"Enjolras," Grantaire exclaimed manfully, striding into the café on one dreary and altogether disappointing morning. He paused abruptly when he reached Enjolras's speechifying table, silenced by the sheer beauty of Enjolras (as happened very frequently). Enjolras looked up, pinning him to the wall with him glittering, icy, Saint-Just-like eyes, which were glittering like ice in the sunlight which seemed to exist only around Enjolras. He glared.

"What is it?" he said, in his gloriously musical (yet still manly) voice.

"I am sick of the way you treat me!" Grantaire exclaimed, hammering on the table with one of his rugged yet strangely attractive fists.

"The way I treat you?" Enjolras asked, his beautiful face the perfect expression of classical and Greek (but not like that, ewww.) beauty and confusion.

"You are terribly cruel to me. You crush my fragile heart with your wonderfully polished and expensive boots, which I note you have neglected to polish today, every time you say something like 'Grantaire, stop taking your clothes off in public.' Surely you must realize how this hurts me," Grantaire said, a tear coming to his eye. He fell to his knees, overcome with emotion.

"Oh, Grantaire, I never realized!" Enjolras exclaimed, his beautiful sapphire eyes widening like the windows of heaven. "I never meant to hurt you. I was only treating you badly to hide the way I feel for you. If only you knew how painful it was for me to deride you in public so frequently." He knelt next to Grantaire, reminiscent of a painting Grantaire had once seen of Saint Martin, kneeling to give half of his cloak to the beggar (only much more attractive). Grantaire gazed into his wonderful blue eyes, which glittered like the sky in the morning and were now filling with crystalline tears.

"I've lain awake for years, dreaming of this moment," Grantaire sobbed, overcome with emotion again. Enjolras took him in his arms (which were very lovely and white, like those of Nausicaa. And not only that, they were beautifully proportioned and soft like the fur of an expensive white kitten that was fed on only white roses and dew, and the tiny, nearly invisible golden hairs on them were soft like the fur of Jason's golden fleece. And his gorgeous hands were broad yet exquisitely shaped, like those of Boucher's Shepherdesses, with delicate fingernails which might have been shaped from rose-quartz) and stroked his greasy and unworthy (yet still very manly) hair.

"I never fully realized the depths of my love for you until this moment," Enjolras said, his voice hoarse with restrained emotion, yet still every bit as elegant and wonderful as the men of '93 must have been when they addressed the People (not that Grantaire would know anything about that, because he is far too cynical to know about revolutionary figures and has no faith at all in the republic). Grantaire shuddered with delight.

"Enjolras," Grantaire sighed, resting his head on one of Enjolras's elegantly sculpted shoulders. "I love you. I've always wanted to tell you, but I was afraid of you would disapprove of my filthy inverted ways." Enjolras gasped, obviously shocked.

"I could never disapprove of those. After all, sodomy was decriminalized under the glorious republic!" Enjolras exclaimed, his soft, ultramarine eyes filling with more diamond-like tears, (both at the thought of sodomy and the republic), which glistened in the light of the afternoon sun, like the wings of cherubim (the scary kind, not the little ones). He leaned in, gracefully, despite the fact that he was still kneeling on the floor, and kissed Grantaire, his soft amaranth-colored lips brushing against Grantaire's absinthe-stained ones. Grantaire recoiled.

"Enjolras, please. Don't sully your purity and virtue," he said, despite the fact that he very much wanted to kiss Enjolras and feel his moist, cerise tongue in his mouth.

"Nonsense," Enjolras snapped, his eyebrows furrowing in an extremely noble and masculine fashion, the wrinkles from which were like complex and beautiful hieroglyphs from an exotic land. "Men are born and remain free and equal in rights."

"Well, I suppose, if you really think so," Grantaire said.

"I do," Enjolras said, suddenly deciding to kiss him again, this time parting his silken lips to thrust his extremely well-shaped, rose-colored tongue into Grantaire's mouth. Grantaire sighed with joy, returning the kiss (which tasted like jam tarts, by the way, because Enjolras had been eating one earlier, not that Grantaire carefully makes note of Enjolras's dietary habits, or anything) with the revolutionary fervor he would have possessed had he not been so cynical. Enjolras pushed him backwards, until his back was pressed against the floor, and Enjolras was looming over him like a siren would lean over an entranced seaman before killing him. Grantaire reached up and stroked his soft glittering golden locks which glowed faintly in the dim light of the café like the sun rising over a field of wheat, almost afraid his movements would anger Enjolras. Enjolras pulled away, very gently.

