Archive of Our Own

It always comes down to Combeferre’s tattoos.

This is reasonable. It’s where they began—the first glimmer of hope for Grantaire that there might, somehow, be a scrap of space in this perfect union for him. That watershed moment had come at the tail end of a meeting of the ABC leadership board in the Corinth several months ago, when Combeferre had visibly tagged out of what was, for him, a fairly heated argument, pushing away from the table to let out a deep breath and roll up his sleeves, and Grantaire, who had never tagged out of a fight in his life, had frozen mid-retort, unable to drag his eyes away.

The tattoos themselves hadn’t been the biggest surprise; Combeferre had always fascinated him, his guarded reaches every bit as enticing as Enjolras’s overflowing eloquence. Nor had Grantaire’s helplessness when confronted with them. Tattoos tend to mesmerize him. So what? We all have our things. What had surprised him more had been the way that Combeferre just let him watch; when Grantaire had finally looked up, Combeferre’s steady eyes were on his, and Combeferre seemed to be nudging Enjolras with his knee.

Enjolras had leaned over, then, ostensibly to fix one of Combeferre’s cuffs, but lingering to push it up a little. His knobby hand slid under the cotton of the sleeve, thumb pressing a dent into the celestial chemistry tattooed on the exposed lower bicep, and Grantaire, still watching from the far side of the sticky little bar table, had literally forgotten to breathe.

Combeferre had clearly gone to someone good. That was part of it. Grantaire holds truck with art, it matters to him, and while he’s not such a hypocrite that he’d exactly hold crappy tattoos against someone, good ones are a definite mark in their favor. And knowing that Enjolras was into them too? Fuck. Grantaire watched the two men kiss across from him, fairly sure that they knew he was watching, even around the thin disguise of draining his glass. They tended to keep their kisses brusque in public—Grantaire’s mental databases held plenty of disappointing proof of this customary brevity—so the indolent indulgence of this slow show of lips on lips seemed designed for whoever might be watching. Which, in that case, in this bustling and unconcerned bar, was just him. Him. For real.

As Enjolras bit at ‘Ferre’s lower lip, his hand tightened on that obscenely half-nude arm, and it was more than Grantaire could handle. He bolted from his chair for the bathroom.

“Get your shit, R,” he muttered to himself once he’d found refuge in one of the tiny stalls. The graffiti on the walls seemed to mock him. Too much of it was his own. Too much was evidence of his definitely borderline-obsessive attention to the two men he’d just fled.

Layered over the hot-pink and black and orange decades of wall scribbles, a cartoon Enjolras glowered down in stark white-lined severity. For a cartoon, it’s pretty fucking hot, and sort of gives the game away. He must have been wasted when he drew it; honestly, he couldn’t swear it was his if every inch of it wasn’t so obviously his.

Plus, the word bubble said, “Suck my ideals.”

Or it used to. Some asshole, Grantaire noted, had scribbled over “ideals” and written in “dick.” This was a shame.

But, squinting up at it, he saw that someone else had scrawled over this revision in pencil, turning it into “edicts.” Of this, Grantaire heartily approved. Producing his white-out pen, he traced the letters.

Grantaire was pretty sure Enjolras hated this drawing, but since Grantaire had eventually scrawled all the Amis somewhere in this gross little bathroom, Enjolras had to grit his teeth and deal with it. “Why aren’t you here?” he’d demanded, though, so Grantaire had added a slovenly, passed out lump of a figure next to the urinal. In a daydream bubble, the drunk dreams, in Korean words that float beside the flusher, “Behold: My Gallery.”

When people ask, he says the words mean More beer. Bahorel’s Korean, too, but can’t read it, so the secret’s safe except from random drunks who don’t give a shit.

Enjolras had looked beautifully disappointed when Grantaire added that self-portrait, and Grantaire had been delighted to point out that, in fact, Enjolras had been the one to request it in the first place. He relished the rare opportunity to cut Enjolras down a peg. But fuck, now he was thinking about Enjolras again, which meant he was thinking about Enjolras’s hand on ‘Ferre’s arm, and the two men making out, and the reason he’d fled in the first place, and when he pulled out his cock to take a piss, it was just a few more seconds’ voyeurism away from completely fucking hard.

“Get your shit,” he said again, louder this time, and took care of business.

He was washing his hands and glaring at his reflection in the cramped space at the sink when the door swung open. Grantaire squeezed sideways to allow whoever it was to enter, then felt his stomach catapult through his skin when that person turned out to be Combeferre.

“Are you all right?” Combeferre asked kindly—a reasonable question, since Grantaire, anxiously pressing backward against the sink, probably looked exactly like the wretched chunky kid who’s about to get beaten by goons in the lav in one of those horrible boarding-school movies.

Grantaire had nodded, gulping for air.

“I thought you might have been looking at my tattoos,” ‘Ferre went on.

“Um, yeah,” Grantaire stammered, glad to get out any words at all. “They’re really...” Were there polite words for this? Words that said more than Nice but less than Touch me everywhere, science god?

‘Ferre cut in. “May I show you the rest?”

Whoa. Grantaire’s still not sure how he managed to stay vertical at this point. In a more probable reality, he would have collapsed, sustained a hideous concussion, and come to having successfully scrubbed his brain of every scrap of the sensual overload of this evening. But no, he remained upright. The sink probably had a lot to do with it. Surely wild-eyed, he nodded like an automaton. Yes, yes, yes.

Somehow, he hadn’t pieced together that this would lead to Combeferre’s strong, gold-brown doctor’s hands unbuttoning that shirt, peeling it back from his body to reveal that the individual tattoos that marched across his forearms coalesced into full sleeves above the elbow, then continued—oh god, they continued—below the sleeveless white undershirt.

Watching Grantaire carefully, Combeferre nodded, as if making a decision, and after carefully stowing his folded glasses atop the battered and empty paper-towel dispenser, he crossed his arms and lifted the undershirt away too.

Grantaire was seriously two feet from Combeferre in the grimy hole of a washroom, and Combeferre was shirtless. Shirtless. No fucking shirt, just snug-fitting straight gray trousers, black belt, and then magnificent, glowing, ink-riddled skin.

Broad-shouldered and tall, ‘Ferre had already dominated the room. Now he filled it.

“Holy shit,” Grantaire had said, which was probably terrible manners, but no one had ever taught him the appropriate etiquette for a situation in which one finds oneself crammed face to face with possibly the most beautiful person one has ever in one’s life met and said person for some inexplicable reason decides to take off his clothes. “They’re fucking spectacular, ‘Ferre.”

They really are. The molecular formulas wind up one arm into galaxies and nebulae, culminating in a supernova that radiates from his left shoulder to clavicle. The other arm is more-or-less medical, a hodgepodge of ancient symbols and tradition—cave-painting hands, scythe-like words that are probably Arabic, some birds, and a bunch of text that Grantaire has since learned is excerpted from the Hippocratic Oath. Grantaire was just edging away from the safety of that hard sink at his back to read some of the latter, which climbs the inner edge of the arm, drapes over the shoulder, and descends in a juddering cascade over the gentle bumps of Combeferre’s ribcage, when the door shoved open again.

Both men flinched back to make way, and suddenly Grantaire was trapped in a tiny room with not just shirtless Combeferre, but also shirtless Combeferre’s boyfriend, who was now an immovable barricade blocking the door with sharp arms folded across his chest and fire in his eyes.

Grantaire really loves that look on Enjolras. It’s why he provokes him so much—he would be happy to burn in infinite agony were it only under the eternal condemnation of Enjolras’s gaze. In that moment, though, it was terrifying. Grantaire had a precarious sense that he’d taken a step too close to a crumbling ledge.

“Um, fuck,” he’d said, pathetically, when it seemed clear that neither Enjolras nor Combeferre were inclined to say anything. Enjolras continued to smolder; ‘Ferre, still sans glasses, was looking at nothing, at some invisible point that floated in the six spare inches between Enjolras and Grantaire, and—was he smiling? Maybe it was a nervous habit? “Um. We haven’t...”

Unmistakably, ‘Ferre chuckled. Oh no. Combeferre laughing in the midst of this choking tension definitely had to be some kind of desperate defense mechanism. What had he done? He could have said no. He could have ducked back into the stall. He could have run.

But no. Grantaire was suddenly miserable. Why would he run when he could fuck up every one of his deepest fantasies in exchange for sixty foolhardy seconds’ drunk ogling? Would he still be Grantaire if he didn’t merrily lead the charge across every bridge too far?

This was worse than usual, though. The tiny room vibrated with the instability. This was the end. They would kick him out of the ABC, not that he was exactly a charter member anyway. (He’d missed the memo when the general-assembly meetings outgrew the bar, crashed the first leadership board meeting by accident, and, god knows why, they’d let him stay.) They would revile his pathetic obsession. They’d insult him. They’d reject him. Or worst, they’d ignore him. He’d cease to exist for them. They would forget him in seconds. Oh god, why hadn’t he just run into the night and kept going?

He’d give anything to be back where he’d been fifteen minutes earlier, when they were just the distant gods in whose light he basked. What could he even say?

After what felt like literal minutes of excruciating closeness, he managed to choke out, “I mean, I haven’t. Haven’t touched him, or anything.”

Then Enjolras had kicked his heel against the closed door against which he was leaning, the hollow bang reverberating through Grantaire and the crowded little space of the bathroom, and Grantaire had looked desperately toward the ceiling, because for maybe the first time ever, this was an Enjolras anger he did not wish to see. Hearing what Enjolras had to say would be bad enough.

Except the ceiling was no escape. There, his own shirtless Combeferre—no, naked Combeferre, except without tattoos, because how could he have possibly known?—lounged in serene beauty with a single languorous finger extended to touch the socket of the bare bulb that illuminated the room. He had been drunk off his ass the day he drew that, and Bahorel kept complaining hurry it up, I’m not holding your ass up all night, but then objecting shouldn’t you give him a bigger cock than that, isn’t it kind of insulting?, and fuck the source material, give him a monster schlong, and finally Grantaire had just given up and drawn an open book in Combeferre Adam’s lap. Later that night, Bahorel had titled the book MONSTER SCHLONG.

Fuck.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Why the fuck haven’t you?” he demanded.

Grantaire’s eyes snapped open. “Haven’t I what?” he asked, nervous. He was against the sink again, hands gripping its sides, feeling the cold dig of it against the backs of his upper thighs.

