Aw, man, good question. I'd prefer to think Enjolras kissed Grantaire first.
Grantaire would spend his life wishing he could, wishing he had the nerve, thinking it was a terrible idea and he should just give up, yet never being able to—and maybe one day he even would, if he got the chance, when drunk and desperate, and it would be a bad idea, and it wouldn't go well.
But Enjolras has less self-doubt. He might, when the idea occurs to him, consider the merits of the idea of kissing Grantaire, and where that would lead. He might even decide it's a bad idea. (Probably would.) But he wants it. And really, in his bright, hopeful heart, he wants to see where it would lead.
I'd like to think it happened in the winter, with Paris wet through with freezing slush and the Seine sluggish with ice. Enjolras is frozen and trembling with not just the cold; Grantaire is not yet very drunk, but he's warmer, bright-eyed and flushed in the chill. They're in the dark of the street beyond the lamps, in deep shadow. Enjolras caught Grantaire there, on his way out of the Musain. Grantaire smiles at him, and says "Poor statue," and loops his own red scarf around Enjolras' neck; Enjolras smiles back, a half unconscious thing, and kisses him like it's the best idea he's had all year.
Aw, man, good question. I'd prefer to think Enjolras kissed Grantaire first.
Grantaire would spend his life wishing he could, wishing he had the nerve, thinking it was a terrible idea and he should just give up, yet never being able to—and maybe one day he even would, if he got the chance, when drunk and desperate, and it would be a bad idea, and it wouldn't go well.
But Enjolras has less self-doubt. He might, when the idea occurs to him, consider the merits of the idea of kissing Grantaire, and where that would lead. He might even decide it's a bad idea. (Probably would.) But he wants it. And really, in his bright, hopeful heart, he wants to see where it would lead.
I'd like to think it happened in the winter, with Paris wet through with freezing slush and the Seine sluggish with ice. Enjolras is frozen and trembling with not just the cold; Grantaire is not yet very drunk, but he's warmer, bright-eyed and flushed in the chill. They're in the dark of the street beyond the lamps, in deep shadow. Enjolras caught Grantaire there, on his way out of the Musain. Grantaire smiles at him, and says "Poor statue," and loops his own red scarf around Enjolras' neck; Enjolras smiles back, a half unconscious thing, and kisses him like it's the best idea he's had all year.
That is beautiful melts
Thanks! ^_^