in a supplies cupboard with approximately two feet of breathing space, and they’re maybe seconds from being discovered, if Feuilly ever gets back to them, but shit if that doesn’t mean Grantaire’s not going to tip his head back when Enjolras’ lips leave his to trail down his jaw and let out the loudest moan.
The sound is devoured by Enjolras’ returning lips, a loud hush preluding the action, but Grantaire doesn’t care, hands grasping desperately at Enjolras’ clothes, hooking in the loops of his jeans, arching his back to grind their hips together and press the definite bulge of Enjorlas’ erection, repeating the motion with delight when that elicits a startled, shuddering gasp from Enjolras.
“Christ,” Grantaire groans, “Jesus Christ, Enjolras, the fu—“ Enjolras’ teeth latch onto the skin of his neck, biting hard, Grantaire’s words dying on his lips, managing wordless whimper.
The sound makes Enjolras hum, alternating between biting and sucking Grantaire’s pulse points, licking a long stripe from his jaw to his mouth, and honestly that should be disgusting, but it’s not, and Enjolras’ mouth is on his again and he doesn’t think, just pulls him closer, jerking their hips, desperate for friction.
“Thank god I know how to shut you up,” Enjolras pants into Grantaire’s mouth.
“Goes both ways,” is Grantaire’s only coherent response.
Enjolras doesn’t respond, just pushes Grantaire back, his back coming in contact with the rickety shelving hard. Something falls, and they both sush each other and the fallen object before their mouths are on each other’s again, Grantaire’s hands falling to Enjolras’ ass, thrusting their hips against each other, and god he really never imagined having sex with Enjolras — no, that’s the biggest goddamned lie he’s ever told, but he’s never imagined the possible reality of having sex with Enjolras — but this is better than what he could have imagined.
And it’s in a grimy, women’s bathroom supplies closet.
His hands find their way to Enjolras’ hair, as close to the scalp as he can and tugs, the noise Enjolras makes somewhere between a whine and whimper, hips bucking and hands finding their way under Grantaire’s shirt, nails digging into the skin there.
Grantaire grins against Enjolras’ mouth, their kiss half teeth and tongue, pleased with the rush of power that comes with the ability to render Enjolras’ helpless. Then again, Enjolras does have Grantaire completely at his mercy, he’s not sure how much power either of them really has over the other, but he doesn’t mind so long as Enjolras doesn’t stop grinding down on his cock the way he is.
“Enjolras,” he says, and he’s pleased with the control he manages, all things considered. Enjolras doesn’t answer, just rolls their hips again, and sucks another bruise into Grantaire’s skin. “Enjolras, I’m gonna—
“Don’t you fucking dare.” All at once, Enjolras is away from him, and Grantaire can’t see him because they’re in the fucking dark, but his hands grasp the air pathetically, a desperate noise low in his throat.
“Enjolras —“ God he sounds wrecked. Not as wrecked as he feels he wagers. He thinks he could come if Enjolras just kissed him again.
“I’m not getting off in a supply closet while on the run from authorities,” Enjolras snaps, but the effect is ruined by his roughened voice and panting breaths.
“You wanna escape with a raging boner instead?”
There’s a noise on their earpieces that Grantaire realizes is someone clearing their throat and both of them freeze. Then Feuilly’s voice is coming down the line, “Hey, guys. Coast is clear on sublevel one.”
Grantaire wants to die. He wonders if Enjolras wants to die too. Apparently not, because his voice is collected and professional when he says, “Thanks, Feuilly. We’ll be headed towards the east stairwell, to exit E3.”
“It’s clear, should take you forty three seconds if you run.”
“No problem.” Feuilly clears his throat, and Grantaire can hear him start to say something, but he must decide against it because the traitor doesn’t say anything, leaving Grantaire completely to the mercy of Enjolras.
Grantaire tips his head back against one of the shelves as Enjolras pulls the closet door open. The automatic lights in the backroom flick on, and Grantaire is momentarily blinded when he looks at Enjolras, but that’s nothing new, and fuck he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he did if they’d had light.
Enjolras looks positively devastating, golden hair mussed, lips a bruising red, still slick and swollen. His eyes are lidded when he looks at Grantaire, and he’s still heaving in breaths. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment, eyes liquid and burning like an oil spill, and Grantaire wants nothing more than to cross the distance, it isn’t more than half a pace, and seal his mouth over Enjolras’.
The look Enjolras gives him tells Grantaire he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and he tears his gaze away from Grantaire long enough to look at his watch, before flickering back up to Grantaire and saying, low but with meaning, “Later.”
And then he’s crossing the bathroom and darting into the hall, and Grantaire swears, “Piece of shit son of a bitch.”
He can hear Enjolras’ quiet laughter in his earpiece, and hurries to follow after him.