Enjolras grabbed Grantaire roughly by the nearest wrist. Grantaire probably had twenty pounds on him, but wiry Enjolras had the double advantages of height and menace. “Touch him,” he growled, and forced Grantaire’s rough, paint-stained palm against the stylized sankofa in the center of ‘Ferre’s chest.

Barely breathing, Grantaire could feel the quick beat of Combeferre’s heart through his chest, and Enjolras’s throbbing through the thumb pressed to his wrist. He risked a look sideways at Enjolras and suddenly something became clear.

Grantaire had wondered, for so long—actual years, now—whether Enjolras ever permitted himself to set aside the Cause long enough to fuck. Even once Enjolras and ‘Ferre had started dating, even once it had been obvious that they must be sleeping together, it had been impossible to imagine Enjolras impassioned not by virtue but by lust.

But now, serving as the conductor by which Enjolras’s electrical current flowed into the smooth, accepting expanses of ‘Ferre’s chest, he got it. This steel-and-flame look wasn’t anger. It was arousal.

For whatever reason, Grantaire had been offered a peek behind the curtain. He begged his body not to tremble.

Replacing his glasses, Combeferre tilted his head to the side a little, letting his eyes settle on Grantaire, and he chuckled again, a rich low vibration through Grantaire’s palm. His eyes were amused and kind and very very dark, almost the black of his heavy frames. And Grantaire could still feel ‘Ferre’s pulse, and no matter how placid that hard-forged face was, this throbbing heart-rate just couldn’t be normal.

Fuck, this feeling. He was being held, he was holding. He definitely wasn’t in control, but maybe no one was—and considering his despotic company, how was that even possible?

“Come home with us,” Enjolras challenged, his voice bouncing crazily off the shiny walls and into Grantaire’s ears.

All Grantaire could think to say was, “Now?”

*

Had he been headed to his own shithole apartment, he might’ve called a cab, but the guys live just enough closer that it’s not a bad walk. In fact, it would have been an entirely magnificent walk that balmy evening had not Grantaire been lightweight convinced that he was walking into a very cruel and personal practical joke.

Why why why why why? his unquiet brain demanded of the men who strode beside him. Both strode—long, dominant gaits that indicated, in the one case, a constant and unyielding drive, and in the other, a sublime, loping confidence. Grantaire, who is more of a stomper and a shuffler than a strider, let himself fall behind a little on the pretense of fumbling out and lighting a cigarette. He was cutting back, but fuck if he didn’t need a smoke right now, and the moment’s peace it might provide.

He was just dipping his head toward the lighter when, from nowhere, Enjolras ripped the cigarette from his mouth. “Don’t,” he snapped.

“What the fuck?” Grantaire grabbed for it, irrationally irate, but Enjolras had craned his arm back so that Grantaire had to lean into him, grasping at air.

“I thought you understood,” Enjolras hissed into his ear. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

And his other hand—the one that wasn’t twisted behind his own back, crushing Grantaire’s cigarette dreams—seized the back of Grantaire’s head, grip locking tight in the heavy masses of hair. “Am I?”

For what felt like the millionth time that hour, Grantaire’s insides froze. Enjolras’s eyes in the dim streetlit night were hard and unescapable. They bored into him. They demanded satisfaction.

Enjolras’s fingers tightened. Oh god, it hurt, it hurt in the best possible way. Enjolras was staring into his eyes and touching him and hurting him and his face was too close for this to be ambiguous, Enjolras was definitely going to kiss him, except that that is just stupidly implausible. Except, see above re: ambiguity.

“Am I wrong?” Enjolras asked again, this time so close that Grantaire could feel the heat of the words on his own upturned lips.

It was too bad, really, that Grantaire was never going to regain his capacity for speech, because Enjolras seemed loath to proceed without an answer. Grantaire let his brain spiral this out for just a moment, because it was only logical: Grantaire says nothing and says nothing and says more nothing until finally, ticked off, Enjolras drops his hand, flings the cigarette on the ground, and leaves in disgust to fuck Combeferre’s gorgeous, firm-muscled body till all memory of useless milquetoast Grantaire has been purged from his mind.

That was believable. In fact, Grantaire could almost feel the fingers loosening. It made sense. They should leave. Who was he to think they’d ever actually want to do what they’d said, to bring—

They said it.

They really had said it.

Grantaire had been there. He’d heard them.

Maybe it was a terrible joke. But maybe he’d magically stumbled into the one alternate version of his reality in which these men—in which Enjolras and Combeferre—wanted to bring him home, whatever the fuck that meant.

And this, the one sparkly little dime of an opportunity he’d ever get, he was going to grind into the pavement under his heel?

He couldn’t let this chance go. He had to say something.

“No!” he exclaimed. It was basically a croak, but Grantaire refuses to feel ashamed about this because of what happened next: he was going to try to say something more, to explain himself, to say, Look, you guys are making the mistake of a lifetime, just reject me now and save us all the pain, but he never got the chance, because that one word did the job. Enjolras dragged him in and holy fuck, his lips were every bit as forceful as you’d imagine (on the off-chance that you happened to spend most to—who are we even kidding—all your free time imagining Enjolras’s lips, kissing).

Grantaire forgot about the cigarette. He forgot Combeferre. He forgot that they were on a well-traveled city street, that they were blocking the sidewalk, that anything existed except the fiery spaces where his body touched Enjolras’s. He was jelly in his arms.

The debates and discourses fell away in the pull of Enjolras’s teeth at his lip. God, was he growling? To hear that, Grantaire would never argue again. He would give anything, forgive every trespass, cede every victory...

Wait.

Grantaire was a drunk and a brawler and a known shiftless no-account ex-employee. He didn’t have repute or beauty. His charm was, at absolute best, borderline abrasive. Getting close to him usually required that you undergo some serious and ongoing hazing, mostly in the form of general shittiness, with bonus points for special challenges such as dragging his drunk ass home, dragging his drunk ass away from a beating, and tolerating his drunk ass contradicting and shutting you down on point after point until he collapsed in a self-satisfied stupor.

He didn’t have self-respect. He was a wreck and a boor. But his insulting, self-defeating mind was his own.

Digging deep, he sought a little resolve. His backbone hadn’t completely disintegrated, had it?

Fuck, Enjolras’s mouth was unyielding and serious. But so were his words, weren’t they?, and Grantaire had never wanted for a comeback.

He let his tongue awake from its drunken reverie and push back, push between the forbidding lines of teeth, and touch itself to Enjolras’s own. Enjolras groaned.

Encouraged, Grantaire put more intention behind it, darting deeper, in and out while they kissed and Enjolras didn’t let go but instead began to press up against Grantaire and Grantaire, had he had one available, would have awarded himself an Olympic gold for Restraint When the Hottest Guy You Know is Humping Your Leg.

A discreet cough startled Grantaire into pulling back a little. In what may be the most gratifying event in the history of the universe, Enjolras’s body followed.

‘Ferre cleared his throat again, amused, from the brick wall where he was leaning and watching the two.

The streetlights glinted in his glasses.

(Fuck it, they’re both the hottest guys Grantaire knows. Don’t make him decide.)

“He doesn’t kiss smokers,” ‘Ferre said in belated explanation. “Shall we continue walking?”

*

“So, ground rules,” Enjolras barked when he had tugged Grantaire inside. He ticked them off on his fingers. “We keep it safe. We always ask. No one owes anyone anything.”

Grantaire stood stock-still and burrowed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. Hanging out with these guys was always an appropriate-gaze challenge, and especially now that he’d touched Combeferre’s tattoos and ground up on Enjolras. Neither of their faces offered a safe refuge. Grantaire didn’t have any great ideas about where he should be looking.

Combeferre, turning the lock behind them, shook his head. “What Enjolras means to say is, Welcome to our home, and—we very much hope—to our sexual exploits. Please be clear about any reservations, at any time.” He laughed lightly, possibly because it was so glaringly apparent that other than his obvious concern that they had brought home the wrong Ami, Grantaire had exactly zero reservations.

Okay, that’s a total lie.

Grantaire had every reservation. He was terrified.

Welcome to our sexual exploits? Only Combeferre would say such a thing, so it must be true, right? But why? (Why why why?)

If ranking the dozen or so people on the ABC leadership board in order of Most Likely to Get Propositioned by Fearsome Leaders Enjolras and Combeferre, Grantaire would rank himself dozenth. So would seriously anyone. Courfeyrac’s magnetic and charming and all up in their business already anyway--honestly, Courf probably fucks these guys on the reg, but if not Courf, there are so many better options than Grantaire: Jehan and Bossuet are both way better-looking; Bahorel’s fucking built (plus he and Eponine are both Asian, if that’s the thing, not that he thinks it is exactly, but again, why?); Marius and Cosette are beautiful and devoted and sweet; and the stories people tell about Feuilly...

Grantaire shook his head to stop himself before he took it too far.

Combeferre must have seen this, because he nodded toward the sofa and said, “Have a seat. Scotch and soda?”

“Sure?” Grantaire croaked, settling uneasily onto the clean-lined cushions. “Hold the soda.”

“Enj?” ‘Ferre inclined his head expectantly toward the kitchen, and after a quick and silent exchange of loaded looks, Enjolras whirled off to take care of drinks.

‘Ferre lowered himself elegantly onto the couch beside Grantaire—close enough for friends, but not touching. “R,” he said, voice sure and deep. “We want you here. But we are not always easy. If you’re uncomfortable, you can leave any—”

Enjolras, back with unsurprising haste, clunked down three lowball glasses of whiskey and a bottle of soda water. “We have already established, ‘Ferre, his freedom to leave us. Can you please stop bringing it up and instead give him some incentive to stay?”

Combeferre cocked his head to the side, as if amused at Enjolras’s crankiness. “Such as?”

“He seemed to like you shirtless.”

‘Ferre nodded. “Then perhaps someone should take my shirt off.”

Enjolras growled—a sound that caught in his throat and yanked at every fraying thread that held Grantaire’s interior together—and swooped in, lean and hungry, to straddle his boyfriend on the couch inches from Grantaire.

Grantaire grabbed for the nearest glass and emptied it immediately. It wasn’t enough. He downed a second, too, but if anything, the whiskey only fanned the flames. Burning from within, he forced himself to look.