"I think," he said, in a low voice, the sweetness of which was reminiscent of Orpheus, "that I have been chaste for far too long." It took Grantaire a moment to understand what Enjolras was saying, but when he did, his eyes widened.

"Are you sure?" he asked, in his raspy and very manly and alluring voice. He never would have thought that Enjolras would suggest something so forward and un-virtuous, yet shockingly exciting. Enjolras nodded, and even the slight inclination of his head was elegant and graceful, like that of a Viking prince (even though he would probably disapprove of that comparison).

"H-here?" Grantaire asked, his voice trembling like a monarchist in the face of Enjolras's manly glare of revolutionary indignation, which was like white-hot sapphires.

"Of course not," Enjolras said. "We'll go back to your flat." He rose from the floor, like the ascent of the sun, and adjusted his disheveled hair. He took Grantaire's hands in his own extremely elegant and virtuous ones, and helped him up, despite Grantaire's unworthiness to even be touched by one so noble and glorious as Enjolras, and led him from the room, like Orpheus leading Eurydice from the underworld, except that Grantaire was too enamored by the sway of Enjolras's hips to look away.

The walk to his flat seemed to take hours, even though it was only a few minutes. Grantaire fumbled with the key to his flat, hoping Enjolras wouldn't notice how his door stuck in the damp. He cringed inside as Enjolras rested his sweet gaze on the clothing on the floor, the piles of law books on the desk, with unfinished papers crumpled around them, and the hand-painted portrait of Enjolras as Liberty, surrounded by the more attractive members of Les Amis as various other scantily-clad allegories. Enjolras turned to him, smiling, his comely, puce lips perfectly shaped and sized to the tiniest mathematical degree.

"I never realized you knew so much about republican symbolism," he said, in a tone of slight amusement. (Grantaire was surprised at this; he didn't think Enjolras had the capacity for amusement.) Grantaire blushed in an incredibly masculine fashion. Enjolras smiled again, leading him over to the bed, and pushing him down until he was sitting on the edge. Grantaire kicked off his boots and stockings, worried that Enjolras would see his bony and malformed feet. Enjolras didn't appear to be paying much attention to him, and was instead concentrating on folding his waistcoat and placing it on top of Grantaire's school books. To Grantaire, the elaborate folds of Enjolras's discarded clothing closely resembled the oriental art of origami. He wondered if Enjolras knew of it.

Enjolras stepped out of his pants just as Grantaire looked up, and Grantaire found himself captivated at the sight of Enjolras's glittering marble erection which glittered like marble and sunlight and had subtle coral-pink highlights like the lips of Aphrodite (only Enjolras was vastly prettier than Aphrodite), and the soft, golden curls around it. He had been expecting a marble fig leaf; in this case, he was happy to be proved wrong. He knelt at Enjolras's feet, like a devotee at a reliquary. Enjolras looked down at him, benevolent for the moment.

"Do you permit it?" he said, gazing into Enjolras's eyes adoringly.

"If you must," Enjolras said, his voice as soft as the wings of an angel in the rain on a Tuesday evening (Grantaire noticed that things tended to be softer on Tuesdays). Grantaire took Enjolras's divine arousal in his mouth with great difficulty, marveling at the softness of Enjolras's skin. He was also amazed at the taste; in his past experience, the men he'd done these kinds of things with had all tasted quite salty and rather unpleasant, whereas Enjolras tasted like peaches and cream and virtue. Clearly, this was proof of Enjolras's superiority to all other forms of life. Enjolras seemed to be enjoying this, judging by the soft, musical sounds he was making. His long, slender fingers wound through Grantaire's hair, like mermaids weaving through kelp. And, even if Grantaire did find it rather hard to breathe, he didn't mind the oxygen deprivation, as long as he was close to Enjolras. (Even if Enjolras's hair was tickling his nose, and he was rather concerned that he might sneeze.) Suddenly, Enjolras stopped him. Grantaire looked up, surprised.

"That was getting somewhat overwhelming," Enjolras said. "I don't want this to be over so quickly." Grantaire's eyes widened, like a child on his birthday. Was Enjolras really suggesting...? It seemed so.

