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[untamedantinous]

Enjolras is on a mission. It is not in the least like any of the self-imposed missions he has given himself in the past; but he is as determined as he ever is. (Yes, he will admit to himself that this is a distraction, but it is a new and pleasant one; and he could do with some pleasant and educational exercises in good company.)

With that in mind, as stubborn as ever, he goes in search of Laertes. He is certainly more sober than he was yesterday, having spent his morning in consideration and working on some writing—one of those pamphlets for Magnus they had been speaking of. His fingers show the evidence of that, they are smudged and have a few ink blots on them; but he is smiling nonetheless as he knocks at Laertes’ door. There he stands, waiting sober as a priest; although it is hard to say that considering the still apparent bruises at his throat that were too difficult to hide with a cravat.

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[timebethine]

Laertes swings open the door almost at once--when he is keeping an appointment, it takes over the whole of his day, and there is little he can do but await the hour. He grins broadly when he sees Enjolras, gesturing him in. The front room is almost surprisingly neat, given Laertes's more disordered habits of mind, with an armchair in one corner and a table with two smaller chairs at the front. There are a few books (a copy of Idées républicaines among them) scattered on the table, along with a glass pitcher full of water and strewn with sprigs of mint and slices of lemon and quince. "My dear friend, welcome. Wouldst like a drink?"

[untamedantinous]

He grins back and heads in, with a nod. "Yes, a drink sounds lovely. I -- just realized I may have not had anything since my coffee this morning." He settles down in one of the smaller chairs, lifting an eyebrow at the books.

"What are you reading? I had a similar morning."

[timebethine]

"A man after mine own heart," Laertes laughs. He pours Enjolras a cup of the infused water and passes it over. "Wouldst like to share supper with me, after this? I've vowed to Tress that I'll make fish tonight, and what feeds three will easily enough feed four. As to my day, I've been engrossed in thy Voltaire. I'll be interested to see whether he addresses the perils that Rome faced, on her path from republic to empire."

[untamedantinous]

"Well, mine was writing, but it is close enough." He waves a hand, displaying the slightly ink-stained fingers. "--If you'd have me, of course. It sounds a good deal better than what I would have myself," with a rueful grin. "I am no cook." He never had the time or the patience to learn, honestly, and he was in the cafe so often at home that it tended to be easier to order from there.

"My apologies for stealing you away from Voltaire, though."

[timebethine]

"Not at all; thou art by far better company." Finishing off his own water, Laertes raises his eyes from Enjolras's hands to his face. It strikes him anew, what a fine face it is--the lines of it speak to purpose more than pleasure, but there's ease in it now that Laertes fancies was not there when the two of them met in the library. "Hast decided whether thou wouldst have me?" he asks, and he finds he cannot make it sound light.

[untamedantinous]

He has finished his own as well by this point, setting the glass to the side on the table. "I have," and he, too, is trying for light but not quite achieving it. He glances to the side, uncertain, and then picks up Laertes' hand to press a brief kiss to it, almost as though he would for a young lady. He tilts his head at an angle, to hold the other young man's gaze for a brief moment, eyes serious and full of a hungry sort of fire. "My answer is yes. I would have you, as sober as you'd like."

[timebethine]

Laertes's heart gives an urgent throb like the toll of a bell. He had hoped for that answer, but not permitted himself to entertain it--Enjolras had spoken not as though desire was a thing he had felt and put aside, but as though it were a thing alien to his needs. Laertes is conscious of the gift of trust he's been given, and promises himself that he will honor it. "Dear man," he says hand suspended in Enjolras's, feeling the warmth of breath on his knuckles.

Then, catching Enjolras by the cravat, Laertes drags him down into a devouring kiss.

[untamedantinous]

It is a little alien still, yes; but he has seen for himself that it can be enjoyable as well, and he is more than willing to learn what he can with the time he is given, here. He knows without asking that Laertes understands the magnitude of this and the amount of trust he is putting in the other young man. Perhaps it's the thought of that or the kiss that makes him shudder a little, wrapping one arm around Laertes' waist a little easier than he had the day before.

[timebethine]

"Let me be rough with thee," Laertes says against Enjolras's mouth. "I promised thee a ruin."

[untamedantinous]

"Do as you will," pressing a brief kiss to the corner of his mouth. "You know I trust you, ami." He liked it well enough before, after all; and though he does not know what lies ahead, his eyes are darkening with anticipation.

[timebethine]

Although he'd asked for rough, Laertes's hands are gentle as he starts undoing Enjolras's cravat. He wonders if the wearing of it is mere habit, the comfort of the fashions of Enjolras's Paris, or if he'd worn it especially because he wanted to look fine. When the cloth is undone, he lays a kiss on Enjolras's throat. "Undress thyself for me," he says. "I want to see all of thee."