Holy fuck. Seriously inches from him, Enjolras was curved over ‘Ferre, kissing his turned jawline while ‘Ferre’s perfect, even-featured face gazed black-eyed at Grantaire’s desperate drunk astonishment. Enjolras’s skilfull hands tugged open the buttons of Combeferre’s shirt, slipped the fabric down his shoulders, and the moment Grantaire saw the hieroglyphic birds, he was gone again. He didn’t care that ‘Ferre was probably laughing at his rapt face; he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Both men were watching him watch them.

“Do you want to touch me, R?” Combeferre asked in a voice far too measured for a person with a lapful of Enjolras.

Grantaire attempted to speak, found the words tangling in his throat and nose, and opted for a more-dignified grunt. As though in encouragement, ‘Ferre touched a cool finger to the sharp-eyed falcon on the side of Grantaire’s neck. He’d been sadly mistaken if he’d thought the contact would help Grantaire find speech. Grantaire froze, probably gawping but unable to move. It was like being stoned off his ass, so stoned that the world was whipping past like double-dutch ropes while he bided his time into eternity. Into forever. He could sit here forever with Combeferre’s sure doctor’s hand at his throat, Enjolras’s glare as near as breath. If he never moved, nothing could ever go wrong.

But god, they were beautiful. His fingers itched to feel. “Touch him,” Enjolras ordered.

Although some kneejerk shitball part of him balked instinctively at the thought of taking orders from Enjolras, his eager muscular system was delighted to do as it was told.

Grantaire tried not to think too much; if he thought about this, it might disappear. Combeferre’s skin was a labyrinth of Escherian perfection. When he touched it, he willed he fingers to remain light.

“What do you want?” Enjolras demanded after some time of watching Grantaire's uncertain fingers skate the surface of his boyfriend’s chest. “You say it, it’s yours.”

Grantaire tried to look up from ‘Ferre to the furious glint of Enjolras’s eyes, but they were too much to bear. He lowered his gaze to the coarse woolen v-neck of his sweater. That, at least, he could look at. A red sweater. Just a sweater. Anyone can wear a sweater. Don’t look up, and you can pretend it’s anyone. You can pretend it’s just any two people. It’s old hat. No sweat. No problem. Just don’t fucking think.

“I’m taking it off,” Enjolras declared, and Grantaire’s feeble bubble of confidence exploded.

“Nnngh,” he grunted, grabbing at the rough cloth. It was warm and softer than he’d expected. He slid his hand down Enjolras’s front.

“Unless you’d rather I didn’t?” Enjolras asked, apparently amused at Grantaire’s lack of intelligible discourse.

‘Ferre pulled Enjolras in for a kiss, sandwiching Grantaire’s hand between them. When he spoke, it was very quiet and low, right beside Enjolras’s ear. Had Grantaire been farther away, he wouldn’t have heard.

“If you mock him,” he said, with just the smallest hint of warning, “he might actually leave.” He licked lightly at the curve of Enjolras’s tragus, and Grantaire, watching, shuddered. “Tell him what to do.”

Enjolras sat back into his full height and looked down upon a blushingly, stammeringly grateful and aroused Grantaire. “Is that what you want?” he asked, then rolled his eyes. “Hold that. This is what you want. You want orders. So, I’ll order you, and you have two choices: you can take it or you can fight back like the stubborn naysayer you are.”

“Or you can leave,” murmured Combeferre quietly, as in reminder. “You are under no obligation...”

“He fucking knows, ‘Ferre.” Grantaire had thought he liked angry Enjolras. Petulant, sexually-unsatisfied Enjolras was a thousand times better. “Don’t give him any outs.”

“Other than the obvious outs of personal choice?” ‘Ferre inquired under his breath, a sparkle in his eye because he, too, must have been getting hard as fuck needling whiny Enjolras.

“Right,” huffed Enjolras. “R. I’m going to start easy. You know where the door is. We are not talking about it again.” He glared at Combeferre, who raised a hand in a slim imitation of surrender. “First command: Tell us what you imagine. When you think about us? Because,” and his voice dropped to a timbre that juggled Grantaire’s guts, “we know. You think about us.”

It was true.

Grantaire took a deep breath. His fingertips were still on Combeferre’s chest. He was awkwardly positioned beside the two men, bent sideways to face them, legs a muddle. Between the men and the whiskey, his face had to be a hideous red by now.

“So many things,” he blurted out. Waiting wasn’t going to make his words any smoother. “You guys, like, naked, fucking, all that. But I got it all wrong.”

They waited for him, expectant. ‘Ferre’s hand seemed to have descended to his own lap, just below where Enjolras straddled his thighs. When Grantaire saw it settle on the solid curve of his cock, he gulped. “I didn’t know about the tattoos. No fucking idea. I imagined all wrong.”

It’s like a strange kinship, a brotherhood. Combeferre, tattooed? He tried to pretend that this was the reason he was so flustered. Just taken aback. Just didn’t expect that.

But, there’s one thing he had to say first. “But, fuck it. Enjolras, when you’re really worked up about something, you know? When you’re yelling about it at the ABC, and your face gets all tortured and fire-eyed? I like to think that’s the face you make when ‘Ferre’s blowing you.”

He liked that image a lot, actually. It had been the impetus for quite a few post-meeting jack-offs.

So he was a little dismayed when Enjolras, instead of staring him down with unbridled lust, burst into a wry laugh.

“What?” Grantaire demanded.

Enjolras shook his head, still laughing. “0 for 2,” he chuckled. “Not his forte.”

“So I get distracted sometimes,” ‘Ferre objected. “And you’ve never really seemed to enjoy oral sex all that much.”

Enjolras said, “I don’t enjoy having someone suck me while they’re cataloging their brain for diagnostics for childhood immunodeficiencies.”

“What would you have me think of?” Combeferre inquired, smiling a little.

“My fucking cock. When you’re blowing someone, you think about their sexual fucking pleasure. That is it.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Combeferre said, patting Grantaire’s hand. “I suppose it’s been a while since Enjolras got a really good bj.”

“Such a shame,” Grantaire mumbled, trying very hard not to let his mouth imagine too visibly the ways it might curve to caress the shape and heft of Enjolras’s cock. This conversation was basically his Bat-Signal.

“A travesty,” Enjolras corrected, rubbing against ‘Ferre’s legs.

“Considering the frequency with which we engage in sexual acts,” ‘Ferre said, “I hardly find that characterization fair.”

“I blow you,” Enjolras said, and this revelation plus the stubborn set of his jaw—this rigid, cut-stone jaw that opens to suck Combeferre’s dick, which, through his pants, looks massive—kicked Grantaire over the edge.

“I have... been known,” Grantaire attempted to formulate a sentence, because despite his absolute debilitating trepidation, this is so much his wheelhouse, his forte, his area of expertise, that he couldn’t not say something, “to blow dudes so hard they literally disintegrate.”

“Literally?” Enjolras asked snidely, and Grantaire didn’t care how fucking hard he was, he didn’t have to take that shit.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a challenge. “Hence my short-lived sexual dalliances.”

“All right, then,” Enjolras commanded. “Show us.”

Grantaire had always thought it was kind of dumb and cliche when characters confronted with a daunting task gulp. But now, he gulped.

And reached for the third glass of whiskey.

“Hold it,” Enjolras ordered, taking his wrist. “You don’t get to drink anymore.” He raised Grantaire's hand so that the the glass bumped the bright line of Enjolras’s lower lip. “To freedom,” he murmured, as he always does. When he tilted Grantaire's wrist so that the whiskey poured into his mouth, he locked eyes with Grantaire and didn’t look away even as he shuddered at the whiskey’s burn.

“Will you show us?” Combeferre inquired, his hand now clearly beginning to move his hand on his own clothed cock.

“Okay,” Grantaire choked out. “Um. Who wants...?”

“Like he said,” Enjolras broke in, and he hadn’t once looked away from Grantaire's face, “it’s been a long time since anyone blew me right.”

Grantaire was flummoxed. Here he was touching the two most beautiful, competent, intelligent, unavailable men he knew, and they for god knows what reason seemed to be offering him sex.

“Shit,” Grantaire said, tugging hard at the curls at the back of his own neck in a futile stab at regaining any kind of composure. “I. I think I’m down. But I’m just going to need you to be, like, really really explicit for a second, because please understand that I’m pretty sure I’ve blacked out and am imagining this whole thing.”

Combeferre’s smile was the warm of a hazy summer dawn. “Grantaire, I would very much like to watch you perform oral sex on Enjolras. He would also like this. I have been forbidden to remind you of your alternatives, but know that you have them.”

“God fucking—”

Combeferre kissed the objection from Enjolras’s mouth.

“In the spirit of absolute transparency,” he added, “I should mention that I will almost certainly get myself off while I watch.” He reached out and, so lightly, stroked a finger along the line of Grantaire’s jaw. “We have speculated at some length about what else you can do with your mouth.”

“What else?” Grantaire asked.

“Besides talking constant shit,” Enjolras clarified.

“You love it when I talk shit,” Grantaire countered on instinct. “It gives you an excuse to get all high and mighty and break out the two-dollar words.”

“You love it when I pontificate,” Enjolras rejoined.

At that, Combeferre had grinned and shoved Enjolras gently off his lap. “How about you sit in the chair, Enj, and pick up with what you were saying at the Corinth about the death of the two-party system.”

Enjolras, who seemed to see where Combeferre was going with this, sprawled into the vintage wing-chair on the other side of the room and began a little haphazardly. “Where were we? I think I was saying that the lesser of two evils is incompatible with the boundless alternatives that are, for digital natives, the status quo?”

“Right,” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Because clicking through change.org petitions is more fucking powerful than, like, marching against oppression or whatever our resigned-sheep foreparents did.”

“It’s not the clicking,” Enjolras objected, and his own eyes kindled with the same fire Grantaire knew so well from watching and arguing with him dozens and dozens of times. “It’s the community. To know that there are literally millions of people allied with you, to be able to rally them with a few keystrokes—that’s when things change. When people realize that no one likes the choices we’re being fed, when we realize that at our hearts, we all want the same things—comfort, health, freedom from oppression—and that we have the collective power to demand them, that’s when change begins.”

Without meaning to, Grantaire had been getting more and more worked up. When he finally realized that he and Enjolras were staring each other down, transfixed, and that ‘Ferre was watching in delight, he stood. Crossing the room in two uncertain but determined strides, he fell to his knees in front of Enjolras, and muttered, “You’re so fucking wrong that it’s laughable. Do not stop talking, no matter what.”