"I've never done this before," Enjolras added, in an offhand way, accenting his glorious statement with an equally well-executed hand gesture, as expressive of that of a mime.

"I don't mind," Grantaire said, grasping Enjolras's beautiful hands and lavishing kisses on them, like the Nephelai bestowing rain upon the earth. He then allowed Enjolras to arrange his limbs to his liking, even if it was rather uncomfortable. He shivered a little at the silken texture of Enjolras's graceful, rose-like hands sliding across his skin, tensing as Enjolras spread his legs even further.

"You have washed today, haven't you?" Enjolras asked, a hint of his previous disdainful Speaking-to-Grantaire tone returning.

"Of course," Grantaire said, too excited about his eminent sodomizing to be offended. He had, too. He had spent all morning and most of the previous night scrubbing himself clean in preparation for his confrontation with Enjolras, not that he had hoped it would go this well, but he had wanted to be prepared, just in case; although before he had managed to wash his hair, he had passed out in the washtub, which had been rather awkward. Enjolras paused, resting a hand on Grantaire's thigh (in truth, the mere touch of Enjolras's pearlescent and sanctified hands would have been enough to cause a lesser man to climax, a phenomenon often observed in the back room of the various cafés frequented by Les Amis.)

"What do I do now?" Enjolras asked. Grantaire wondered at how utterly amazing Enjolras's power of speech was, to sound so dignified when asking for directions on how to sodomize someone.

"Er, you put your..." Grantaire paused, lost for words to describe Enjolras's glorious erection, which glittered like marble and snow in the sunlight, and might well have been formed by Selene herself. "Thingy. Inside me. Just like with a girl. But not."

"Oh," Enjolras said, pausing to consider the logistics of this. "I think I can do that. Turn back over." Grantaire complied, waiting eagerly to feel Enjolras's soft skin pressed against his again. Again, Enjolras paused.

"Do you have something oily? I don't think this will work otherwise."

"There's a bottle of oil on the desk." Grantaire said, sitting up again. Enjolras crossed the room, giving Grantaire an excellent view of the way the muscles in his perfect buttocks moved. He made note of this for his later artistic endeavors. He was amazed at the way the dying sun's rays perfectly accented the curves of Enjolras's musculature, turning his soft, translucent skin a pale orange color, much like the salmon mousse he had eaten earlier.

"I can't find it," Enjolras said, fumbling with Grantaire's books and papers, reminiscent of a young Spartan sacking a corpse. David would have loved to paint him, Grantaire thought.

"It's in the drawer there," Grantaire said. He hoped it was still there, anyway. The last time he had seen it was after polishing his cudgels, which had been last year.

"Oh," Enjolras said, finding it quickly. Grantaire was glad to note that it was more than half full. He returned to the bed, nudging Grantaire back into his previous position. He heard Enjolras uncork the vial, amazed that is was so easy for him (Grantaire always had trouble with that particular bottle, despite never having difficulty with any others because he was very manly indeed). He shivered with anticipation, and started slightly at the feel of Enjolras's fingers inside him. Enjolras withdrew his fingers after a moment (much to Grantaire's relief, his fingernails were as sharp as a lady's, and he wasn't particularly careful about them), apparently satisfied that Grantaire was adequately oiled, he paused again. Grantaire could have cried with frustration, but he didn't, because that wouldn't have been very manly, and also because it would probably disturb Enjolras, and then he would stop entirely. Enjolras nudged him into a slightly different position, as expertly as a sculptor shaping clay. This one was rather more awkward than he was used to and made him feel more vulnerable than he liked. He turned his head, and out of the corner of his eye, he was able to see Enjolras, staring at him in either indifference or confusion.

"Is this right?" he asked, his momentary vulnerability as moving as the tears of the heliades.

"Yes," Grantaire said, his eyes filling with tears at the beauty of Enjolras (as they frequently did, but he'd never seen Enjolras from this angle before, so it was especially moving). "Please don't stop."

