Here's a very short little bit from an Enjolras/Grantaire fic I'm working on.
“Is that what you most desire? Ah! I don’t believe it so but alas! I shall go anyway. Until next time,” he said, bending in a bow with a surprisingly graceful flourish, the whole time holding his bottle and spilling not a drop. Then, turning away from Enjolras and to the room at large, “Oh! Pity me fellow mortals! Our fearless leader has kicked me to the street, in the cold—” “Get out of here, Grantaire.” Enjolras gritted his teeth but a few of the others were smiling. Grantaire walked out of the back room of the Musain (though “strutted” would be a more accurate term—the alcohol in his system showing no trace in his balance), planting a sloppy kiss on Louison’s cheek before he disappeared. Louison, who was used to his behavior, went on about her business, smiling good-naturedly. Grantaire, for his part, could hear Enjolras immediately delve back into whatever he had been saying, as if the whole incident had not happened. Though he would never admit it, it hurt a little that Enjolras could just skip over his existence so easily. But then, he supposed that was how gods were. For he felt certain that Enjolras must be some ancient god who deigned to walk among mere mortals. A god of truth and light and all that was righteous and good. Of course this only made Grantaire want to challenge him. Logically, it made no sense, he knew, but he was not a logical man and he simply could not help himself. He didn’t know why. He simply wanted to ruin that perfection. To be fair to Grantaire, as to Enjolras earlier, he did not feel romantically for Enjolras, not in any way that he understood. He wanted to kiss bruises into that marble neck, drag his nails across achingly perfect collarbones and hipbones. he wanted to tug on golden hair and whisper prayers against those damnably pink lips. Each man worships differently. But as it is that gods do not acknowledge those who worship them so it was with Grantaire and his Apollo. Perhaps, he thought wryly, that was why he argued with him so; angry words were better than none at all to the man whose thoughts are much too loud in the silence. And it was much too quiet tonight in the streets of Paris.