“Ultimately,” Enjolras said, voice faltering for only a moment when Grantaire in one practiced motion unzipped and yanked open his jeans, “the only reason people settle is because they don’t know they can have better. That they deserve better.” Grantaire had tugged Enjolras’s underwear down by now, freeing a slim and stalwart cock that jabbed determinedly toward Grantaire. Grantaire took a moment to marvel at the utter improbability of his being here, mere heated inches from bringing truth to one of his most loyal fantasies. He’d imagined this just hours before, hadn’t he, imagined his mouth on Enjolras and Enjolras’s sure words falling to rubble. “They accept the unacceptable because they’ve been hoodwinked into thinking that the good will never prevail.”

On this last, Grantaire took the tip into his mouth. Prevail was just the kind of Enjolras word that usually got him going. So long as he could convince himself that this was all just another fantasy, he could work with this.

To his credit, Enjolras did not stop talking, although his argumentation lost significant layers of complexity when Grantaire's thick, soft lips began to glide up and down the shaft.

“We ... are only just now ... starting to see the unifying ... potential ... of the internet ... to show us ... how many people agree with...” Grantaire, who was sucking deep in his mouth, letting the base of his tongue caress the shaft of Enjolras’s dick, snaked the end of his tongue forward to lick at the hot, tense, pent-up force of Enjolras’s balls. “Agree that ... oh fuck ... what are you even ... holy...”

Grantaire pulled back for a second. This was too good. He was unbelievably hard himself, and he was kneeling between Enjolras’s legs with Combeferre leaning against the mantel beside him and stroking his own cock in time with Enjolras’s shattered breathing. “Apologies,” Grantaire murmured, eyeing Enjolras from behind the hot wet length of his erect cock. “I seem to have distracted you. You were saying...”

“Don’t... stop... I haven’t... I need...” E sounded frantic.

Grantaire loved it.

Who fucking cared what an asshole he looked like, both men were watching, he was putting on a show: he ran his slow, wet tongue languidly across his lips.

He shook his head mockingly. “Lost the thread?”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras growled, and it was the voice he uses when he’s most exasperated at meetings; Grantaire just about came in his pants.

Hands curled loosely into his hair—not Enjolras’s, which, fantastically, were gripping the arms of the chair like he was being possessed by demons—and Grantaire straight-out grunted from the shock of joy that pull sent through him. The hands tightened.

“That’s how you’re gonna play it?” he spat out at Enjolras, his mouth already seeking out again his hard cock. “Get your goon to—” and it was half force of will and half force of Combeferre’s hands that pushed him back onto Enjolras. Calm, cool Combeferre was jamming Grantaire’s mouth forward onto Enjolras’s dick. It was too much to be believed. Grantaire sucked hard and fast, letting ‘Ferre’s hands control the pace, until the movement slowed and Enjolras, who was bucking his hips off the chair with bruising vigor, came beautifully and at great length, in the very furthest reaches of Grantaire’s throat.

He was still relishing the feel of Enjolras in his mouth when the hands dragged him up and off and then he was—holy fuck—kissing Combeferre, who was still shirtless and whose smooth, muscled body was alive and real under his illuminated skin, and whose tongue was altogether too good at kissing, and who maybe was just excited that Grantaire tasted like a truckload of his boyfriend’s come, but who whatever the reason was seeming pretty into this. Enjolras was flopped limp on the chair, watching.

After a while, he breathed, “I’m still here.”

Grantaire hopped back from ‘Ferre, a little confused and nervous about being watched running his hands reverently over ‘Ferre’s perfect flesh. “Sorry, should I... I should go.”

“No!” Enjolras’s voice went sharp. “I mean, I’m still here. I didn’t disintegrate. I was promised better.”

“No promises,” Grantaire said.

“You were silent for a full six minutes,” Combeferre pointed out, his arm tightening to pull Grantaire back in. “That has never happened before.”

“Not anymore. I’ve recovered, and someone should probably fuck me.”

‘Ferre pulled Grantaire close again and kissed him lightly. “Shall I state this explicitly as well?” Speaking in hushed tones into the tremulous receptors of Grantaire’s ear, he said, “Enjolras wants you to bend him over that chair and fuck him.”

Grantaire had never heard Combeferre say fuck before. Maybe that was what pushed him over, in fact—the reality of Combeferre’s deep, certain doctor’s voice murmuring profanity into Grantaire’s ear while his strong arms held Grantaire so close—but whatever it was, Grantaire found himself about three pinches of self-control away from just thrusting against ‘Ferre’s leg till he came.

“With your cock,” Enjolras clarified snarkily. “In my ass. With ‘Ferre watching. Or shit, preferably with ‘Ferre fucking you at the same time.”

To hell with thrusting, Grantaire was going to come the second he moved. His brain was frying. Combeferre ... fucking him ... fucking Enjolras? A blowjob was one thing. This, though, was either a farce or an entirely-too-generous welcome to the afterlife. Either way, he was going to need a lot more time to wrap his brain around this concept.

“Oh, fuck, ‘Ferre,” he said desperately, pulling out of those arms. “Enjolras. I gotta go.”

And, for the second time that night, he fled.

* * *

The next time, they were at the Musain. None of them had talked about it; in fact, Enjolras and Combeferre had acted so maddeningly normal that Grantaire spent the whole evening questioning whether he’d spent the last week raking himself over the coals for nothing. Had it even happened?

He had girded his loins for a next time that might never be. That said, girded they were. He drank with Eponine and Jehan and got publicly dressed-down for kicking his feet up on their little round table, and sketched a couple of rough concept posters for the rally they were ostensibly here to plan, and the whole time, he couldn’t drag his eyes from the two men up front. They had really seemed like they meant it, but looking at them now, you’d never know.

Then, at the end of the night, Enjolras had pulled up a stool next to where Grantaire, Jehan, and Musichetta were giving Bahorel shit about not bringing his phantom “girlfriend” for like the eightieth straight time, and then Enjolras had flung a jovial arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and everything inside him turned to fire.

Enjolras leaned close. Over the hubbub, no one else would hear him. “We talk about you every single time we fuck. Come home with us.”

It wasn’t a question, so Grantaire didn’t have to worry about how to answer.

Walking back to their place that night, Enjolras strode between Combeferre and Grantaire. Grantaire was hunching along on the street side of the sidewalk, still unsure how much of this whole situation to believe, when Enjolras set a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder.

"'Ferre wants me to remind you that whatever you want is fine."

On the far side of Enjolras, Combeferre chuckled.

"'Ferre also asked you to tell Grantaire that we are very interested in him, that we have been for quite some time, and that we will almost certainly continue to be unless he decides he finds us revolting."

Enjolras let out a frustrated little noise. "I already did that inside, 'Ferre."

"...Ah, my mistake—from my vantage point, it looked more like a cut-and-dried proposition."

"He didn't say no, did he?"

Startled, Grantaire cast a sharp glance over. "Come the fuck on, like I'd ever say no to you guys."

"Much as it pains me to remind you, you already have."

"I don't ... fuck. I wasn't ready. But like, obviously no one actually stays away from you." He let the wrong words hang too long. Probably they’d already blown through the rest of the list. In an organization this hot for equality, it would be a point of honor to fuck Grantaire, too. “From each according to his ability,” ‘Ferre would have reminded Enjolras, and Enjolras would have grimly acquiesced, hoping at least the schlubby asshole wasn’t as useless in the sack as he was at the basic tenets of living amongst humanity.

“We have never contemplated asking anyone else,” Combeferre said, “so I can neither confirm nor disprove.”

Holy shit.

Enjolras slid a hand into Grantaire's back pocket then, and the floor dropped out of his brain.

"You ready now? 'Cause I'm warning you, this time you don't get to leave till you come." He wrapped his other arm around Combeferre then, and they continued down the sidewalk joined together. "'Ferre made me say that, too."

"It's been eating me up," 'Ferre said with a dry earnestness that tickled Grantaire to the core. For reasons totally outside the intractable walls of his comprehension, these guys wanted sex with him. With him particularly. With no one else but him.

The only thing less plausible than this was the possibility that they might be lying. That was just a hard no. So, in the absence of alternatives, it must be true.

"Well, shit, I don't want that. So, what, I shoot a load on your carpet and everyone's happy?"

"No way to know till we've tried," Enjolras said.

* * *

In the months since then, they have been together so many times, so many ways.

Grantaire has yet to find one he doesn’t like.

This, though, might be his favorite—humbled before them, brought low by their majesty, his eager mouth on Combeferre (who is, Bahorel would be gratified to learn, rather spectacularly endowed) and his eyes taking in everything at once. Here, his eyes can fix on the long hard muscles of Combeferre’s arm stretching back from him, where the hand grips firm around Grantaire’s own neck, and feel a thrilling affinity with the green-and-black snake that smirks at him from the bicep, where it twines in medical austerity around a slender staff.

He can see Combeferre’s other arm clutch at Enjolras, clutch too hard because of what Grantaire is doing, because even though they are perfect without him, he makes them so happy.

Enjolras jerks himself in long slow strokes, head turned to trade heady, languid kisses with Combeferre. Sometimes he murmurs things Grantaire can barely hear, but that he suspects involve what Combeferre’s hand is doing on him; when he’s getting close, Enjolras gets louder, the mellifluous voice turning gritty and raw.

“I love when you fuck him like that, ‘Ferre. Make him take it deeper. He can do it.” Almost angry, now, like a river over boulders, “Take him, Grantaire. I love this man so fucking much, you are going to fucking devour him, everything he gives you.”

He’s talking into Combeferre’s throat, but now the long fingers of one of his hands are in Grantaire’s hair, working in conjunction with ‘Ferre’s own hand, tight around the working muscles of Grantaire’s neck, to drag Grantaire, who is so so fucking into this, farther down ‘Ferre’s cock with each bob of his head.

After, it seems like Enjolras feels guilty about it—or if guilty’s not the right word, at least deeply unsettled. The draconian lover’s a facade. He doesn’t like to like treating Grantaire like they’re using him.

“Aren’t we all using each other?” flips back Grantaire, who had never (before being with these guys) believed in the stories that people like to tell about coming just from the act of giving a phenomenal bj, but the disgraceful sheets of the men’s bed now provide insurmountable evidence.

*

He still can’t believe the universe has deigned to permit him a seat at this table. He won’t go so far as to call it dating, let alone pretending they’re all boyfriends together—that would certainly be the hubris that triggers his downfall. But he’ll acknowledge that this is more than he ever expected. Hell, it’s more than he even knew to ask for.