"Oh," Enjolras said, shrugging a little. Grantaire, noticing his neck beginning to hurt, reluctantly turned his face away from Enjolras and rested it in a pillow. He was startled at how suddenly Enjolras entered him, feeling rather like an inexperienced bride. This wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be: it did hurt a little, since Enjolras had no idea what he was doing, but his glorious and elegantly sculpted manhood, which glittered like marble and lace agate in the moonlight reflected from a puddle, wasn't as large as some of the other men Grantaire had been sodomized by (there were enough to make detailed comparisons to, because Grantaire is incredibly desirable, after all), and Enjolras was taking pains to be careful. He was overwhelmed with joy at Enjolras's sudden and rather unusual consideration of his feelings, and would have given voice to this if Enjolras hadn't been stimulating that place inside him which produced such odd sensations (what was it called again? Joly had told him once, but he'd been drunk at the time and couldn't remember what he'd said.) And if his face had not been buried in his pillow.

"Oh, Enjolras," he sighed incoherently. Enjolras didn't reply, apparently finding talking beyond his abilities at the moment. He could tell that this wasn't going to last very long; whatever his glorious and beautiful Enjolras had said, he only hoped that Enjolras would be willing to give this another (hopefully less painful) try later. He seemed close to finishing, if those wonderfully musical sounds he was making were any indication (some of which even appeared to resemble Grantaire's name, much to his secret delight). Grantaire was also close to climaxing himself (actually, he had been since Enjolras first kissed him, but hadn't noticed at the time, on reflection, he thought that was probably normal), and the feeling of Enjolras's delicate fingernails sinking into his skin was more than enough to drive him over the edge. Enjolras lasted a few minutes longer, which was unexpected, and resulted in their limbs being awkwardly entangled for a few moments.

"Was that supposed to happen?" Enjolras asked, slightly out of breath, like Atalanta must have been after her fateful race (although Grantaire really hoped that neither of them would be miraculously transformed into lions by angry goddesses). Grantaire nodded awkwardly, being that he was still underneath Enjolras. Enjolras climbed off of him, graceful even while exhausted and sticky. He collapsed beside Grantaire; his beautiful statuesque cheeks flushed an elegant tea rose color, his golden curls darkened with sweat, which even now beaded in his hair like dew on a spider web.

"I don't think I can get up," he said, in a barely audible tone.

"You don't have to go," Grantaire said, in a pleading, yet still very manly and dignified manner.

"Fine," Enjolras said, beautiful in his indifference. "I'll leave in the morning." Grantaire made a tiny noise of approval, wrapping himself around Enjolras like a snake, although without the intention of strangling him to swallow whole. Enjolras rather reluctantly embraced Grantaire (he was still Grantaire, after all, even though this hadn't seemed to bother him a few minutes ago), and the two of them gave themselves over to Morpheus for the time being, Grantaire happier than he had ever been in his pathetic and wasted life, and Enjolras glad that he no longer had to hide his feelings for Grantaire behind public humiliation and scorn.

(And they lived happily ever after)

The End

"It's very...very...um. Manly. And florid," Jehan said, leafing through the papers. He was blushing slightly, although it was hard to tell why. "And full of similes. But I thought you were going to write a pamphlet? We can't pass this out to the students."

"You pass out Bahorel's pamphlets, and he plagiarizes Desmoulins," Grantaire said, pausing to drain his seventh glass. Jehan cringed at that.

"Bahorel's pamphlets aren't pornographic," he said.

"There was that one. Wasn't it called 'Republican boys in bondage'?" Grantaire said. Jehan blushed again, averting his eyes.

"I wish you wouldn't remind me of that. It wasn't my fault he mixed up my private papers with the ones he was supposed to take to the printers."

"But it was rather brilliant of Courfeyrac to convince people that it was meant to be a satire of the monarchy's attempts to discredit republicanism. It got us fifteen new members," Feuilly pointed out, finally looking up from what he was writing.

"That is not the point, Narcisse. Listen, Grantaire, if you want to convince Enjolras that you can be of use to Les Amis, you really ought to write something more overtly republican," Jehan said.

Grantaire sighed loudly. "If I must."

"Good. I'll be back later to collect it," Jean said, rising from the table. "Feuilly will help, if you need it."

Feuilly waited until he had departed, then finished Jehan's abandoned glass of absinthe, as well as his own. "Don't feel too bad, I liked your story. I do wonder why you chose to write about Enjolras, though. He has as much romantic potential as Diana. Why not someone else?"

"I like Enjolras best," Grantaire said.

"Suit yourself," Feuilly said. "I plan on staying with something more plausible, like Joly and Bossuet."