[untamedantinous]

It is habit, truly, but he'd also worn it today to attempt to cover some of those bruises if he should run into a certain person that might ask questions of him. Enjolras closes his eyes briefly at the kiss, and nods, settling into a familiar routine. First the waistcoat, then the trousers, lastly the shirt and undergarments; all disposed of with a simple economy that is quite characteristic of Enjolras. He does not pause to show himself off or preen, simply because he does not see the point of it. Laertes may look all he likes, should he please; Enjolras has nothing to hide, not even the nine lingering scars that mar his smooth chest. He stands for a moment after placing his clothes in a somewhat neat pile, eyes flicking to Laertes' face, somewhat uncertain.

[timebethine]

Laertes has been busy at the same work, drawing off sweater and shirt and jeans; when his eyes meet Enjolras's again, they're as bare as one another, like two guileless youths in a pastoral painting. Laertes likes that Enjolras is neither proud nor ashamed. It seems right that he should exist complete unto himself, untouched by the weight of others' regard.

Even so, Laertes can't help laying a hand over the scar that lies closest to Enjolras's heart. It does not escape his notice, that the number matches the number of Enjolras's friends. "If thou wouldst not have me look, or touch, I won't," says Laertes softly.

[untamedantinous]

"That does seem to defeat the purpose of what we are doing," he replies quietly. "I do not mind it.
I do not mind them." They're a part of him, now, a mark that he died for what he believed in, and so he cannot be ashamed of those scars. He lets his eyes skate over Laertes' body, smiling a little. Just because he did not pay very much attention to such things in Paris does not mean that he is blind, after all, and he can appreciate a handsome man when he sees one.

[timebethine]

Then--at first meeting Enjolras's eyes, then slowly lowering his gaze as he attends to his work--Laertes kisses each scar, one by one.

[untamedantinous]

He makes soft noises at the feeling of Laertes' lips on his chest -- not out of dislike, simply a mixture of curiosity and pleasure. "They are--" he pauses for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "More sensitive than I would have thought. That is not to say it is bad, just surprising."

[timebethine]

"Art sensitive in other places?" Laertes raises his head again to kiss and suckle at the point of Enjolras's collarbone, bringing his left hand down in an exploratory sweep--rolling a nipple beneath his thumb, tracing fingernails over Enjolras's ribs, digging his fingertips into Enjolras's backside. With his bandaged right hand, he braces himself at Enjolras's hip.

[untamedantinous]

"Apparently so," it's half a laugh as he shivers at Laertes' nails on his ribs, clever tongue and mouth so close to the bruises of earlier; and he lets out a quiet noise of approval. "Mm -- your hand, are you well?"

[timebethine]

"Just a small burn, but in an awkward place. I've trained my off-hand for fencing, but not yet for acts of love. Thy pardon, if I err." He notices that comfortable little shiver, and he wants to earn it again--this time, he brings up both hands to carve his nails down Enjolras's back, shoulders to buttocks, eight long lines of bright pain.

[untamedantinous]

"As if I would know," with a grin that is steadily turning more heated as he presses up against Laertes with a strangled hiss. "Ah, yes, that is good."

[timebethine]

There's something like the thrill of fencing or boxing in this--that sense of meeting resistance and pushing up against it, demanding to be felt and heeded. He grinds his hips against Enjolras's, offering himself like a cliff for Enjolras to dash himself against. "Canst touch me, too," says Laertes, low and warm. He smothers a smirk against the long muscle between Enjolras's neck and his shoulder, then bites down hard there.

[untamedantinous]

His own hips arch against Laertes', and he cannot help but let out another hungry noise, louder than before. "Yes, I -- you are very distracting," almost admonishing, but it's clear he's teasing from the playful look in his eyes. He lets his own hands wander as they will, exploring, feeling out where Laertes might be sensitive like he is, but remaining careful of his bandaged hand. "Mmn, Christ, you'll have me swearing to something I don't even believe in if you keep that up."

[timebethine]

Enjolras will find his ribs and hips very sensitive--ticklish, even; Laertes twitches and laughs at too light a touch. But Laertes enjoys a firm touch anywhere, and if Enjolras should offer pain, Laertes will reward him with pain in kind. Enjolras seems to prefer him fierce rather than sweet, and Laertes is more than happy to scratch a lattice of searing welts into his back. He draws no blood yet ... but he's very conscious that it feels like a yet, and the anticipation of it makes him ache. "Christ has not my allegiance," Laertes says. "Man does, and thou art a fine, fine man."

[untamedantinous]

He prefers a little of both, in all honesty, but as his hands wander he does take a moment to leave some scratches of his own along Laertes' back, mirroring his own, nails biting deep and sharp as he feels this out. "So are you," he says, voice low and pressing a hard bite to whatever bit of Laertes' shoulder he can reach. "And I am yours."

[timebethine]

At that bite, that yours, Laertes shudders and cries out. He wraps his arms around Enjolras and for a second just clutches him tight, tight. Then he's tilting his head to capture Enjolras's mouth again, chasing a deeper kiss than they've ever shared before.