* * *

Enjolras likes it all—fucking, being fucked, tortuously slow or lightning-quick with the bed crashing into the wall and orderly piles of books and laundry crashing all around them. But most of all—and this came as a surprise to Grantaire, who was growing attached to the notion that Enjolras’s pleasure was the engine driving this whole machine—he likes to watch.

Specifically, he likes to watch Grantaire, who makes them both so happy.

He knows how hard it gets Enjolras to watch him consume Combeferre; Enjolras always seizes Grantaire right before Combeferre comes inside of him, whether it’s in his mouth or his ass, as if Grantaire might otherwise decide to flee and leave Enjolras’s beloved ‘Ferre unsatisfied.

As fucking if.

* * *

Enjolras’s narrow mouth descending onto Grantaire’s cock as Combeferre comes inside of Grantaire’s ass, Enjolras’s hands pinning Grantaire at the hip and across the throat—almost painful, so fucking good—sucking an almost-silent Grantaire to climax while Combeferre yells and grunts above.

* * *

Combeferre and Grantaire like nesting tables, Grantaire already held down by Combeferre’s hands around his wrists; Enjolras kneeling before them twisting Grantaire’s hair in both hands, whispering into one ear, “Tighter. Harder. Give him all of you, Grantaire, give him everything.”

* * *

And the next time they do that again, because it is so good, but this time Enjolras whispers, “I’m going to fuck your face now, R, while he keeps fucking you,” and he does. Grantaire likes to let his head fall forward while he’s being fucked like this, so it’s marvelously uncomfortable how Enjolras holds his head closer to vertical so that he’s at the proper angle for that slender, angelic cock to fill his mouth.

Enjolras doesn’t give a millimeter, his hands twining so hard in Grantaire’s curls as he slams against the back wall of Grantaire’s throat.

Grantaire can hear the two men joining together above him: the sloppy wet noises of kissing, panting, Combeferre gasping, “Match me, Enj.”

Then, instead of batting him back and forth between the two of them, they’re both thrusting into him simultaneously so that he has nowhere to go, completely trapped between these two glorious men. He doesn’t want to breathe, only to take more—more of Combeferre behind him, more of the musky rich fullness of Enjolras’s cock that’s growing thicker atop the undulating platform of his tongue.

Enjolras’s breath hitches and Grantaire feels his own balls tighten, his own ass clench tighter around the sweet pistoning length of Combeferre, who plows into him so hard then that Grantaire would fall forward if he didn’t have Enjolras, one hand gripping his shoulder now, the other scratching deep into Grantaire’s hair, to hold him back.

Combeferre lets go, suddenly, of Grantaire's wrists in favor of his hips. He pulls Grantaire back mercilessly into his thrusts with no regard at all for what this is doing to Grantaire’s mouth, or, for that matter, to Enjolras’s cock, because he is so wrapped up in the thrashing, mad approach of his own orgasm.

Grantaire loves that about Combeferre. He’s a man of nearly unparalleled self-control. It takes a lot to get him to act purely in his own interests, but when Grantaire’s there, he will.

Enjolras loves it too. When Grantaire can see him in moments like these, he sees Enjolras’s eyes go glassy—an instant precursor to coming, since Enjolras tends to look like he’s in a literal, disassociating, seance-grade trance when he comes. Anyway, when ‘Ferre loses control, Enjolras stiffens into an ejaculating, whimpering statue, and Combeferre plunges so deep inside Grantaire, spilling into him at the same time as Grantaire's coaxing the last of it from Enjolras, and Grantaire feels so completely filled, feels it boil through him—the warmth, the submission, the knowledge that they only keep their hands off his cock because they know that’s how he likes it when they’re like this, that they only use him because he fucking loves it when they use him—and comes into the air below him with both of them holding him so fast.

This is the first time he stays. They’ve asked plenty of times, but he’s always dodged the question, ducked away before they can figure out whether they might regret the invitation.

This time, he is exhausted. He’s been painting in every spare minute, slashing away at his own inadequacy with a palette knife like a trowel. He is close to admitting that the paintings aren’t terrible. In fact, some of them feel more alive than life. Certainly more alive than this glorious unreality.

The moment Enjolras pulls out of his mouth, Grantaire collapses into the soft sheets. ‘Ferre collapses atop him, still inside him, and Enjolras is kissing them both, dotting kisses up and down the two piled-up men, and it is so good and warm and absent of worry and obviously imaginary that Grantaire lets his eyes close and doesn’t wake up till it’s light outside and Combeferre’s making coffee for the early shift.

*

Now that their foundation’s not so shaky, they never let him leave after. Well, they would let him leave, he supposes; they’re not imprisoning him; but they ask so sincerely for him to stay that he never says no. Half the time, he’s more or less sleeping on one of them already.

* * *

He has tattoos, too, of course; you don’t make it well into your third decade with the kinds of friends and drinking habits Grantaire’s acquired without a hearty assortment of late-night ink decisions.

The other two have observed these carefully. Embarrassed, he has tried to dissuade their gazing. “They’re total shit. Whatever the tattoo artist felt like doing cheap.”

But Combeferre insists. The three of them are flopped like tumbled dominoes on the bed one warm evening, not fucking, not sleeping, just sharing each other’s air and letting their hands drift across the welcoming swaths of bare flesh.

“We see how you look at mine,” Combeferre says, earnest and close to Grantaire’s face. He smooths a thumb over the black cat that stalks just above the crook of Grantaire’s arm. “You’re more serious than you want us to believe. Tell us about them.”

“Well, okay,” Grantaire says. “But that one’s shit for sure. There’s not even a good story. Now, this here”—he points at the nautical star on his left ribs—“was the choice of my high school girlfriend, who thought matching tattoos would keep us together forever. I got this part,” indicating the trail of stardust and tiny spacecraft that streak down from the star toward his groin, “from a guy who lived down the hall in college, who was learning. I’d go over when I was drunk, and he’d add a little more space debris and we’d make out. This thing,” he says, twitching his left shoulder off the bed, “is some kind of Korean symbol.”

“What’s it mean?” asks Enjolras.

“Got me.” Grantaire knows. Of course he knows. But it’s a little personal. He doesn’t really talk about his heritage. Or his upbringing. Or his categorically-disapproving parents.

“Shouldn’t you know?”

“Yeah, yeah, take it up with my mom. ‘Ten years of Korean school, cultural ambassador,’ yada yada.”

“So, why...?”

“Got it from a cousin of Bahorel’s at like four in the morning the summer we graduated. She didn’t really want to ‘cause we were both lit off our asses, but you know, we’d powered through a couple bottles of soju, and Bahorel is a fucking persuasive drunk. And when she heard what we wanted, she was like, ‘Oh, cool, it’s your roots, you won’t regret it.’ It’s, like, this cultural thing about the three elements or—yeah,” he cuts himself off. He’s saying too much. “That’s the time Bahorel got the Korean flag on his back, you know.”

“Really?” Combeferre asks, startled, “All at once? That thing is huge.”

Grantaire snickers. “Bahorel,” he says, as if that explains things, because it does. They get it.

“Which ones do you actually care about?” asks Enjolras, so they skip basically everything else on his thighs and trunk.

“The flowers,” says Grantaire, rolling over so that they can see the backs of his calves. They’re a rough mix of dandelions and bending grass and Korean hibiscus. Dragonflies flit above; a caterpillar crawls just above one Achilles tendon. “A friend drew those for me.”

“And this one,” Combeferre says, spreading his fingers across the upper-right quadrant of Grantaire’s back. It’s a statement. “You drew this.” His fingers are firm and gentle. Doctor’s fingers, as practiced as his soothing voice at making people feel cared for.

If he could, if it wouldn’t jeopardize everything, he might sometime ask ‘Ferre to just hold him for a while. Curl around me, he’d say. Grantaire would go small and let himself be enfolded.

Eponine says Grantaire’s not getting his fair share here; she thinks the guys just take mindlessly of him for their own pleasure and offer too little in return. Grantaire disagrees, but quietly. How can he possibly make her believe that just getting to harbor the fantasy of cuddling with Combeferre or of holding a spirited debate from the rigid pillow of Enjolras’s lap is, in fact, more than he has ever deserved.

They don’t rush him. The breeze through the window is finally starting to hint at cool breezes instead of the ponderous heat of the day. The curtain shudders in the wind. ‘Ferre’s fingers trace laterally to Grantaire’s vertebrae.

“Yep,” says Grantaire, knowing that ‘Ferre’s touching the only tattoo he got when sober and alone—a smallish but ferocious dragon that spans midback to shoulder, its fiery breath churning down the top of his arm.

Combeferre kisses the dragon. Enjolras kisses the flame.

* * *

Grantaire shrieks when the buzzing starts. He was muck-deep in a dream of deadlines and unfinished paintings, psychedelic orange and pink, and the incessant razz on the night-stand hooks into his heart and drags him awake in terror.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Combeferre mumbles, flopping haplessly across Grantaire to smack at the table till he finds the source of the offending noise. “Just my pager. Here, babe,” he grabs Enjolras by a droopy arm and drapes him across Grantaire, who is still shuddering from the unexpected wake-up, “hold onto him.”

‘Ferre shuffles out of bed toward the front room. Over the beat of his heart, which is slowing back toward normal under Enjolras’s cuddling, Grantaire hears Combeferre’s voice, almost at its usual grainy timbre, asking serious questions.

When he comes back, it’s to grab a set of scrubs from the top drawer and to kiss the sleepy men goodbye. “Something came up with one of my patients. Keep the bed warm for me.”

“Save the life, ‘Ferre,” Enjolras murmurs into the back of Grantaire’s neck. They’re asleep again before Combeferre’s even locked the front door.

Grantaire wakes up sprawled loose across the center of the bed. He’s no longer curled up in Enjolras’ arms—while sleeping, he apparently unfurled himself into all available space. It’s still almost dark, so it takes him a minute to figure out why he’s awake until he realizes that Enjolras’s hand is rubbing across his bare chest, and that Enjolras has been kissing him gently out of his sleep.

It is lovely, idyllic—this is perhaps how Grantaire imagines heaven. Bodies are invisible, sense is everything. He feels beautiful under Enjolras’s lips; he feels wanted. And this gives him pause.

“Wait,” he says murkily, “you know I’m not ‘Ferre, right?”

“Of course,” says Enjolras, affronted even in his sleepy half-hard blur. “Don’t you think I can tell you apart?”

Grantaire tries not to think too much about how easy it must actually be for Enjolras to differentiate between his soft corners and the majestic planks of Combeferre. They’re still making out, and this is not what they do—it feels like he’s never been alone in bed with one of them for more than a minute or two.

Enjolras’s hand guides his down. “I want your hands on me, R.”

Grantaire wants it too. He wants it so much—he’s eagerly followed Enjolras’s lead, but even as he lets himself stroke Enjolras’s prick, he protests. “What about...” he pauses, thrown momentarily by that sound Enjolras just made. “What about Combeferre?”

Enjolras is gasping and licking at Grantaire’s ear. “What?”

“Will he mind?”

“R,” Enjolras pants in his ear, “we have sex without you all the time.” What does that have to do with anything? Grantaire wonders. This is no surprise. Of course they do. They’re boyfriends. “In fact, just a few days ago, did we tell you, remember when you were so tired after that festival? Did we tell you how we fucked on top of you?”

“No?” Grantaire says, hand moving faster on Enjolras.

“It was like this,” Enjolras says, swinging a leg across Grantaire and pushing up to all fours over him. “It was the morning, but you wouldn’t wake up, so I straddled you like this and ‘Ferre fucked me so we could both watch you.” Grantaire imagines the breathtaking beauty of Combeferre rocking into Enjolras, then tries in vain to picture the two of them both looking down at the grotesque specter of his sleeping visage. As if anticipating him, Enjolras cuts off the thought. “You look so peaceful when you sleep. The whole time, ‘Ferre was whispering in my ear about you, Grantaire, telling me to imagine he was you.”

This is basically impossible to believe—why look at him when they could look at each other?—but honestly, what part of Grantaire’s presence in this bed these last four months has been in any way plausible?

“I want you in me,” says Enjolras now.

Grantaire hasn't done this with them; he's still barely able to conscience being here at all. He will willingly, gratefully accept into himself anything they offer. He’s even let them blow him a few times. But to fuck them feels like a different level of infiltration. Still, Enjolras wants Grantaire to fuck him, and who is Grantaire to deny Enjolras anything?

Rationally, Grantaire knows that he is good in bed. In any other bed, he’s used to playing the braggart. Surely, he can dig up a little of that swagger right now.

“I’m gonna dismantle you like the capitalist oligarchy,” he says, flipping Enjolras onto his back, and Enjolras shudders.

“Face down,” he orders roughly. “Hold me down.”

“Oh, I’m not going to hold you,” Grantaire says smoothly, rolling Enjolras to his front and positioning his hands on the pillow beside his head, and there it is, there’s that swagger he’s been missing. “You’re going to hold yourself, and if you move, you’re going to be deeply sorry.”

“Do I get to talk?” Enjolras demands.

“Fuck yes.”

With Grantaire's mouth on his back, Enjolras rants and harangues and cajoles. Once Grantaire sinks lower, though, to slide fingers along the slender cleft, his words devolve into reasonless prattling, and when, instead of fingers, Grantaire's tongue breaches him, Enjolras goes wordless.

Grantaire feels inordinately proud of his ability to rob Enjolras of speech.

He brings Enjolras several times to the whimpering edge of orgasm, backing off each time. At the last, he takes advantage of Enjolras’s abject pillow-biting distraction to roll on a condom while he continues to work him open.

At the intrusion of Grantaire’s cock, Enjolras is shocked but so ready. His ass shoves upward to accept Grantaire, and Grantaire has to pretend he’s someone else for a minute so that he can dig up the confidence to shove Enjolras’s whole body flat again.

“Talk for me,” he whispers into Enjolras’s ear. Enjolras goes red.

He’s never seen Enjolras embarrassed. It’s an almost unforgivable intimacy for Enjolras to grant him. How dare he, in Combeferre’s absence, no less, give so much of himself away?

“Fuck, I love you like this,” Enjolras says, blushing harder.

Grantaire has amassed a sizable collection of mental evidence that Enjolras loves getting fucked. Even when it’s him doing the fucking, this makes sense. “Working you?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “In control. Visible.” Grantaire rewards the talking with a faster pace. His hips thud over and over against the tense pressure of Enjolras’s ass-cheeks; beneath Grantaire’s spread knees, which force Enjolras’s thighs wide, the mattress thrums with each impact. “You’re always ... behind me ... you know?”

“Seems like you like it,” Grantaire says, slamming down hard and flattening his whole body atop Enjolras once more. With a small, fierce tug of teeth, he bites at the side of Enjolras’s neck. Enjolras is really struggling for words, and Grantaire can’t get enough of that. He slows down, raises his own arms to rest his hands gently, gently, upon Enjolras’s, which clench the top end of the mattress like he’s fighting a tornado.

“Not ... like this. I mean .. yes ...” Grantaire lets a soft fingertip trace the back of Enjolras’s right hand and forearm, at the same time resuming fucking with a series of short, abrupt thrusts that allow him to maintain an unthinkable wealth of skin contact. “...also like this, yes yes yes ... fuck me harder, R...”

“But also not like this?” Grantaire taunts. He’s not sure where this is going, but damn it, if anyone’s in charge of irritating Enjolras until he says what he’s not saying, it’s Grantaire. He slows down again, gliding languorously in and out of Enjolras’s body. It is phenomenal. Below him, Enjolras’s face, twisted to the side, is flushed and fanatical and so so beautiful, and Grantaire allows himself to lean closer for a kiss.

Did he think fucking Enjolras was phenomenal? Because this, kissing Enjolras, feeling Enjolras tremble with the effort of holding still under him while his depths welcome Grantaire’s cock, feeling Enjolras strain to take him, to reach him with every bit of himself he can—lips and teeth and searching tongue—this is incredible. Like straight-up unbelievable. The court jester fucks the king, and the king can’t get enough.

Enjolras groans into his mouth. “Behind every great person there are ... all these greater people ... who don’t demand the spotlight ... but that’s not to say that they ... don’t ... deserve it.” Grantaire lowers his head further, lets his face fall into the pillow beside Enjolras’s mouth, because now he’s the one who might be losing control of his expression. He’s barely moving at all. If Enjolras is trying to suggest that Grantaire is something more than a convenient extra body in the bed, well, Grantaire is not prepared to handle that revelation with equanimity.

“You’re on our side,” Enjolras says, his obvious desire to move past this intermission lending a familiar sharp focus to his thoughts and voice. “Obviously. I know that now. But in the shadows. You heckle and debate and antagonize till you’ve forced us into defensible positions, but you have never once taken credit for a single one of our statements, even though you would support them with your life.” The fire in his voice makes Grantaire’s balls tingle and ache, all at once. It hits him so hard because it’s almost true; he would give his last breath for these men, and sure, whatever the hell they choose to believe in. Without his realizing, he’s started to thrust again, now more urgent, jerkier. “I fucking know that. We’d still be ... oh, fuck, Grantaire ... laboring in obscurity if it wasn’t ... for your publicity. ‘Ferre and Courf and I ... we started the ABC ... but it’s you who made us. And you ... you never even sign the fucking posters.”

Why should I? Grantaire wonders. They’re not about him; they’re just his interpretation of his leaders’ vision. Their names aren’t on the posters; why should he include his own?

“‘Ferre says let you do it your way ... but I ... sometimes ... it’s hard to believe ...” His voice trails off into shuddery gasps.

“Believe?” Grantaire asks, thrusting so deep.

“Believe ... you want it ... you want this ... right?”

Oh fuck.

Does he want it?

Only like a termite wants to chew apart your support beams. Only like a pigeon wants your picked-over scraps. Only like any part of it is everything.

Grantaire tangles a hand in Enjolras’s mess of sweaty curls and, head beside his on the pillow, looks him dead in the eye. Like equals.

“You guys want utopia,” he says. Enjolras watches him, lips parted. “I want this.”

He is suddenly terrified of how Enjolras will respond. He pushes up onto his forearms again just so he’ll have some protective distance if Enjolras says something he can’t handle.

“Then fuck me,” Enjolras growls, “like you fucking mean it.”

Oh, thank god. Thank god. This he can handle like a goddamn door.

Grantaire slides a hand around Enjolras’s front and pushes into him wildly, frantically, every part of him connected to Enjolras. All thought of conversation disappears; all there is is this: his body, Enjolras’s body, and the movements that bring them apart and then together again.

The sweet hot surprise of Enjolras coming in his hand jolts through him and he comes too, biting Enjolras’s shoulder to keep from screaming.

Grantaire reluctantly rolls off of Enjolras, afraid that there may be more talk in store, and is relieved to get only a tilted smile. “We should sleep.”

“Yeah we should,” Grantaire agrees. They clean up and collapse in bed together. Enjolras falls asleep instantly, and Grantaire thinks he never will, watching and marveling at the man whose hand is cradling his hip right now, but he’s barely thought through the idea before he’s out too.

When they wake up again, mid-morning light stripes the bed and Combeferre is snoring between them.

“How’d it go?” Grantaire asks when Combeferre wakes up.

“Fine,” ‘Ferre says after a moment’s scrunch-eyed reflection in which he seems to scan an internal register of the entirety of his time away. “It’s rough, but she’s going to be fine.” Enjolras kisses him for a minute, then, till his face loses its doctorly concern. “What about you guys? Did you...?” He’s addressing Enjolras, Grantaire realizes.

“Yeah, we did,” Enjolras says into ‘Ferre’s mouth, winking across him at Grantaire. “He fucked me so good, Combeferre.”

Grantaire is definitely uncomfortable about this conversation and about the effect it’s having on his very naked body. He’d pull up the sheet, but Combeferre’s kicked all the covers off the bed again.

“I’m so glad,” Combeferre says, stretching an arm to caress Grantaire's curls. “I’ve been waiting for this. Tell the truth, Grantaire—you were into Enjolras first, weren’t you? Admit it.”

“What’s in it for me if I do?” Grantaire asks, not entirely sure if it’s even true.

“I’ll give you a blowjob?” Combeferre suggests, and looks dismayed when his bedmates laugh in his face.

Combeferre has not gotten better at blowjobs.

“Muffins?” Grantaire counters, hopeful, and on reaching a deal, says, “Okay, fine, I guess I probably thought about Enjolras first. But, seriously, like, by a day, because as soon as I could think that way about one of you, I couldn’t not think about the other.” They’re the sky and the earth, he thinks, but does not say—each helps define the other. You can’t need half the set.

The last year, between when those two started dating and when they first took him home to bed, had been basically nonstop mental pornography; he had turned back, more than once, on the way out of his apartment for a quick jerkoff to the memory of however the two men’s hands grazed one another at the most recent ABC meeting. It was the sexiest and least attainable thing he could imagine.

“You imagined us together?” Combeferre asks, smirking.

“Oh, fuck off, you know I did,” Grantaire snipes back—this is well-trodden territory—but Combeferre has dragged Enjolras fully atop him now and Grantaire has front-row viewing of a really slow, intense kissing session. Combeferre’s hand that’s in Grantaire’s hair slides down his jawline and the thumb plunges into Grantaire's mouth—he hadn’t realized that it was already in an O of rapturous attention, practically begging for this. He sucks and rolls his tongue around the thick knuckle, pushes it out to let the pad of the thumb gloss his lips. He’ll come to this, touching himself and watching.

When they finally get up, Grantaire makes coffee while Combeferre mixes muffin batter. Enjolras sits cross-legged at the kitchen table and reads them all the terrible things that have happened in the world since they went to bed.

* * *

After that, it’s easier to be alone with one of them. It still doesn’t happen often—they usually all go home together from the Corinth or Musain, or the guys text him to come over when they’re both already at their apartment—but Grantaire doesn’t scurry from one-on-one encounters anymore.

One time, Enjolras has drawn the short straw and is taking the last shower, leaving freshly-scrubbed ‘Ferre and Grantaire alone to dress. Combeferre sees Grantaire’s eyes on him—how could he not? Combeferre’s body pulses with those damn tattoos, with their color, their complexity, their vigor. Grantaire has touched every one of them, has kissed them, has lined them with his fingertips and tongue, but they still feel distant.

In the mirror, Combeferre arches an eyebrow. “You know you can touch me even when we’re not in bed,” he says drily. Grantaire hesitates. “Really.” ‘Ferre turns to face him. “Please.”

So Grantaire reaches for the chemical compounds on his left bicep. Remembering that night in the Corinth half a year ago, he trembles at the smooth warmth of ‘Ferre’s skin under his rough fingertips.

Enjolras comes back from the shower to find the two kissing rapturously in front of the mirror. Grantaire feels awkward, still, even though he knows it’s ridiculous—he feels like he’s been caught cheating.

“Don’t mind me!” Enjolras says sunnily. Wearing just a green towel, he tosses himself onto the bed and settles in the kind of chin-on-hands pose you associate with a teenager re-watching a favorite movie.

Combeferre is so much taller than Grantaire. He has to lean down to kiss him, Grantaire realizes suddenly, now that they have an audience. His hands drag upward in Grantaire's hair every time Grantaire moans, which is generally a rare thing for him—he’s a quiet lover—but being on the spot like this throws him off normal.

When Combeferre, who has been curling his tongue deep behind Grantaire’s teeth—and how he is so bad at blowjobs when he is such a good kisser remains a complete mystery—grunts into Grantaire’s mouth and propels him backward into the wall, Enjolras sighs contentedly. “You guys are so fucking hot.”

Grantaire blushes, he’s sure he does, because right as Enjolras is saying this, his own stupid legs are flinging themselves up to grip Combeferre’s waist. Grantaire has no shame; he’ll seduce another man’s boyfriend and make him watch.

Hastily and without finesse, he drops his feet back to the floor. “Sorry,” he says, pushing a little against Combeferre’s chest, which is plastered to his own. “We should probably...”

He’s interrupted by a loud thunk. It’s Enjolras, kicking the headboard in what Grantaire now knows to be the extremely disconcerting way Enjolras pretends to be frustrated when he is actually also kind of for-real frustrated.

“Damn it, Grantaire! I came here to see the boys I love fuck for my pleasure.”

“For your pleasure?” Combeferre snarks, sliding a big obvious hand across Grantaire’s ass and around to his cock, which is nudging ‘Ferre’s equally erect one.

Enjolras just raises an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

And Grantaire is just standing there, sandwiched between the wall and Combeferre, immobile, stunned, because Enjolras just said... he said...

“So fuck him already.” It’s unclear which of them Enjolras is addressing, but both obey.

Grantaire scrambles his legs back up around Combeferre, who hefts his ass with those strong hands. A rush of warmth is eating away everything in him except the urgent wish to be everything these men want him to be. He hides his head in Combeferre’s neck, teeth grazing a symbol he believes to be the evil eye.

Enjolras whistles sharply and he looks up just in time to catch the little bottle of lube flying toward him from the bed.

It feels like seconds and also eons before ‘Ferre’s inside him and Grantaire's lifting himself, bracing his body against the wall and Combeferre’s solid shoulders, over and over, shocked anew at every thrust by the profundity of this connection. He feels like he’s melting around ‘Ferre, like he’s consuming him and being consumed, like the whole damn room’s going to explode in the iridescent flame of Enjolras’s sparking gaze.

Like Enjolras, Grantaire likes to watch, but right now, he has to close his eyes. He has to block everything that’s not the feeling of his body around ‘Ferre, his brave tongue licking like fire at ‘Ferre’s hot mouth, the warmth that’s devouring him from inside.

He’s close, and through the rush of blood and lust in his ears, he registers that he’s loud, so loud, louder than he’s ever ever been during sex, and especially louder than he’d ever be with these men whose every whisper he longs to catalog. He’s moaning and shuddering and pleading—not with words, but with tiny, bit-off whines and gulps that turn into something almost like sobs when he realizes that his noises are stirring steady ‘Ferre to fuck him harder and faster.

The wall is so strong at his back. He is grateful for that. It’s the only thing here stronger than Combeferre, the thing that will still hold him up when this ends and ‘Ferre lets go.

His eyes roll high behind their closed lids, and he dives into the depths of this feeling—the hard gray solidity of the wall, the rich, explosive red that sizzles up his spinal cord, the hazy blue of Enjolras everywhere, everywhere, like air, around and inside and essential.

Then there’s more to notice. Beyond the thousands of points of contact with Combeferre, through his ass and balls and legs and shoulders, Grantaire feels another touch, ethereal—Enjolras’s hand cupping his jaw. Grantaire’s eyes fly open. Looking over Combeferre’s shoulder at him, Enjolras is beaming beatifically, if you can be beatific while also obviously really fucking invested in the deep-dicking of the two men you’re enfolding in the span of your glorious arms.

Enjolras’s mouth edges against Combeferre’s ear. “Combeferre, my love, you are going to give it to him so good for me. Fuck, ‘Ferre, he’s us too, and you are going to fuck him till he knows it.”

If Grantaire thought he was melting earlier, now he’s evaporating, disappearing, floating into the air. It doesn’t matter that his eyes are open to see the insane perfection of the two faces watching him in ardent liquid states of want—he’s not here, he can’t be here, this is not a place he belongs or ever could actually be.

But one thing is always real: Combeferre’s tattoos. They have to be. If they’re not real, none of this is, and that’s the most impossible thing of all.

He traces them with his eyes, and that’s where he finds Enjolras again, gripping the whole galaxy of Combeferre’s shoulder in one hand. If that hand is real, the other must be too; he becomes vaguely aware, again, that that hand is lightly stroking Grantaire’s indefinite jawline.

“Do you know it, R?” Enjolras asks over ‘Ferre’s shoulder, and Grantaire can see the skin turning white around the depressions Enjolras’ fingers make in the tattooed flesh, he’s gripping that hard, and ‘Ferre is kissing Grantaire’s neck, he realizes, molasses-slow, at the same time as his hips tremble against Grantaire with what must be an incredible effort of holding back. Grantaire groans, but this is not enough. More demanding now, more like he knows Enjolras to be, Enjolras asks again, jagged as mountaintops, “Do you?”

Grantaire can’t catch his breath, can’t find escape, can’t think, can’t do anything but clutch at them. “Yes,” he finally manages, as the sparks inside him begin to shower like bursts of lava in the cloudless night, “yes, yes.” He comes screaming it, Combeferre bucking senselessly into him, Enjolras holding them both tight till they’ve made it through.

Then he pulls them to the bed, where he kisses and kisses them, like he loves to do but they’re all so much giddier than usual; it’s crazy and hyperemotional and feels like something’s starting. Everyone knows Grantaire is half a thought from crying, so instead of talking, they muddle his mouth with thick kisses. No one makes him say it; they all know the feeling’s there, and maybe the words will come someday.

* * *

Many, many months later, Grantaire is still keeping his own hovel of an apartment because he feels safer with a retreat plan and because no one except painters enjoys the smell of oils and turpentine, but most of his earthly belongings have migrated eight blocks away and two flights up, to the place that’s somehow now become his home.

When Combeferre leaves town for three days for a conference, there’s no question about whether Grantaire will continue to sleep in the men’s bed with Enjolras. They fuck for ‘Ferre’s pleasure—everyone’s pleasure—over Google Hangouts, then sleep untidily splayed across the luxurious expanses of a vast bed temporarily holding only two.

Not long after that, a print series of Grantaire’s picks up some attention on a small but influential group of art blogs and he gets a flurry of show invitations. Thank god Eponine’s harassed him into keeping all the shit he’s tried to throw out over the last decade, because he’s able to drag out enough to make up one decent gallery show. He’s gone for a week.

*

Grantaire’s phone buzzes in the middle of dinner with the gallery owner. It’s a relief of sorts—the man, who is polished and handsome and charming in a way that leaves Grantaire feeling just a little bit icky, has been pressing for details about Grantaire's love life, and seems determined to view Grantaire’s admission that he’s seeing someone but “We’re not really ready to put labels on it yet” as evidence that Grantaire’s both available and interested.

“Excuse me,” he says, imagining that Enjolras’s stony ID photo on the screen is glowering at his dining companion for him. “I’ll be right back.”

Outside, the air is cool and the evening street bustling. “Hey,” he answers. He shuffles down the block while he talks, appreciating that no one in this city seems the least bit curious about his conversation.

Enjolras’s voice bursts through like water breaching a clog. “Talk ‘Ferre through a blowjob,” he demands.

“Say what?” Grantaire really shouldn’t be taken aback by the bluntness anymore, but he is.

In the background, he hears Combeferre’s low chuckle. “Perhaps you should begin with, ‘Do you have a minute?’ or ‘How have you been?’ or even ‘Hey, we really miss you.’”

“I don’t have time for that shit,” Enjolras says. “He’s always busy. We need to get to—”

“Hello,” Grantaire says, smiling to himself in the dark.

“R.” Enjolras is impatient. “Make ‘Ferre get me off.”

“I’m at dinner,” Grantaire says reluctantly, thinking that he’d much rather talk to these men about sex indefinitely than return to the too-refined gallery owner and his hundred-dollar wine.

“Fuck that, you just need to get him to pay attention for like two minutes, I’m really close.”

“Um, really? I think I’m still signed in on ‘Ferre’s computer, so I can offer you like five hundred personally curated porn bookmarks that ought to do the job. I’m talking grade-A, hot dudes who could suck down a whole fucking butcher’s salami.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras sounds fantastically impatient. “I didn’t call you by accident. You’re not here, and I want you here.”

Grantaire’s heart lurches. “I guess I can...” He ducks into the dim recessed doorway of a stationer’s that’s closed for the night. The window displays a rainbow of gel pens; erasers shaped like dirigibles and hot-air balloons hang on long threads from the ceiling. “What do you want from me?”

“Tell ‘Ferre what to do. He says he’ll do it.” They’ve discussed this without him. They’ve made plans that involve Grantaire bossing them around like porn-star paperdolls.

“You on board for this, ‘Ferre?”

“Certainly, if your dining companions can spare you.” ‘Ferre’s voice through the phone still gives him goosebumps.

Enjolras growls. “He’s a fucking genius, ‘Ferre, no one’s going to give a shit if he takes a phone call from his boyfriends.”

Grantaire is pleased at the steadiness of his own voice when he says, “Okay, give me the lay of the land.”

“We’re in bed,” snaps Enjolras. “I’m naked. I’m hard. I’m pretty sure he’s hard too, but he’s wearing his scrubs and he’s only like 30% present mentally because he’s got some some parasite medication conundrum puzzling away in his brain and he keeps zoning out.”

“Okay, get out of bed.”

“What?”

“Get out of bed. Go to the hallway.”

He hears rustling and some grumbles, then footsteps.

“Put the phone on speaker. Stick it on the bookshelf so you can hear me. Now, ‘Ferre?”

“Yes?”

“Why are you still wearing a shirt, ‘Ferre? We should have a rule that if you guys are going to call me for sex, no one gets to have shirts on. Except maybe me, because I’m in public.” He eyeballs a little stuffed gorilla that appears to be climbing a tower of sticky-note pads in the window-display cityscape. “Take your shirt off for god’s sake. And Enjolras, you’re in the hall now?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Stand in the doorway. Put your hands up so you have to hang from the doorframe like you’re doing a chin-up.”

“That’s not very comfortable,” fusses Enjolras, which means he’s doing it, which means now Grantaire is experiencing some mild physiological responses himself, imagining Enjolras dangling lanky and exposed with his toes on the floor and his fingers clutching tight at the wood molding.

“Exactly, you’re going to come in like five seconds. ‘Ferre, get on your knees. Wait, Enj?”

“Yeah?” Enjolras sounds lightweight irritated, which definitely makes Grantaire's insides fizz.

“Tell me Combeferre took his shirt off.”

“I did,” ‘Ferre says smugly.

“Oh fuck you, you’re still wearing an undershirt, you know that wasn’t the spirit of the—”

Grantaire hears muffled sounds like Enjolras and ‘Ferre are grappling with each other. He breaks in sharply. “Enjolras! Hands stay on the doorframe.”

Enjolras whines and probably does as he was told.

“‘Ferre. Take off all the damn shirts. What the fuck.”

A minute later, ‘Ferre says, “Okay.”

“Okay, listen, rule one: No questions, you do what I fucking say. Got it?”

“What’s rule two?”

“Were you not present for rule one?” Grantaire grins to himself and sticks his free hand into his pants pocket to adjust himself a little. “‘Ferre, are you on your knees?”

“No, you made me take off my shirt and I forgot.”

“Great. While you’re still standing, lick his nipples. A bunch. And while you’re doing it, I know you’re getting distracted, ‘Ferre, I know you, so I want you to think about the way Enjolras does this to you while you fuck my mouth. You love the shit out of it. Make it that good.”

Enjolras is whimpering already. The sound is beautiful.

“Knees now, but keep a hand on one of his nipples. You’re gonna pinch it when he doesn’t expect it.

“Now, mouth. You don’t have to do much. Here’s the game plan: You’re gonna lick him a little, rub his sack, open up, and let him fuck your mouth. ‘Kay?”

Combeferre says, “Okay.”

“Stop talking. Lick the tip. Just stick out your tongue flat and let his cock bump it some.” Sloppy shit makes Enjolras crazy. Sure enough, Grantaire hears a distant smacking sound and, closer, Enjolras groaning.

“Fuck, ‘Ferre, that’s so fucking good.” Enjolras must be wild already with wanting to grab ‘Ferre by the head and drag him down the length of his shaft, but that’s not what he’s getting. “Oh. Oh you should... fuck, R, you should see this.” Grantaire can imagine Enjolras’s point of view: Combeferre’s eyes closed behind his glasses, head inclined slightly up and tongue cupping the head of Enjolras’s hard prick, and then all those acres of smooth, rounded, marked skin.

“When you’re ready, ‘Ferre,” Grantaire says, his own voice sounding a little tight, “open up. Grab his ass and pull him all the way in.”

When Enjolras blurts a sound between a choke and a hallelujah, Grantaire figures ‘Ferre was ready. “That’s right. Again. And again. You’re making him crazy, ‘Ferre. And Enjolras, I know you want to touch him. I know it must be torturing you having your arms up, having him in control. You’re probably just waiting till I tell you you can touch him.

“But guess fucking what, babe? You don’t get to. ‘Ferre’s not getting out that easy. He’s in charge here, and that means he is going to make you come and all you get to do is wriggle and squirm and wonder if he’s gonna let you come on him this time.”

Enjolras whines harder, then shrieks. Combeferre must have remembered to pinch that nipple.

“Good, ‘Ferre. For that, you get to decide. Is Enjolras going to jizz in your throat? Or in your hands? Or on your face?”

Combeferre sounds like he’s gulping. Slick, slipping sounds and gasps fill the phone line. Grantaire leans against the brick wall of the shop entrance and deeply laments the lack of privacy.

“Enjolras, you’re gonna come now. You make it hard and fast and don’t stop moving till you’re going soft. You give him everything you’ve got, E.”

He continues with the inanities, keeping his voice in Enjolras’s ear as the pitch and speed rise, then rise, then explode in sudden sputters and hollering and then, after a very long pause in which Grantaire finds himself holding his breath to hear every sound, trembling laughter and the long, slow taking in of air.

“Holy fuck, R,” Enjolras says finally.

“‘Ferre did you right, huh?”

He hears the smile in ‘Ferre’s words. “Someone’s been done right.”

“He didn’t come in your mouth, did he?”

“He did not.” There’s a hint of teasing.

“Good. ‘Cause wherever it ended up, Enjolras is going to lick it up off you.” God damn, isn’t there someplace around here where a person can jerk off between courses without getting— “Oh fuck, dinner.” How’s he going to make it through another hour with that smarmy gallery owner? “I have to go. Fuck, guys.”

“What did you say?” Enjolras demands.

“Got to go!” Grantaire checks his phone—it’s been 12 minutes. “Lick it up.”

“Thanks, Grantaire,” Combeferre says. “I—” but the rest of the message disappears as Grantaire pockets his phone and rushes back toward the restaurant.

*

They’re on the cheese course when a text pings.

Tell me I can let go of the doorway

He had forgotten about this. The gallery owner snaps up a vicious bite of sliced apple and Comté as Grantaire texts back, Sure iff you rly have to, wuss

He’s rewarded with photos. In the interests of good representation, he saves the pictures for after dinner and spends too much time looking this suit in the eye and being just the right balance of arrogant asshole and delicate artist to reconvince him that Grantaire’s the right kind of provocateur to shake the foundations of today’s art world.

Back in his hotel, he opens the photos. There are two. The first is a close-up of Combeferre’s left pectoral muscle, spattered with stars and more heavily spattered with a thick, dripping stream of semen. Grantaire doesn’t even take his pants off—he just grabs at himself and starts rubbing.

The second photo shows Enjolras’s clever pink tongue curling to lick a clean path up the shoulder. There’s jizz on his tongue and on ‘Ferre’s skin and on the ink, blotching up the perfect lines, and it’s a lot of very specific turn-ons for Grantaire crammed into one 2” x 2” image.

He shudders up into his hand and comes.

* * *

They undress Grantaire the moment he gets in the door, ignoring his pleas for something to eat after eight long hours of travel. Enjolras shoves Combeferre between them. “Take off his shirt,” he tells Grantaire, who is too eager to notice the odd note in Enjolras’s voice or that the flush in Combeferre’s face might be anything more than loving annoyance at his boyfriends.

Grantaire’s hands are gentle and quick with little things like buttons; he slips each loose, then pushes ‘Ferre’s black cotton shirt wide to revel in the riot of color below. There are the stars and the planets, the superstitions and the science. He loves them all. His hands slide down ‘Ferre’s chest, landing on the black-lined sankofa, and he’s ducking to kiss it before he realizes there’s something new.

Directly below the little backward-looking bird, there’s a small, circular tattoo on Combeferre’s sternum. “It’s a Sam-Taegeuk,” says Enjolras, bursting with smug glee at the surprise on Grantaire’s face, and the bastard, he’s even pronouncing it right. “That’s what it’s called. It’s three elements, it’s symbolic, it’s...”

“It’s that thing I have,” Grantaire says, disbelieving, fingers hovering over it. How are these guys still surprising him?

“Hands off!” Enjolras scolds, “It could get infected!”

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “No, touch it.” The narrow ridges and bumps of abraded skin sing under Grantaire’s fingertip. It’s about the same size as his, maybe the size of a half-dollar, but it’s everything. It’s for him, for them, on Combeferre’s body; it belongs to him; he belongs to them. The thoughts are dizzying.

Enjolras, who is for some reason now shirtless too, breaks through the haze in his mind. “You can’t touch mine yet,” he says, and star light, star bright, there it is, raw and brilliant, directly over his heart.

Grantaire has to sit down, or lean on something. He opts for the nearest wall. “You guys really aren’t going to quit until you get me to cry, are you?”

Combeferre’s solid hand takes his own. “We really aren’t going to quit,” he agrees.