AN: SO! Um, I think I had a conversation years ago saying "I don't think I would write Les Mis fanfic . . ." And well, here I am. My irl friend is a major ExR shipper (she's lalalovesmusic3 on archive of our own btw and her fics are g8) wrote a really awesome fic on ao3 called "Artistic Expression" where modernAU college student!Enjolras gets help for a photography project from Grantaire but they just end up making out in the dark room and it's implied they go on to have sex. Flashforward three months and I've become literal Fun Home trash and "Changing My Major" (which is a brilliant song and if you haven't heard it GO LISTEN TO IT) made me think about her fic and virgin!Enjolras and having his first sexual experience with R.

(I usually HC Enjolras as being greysexual and I know I touch upon his asexuality here but the thing is that sexuality is ever evolving - you don't have to identify with the same sexuality you did years ago and that's okay. So just a note on that.)

Rated T because while there is a lot of mention of the act of sex, it's like not graphic. At all. I tried to focus on my stylistic choices with that scene and not so much being dirty as possible.

Please review, this is my first time writing Les Miserables and I'd love to write this ship again~

Changing My Major

The glaring, orange setting sun bleeding through the curtains and and dripping onto the beige wall was a shock to Enjolras' system when he awoke. He had spent most of the afternoon in the photography black room, so light wasn't exactly his friend right now. At least, light this bright. The bleak weather outside had clearly given way to put on a gaudy sunset, illumination melting all over the room. . . .oversaturating it.

(At least he could use photography vocabulary. Still didn't quite know how to use the black room other than a place to make out.)

His instant defense was to roll over and shield his eyes with the pillow. Which he did, only to bump into an arm not belonging to him.

It was them he was aware of the warmth filling the smallish bed he was in. The warmth of another person. In his bed.

(Actually not his bed. The smell of cheap coffee and cigarettes and canvas clung to the sheets and it was clear that this wasn't even his dorm.)

Another person. In bed. With him.

Enjolras dared to open his eyes again and take in the surrounding of the dorm room. A disaster area summed it up, sketches of everything from nude, classical-looking women from Human Figure class to watercolors of crumpled coffee cups lay plaster above him on the wall, the models (of the coffee variety, not the women) sat on the desk immediately across from Enjolras's vantage point amidst a littering of brushes and pencils and ashtrays and knickknacks.

Sitting up and brushing back the wild mass of curls that had formed from his nap, Enjolras took a look down at the sleeping figure awkwardly tucked under the yellow paisley sheet, one of his legs left in the cold, the other tucked under a sliver of olive green comforter that had been tossed aside during this. . . whole thing. His right arm draped over the second pillow, his face laying on it, exhausted, but hidden behind an even wilder mass of curls.

Enjolras smiled faintly as the events that had lead him to Grantaire's dorm room started to become clearer, less fogged by sleep. The dark room. The project. The playful hands. Then the kiss and then another and another, a trail leading down the length of his torso. He had taken Grantaire by the hand and together they had abandoned their project and their cares and through the pouring March rain they decided to go to Grantaire's dorm. It was closer.

(The bed was closer.)

They stumbled through the halls and into the dorm room, Enjolras barely taking in the surroundings before being tossed a towel. They picked up right where they left off. Beanies fell off. Buttons popped. Jeans unzipped. Grantaire noticed Enjolras's red boxers.

"Nice," he murmured through a gasp and gave his ass a tight squeeze.

They stopped for a moment as Grantaire pulled out a box of Trojans and a bottle of lube from his side drawer. Trying to savor the other man and successfully open the box proved tricky and a slew of condoms poured out and fell onto the floor.

"Shit." Grantaire mumbled.

((Enjolras looked down at the floor now. The condoms still stood piled on the floor.))

Boxers fell. Hands touched. Eyes widened.

"You're a virgin." Grantaire half chortled, half exclaimed, seeing the mix of ecstasy and uncertainty that framed the other man's eyes. He kissed him on the forehead, and told him that he could trust him.

Enjolras did.

And now they were . . .here. Yeah. Here in bed together after two groping attempts at sex.

Awkward at first, as Enjolras was suddenly overwhelmed, kneeling over the other man on top comforter, as Grantaire's slicked with lube hands first teased and explored and then ohmygodheputhisfingerthere and Enjolras thought he'd just pass out. Grantaire snorted and curled up and kissed Enjolras's hipbone and then pulled him down.

Enjolras whined lowly. His breathing hitched.

Grantaire grunted. He guided the other man up and down with his calloused hands on the other's hips.

Control left. Enjolras started to make the strangest sounds - sounds he had never no way made before. His head curled into his shoulder. His hair fell into his eyes. He murmured labored, ridiculous things, babbling away as warmth spread through his entire body.

(He probably looked like a crazed mess.)

(He probably sounded like a dork.)

Grantaire didn't care. Through sweaty bangs, Enjolras saw the man below him was lost in that shared world of ecstasy and heat and friction and groans and oh my gods caught on a whisper.

And then the release from its grasp after surmounting to the climax. Oh my ggg-od. That. That was it. He threw his head back and cried out. He didn't care anymore as he rode the wave of orgasam.

Grantaire followed. Enjolras fell. They sighed. They laughed. They kissed. They sighed again.

"Want another go at it?" Grantaire asked.

They kissed again and rolled over, suiting up for round two. This time Enjolras worshipped every inch of Granatire's body, his lips trailing down from R's lips to his neck to all the way down his spine. Beneath Enjolras's hands, Grantaire melted from his touch, seeping down deeper into the pillow and the comforter.

He begged. He received.

Through pants and gasp and moans, Grantaire guided the inexperienced, not-quite-devirginized man. "Right down - ah!- - y-yeah. Good. Oh godddd."

Slippery, erotic touches and sloppy kisses and just the right jerk of the hand and they both took another trip past the stars. Tired, happy, exhausted, they were giddy and dorky as they locked lips again - sweet this time, this time meaning it - and pulled themselves under the sheet and drifted off for an afternoon nap.

And now . . . Enjolras checked the clock next to the bed. 7:35.

Here they were. Here he was, after the first erotic experience of his whole life. Gone was the the Enjolras who had sworn off relationships for his work. Gone was the Enjolras who said that having sex was not a priority. It didn't changed the world, that was for sure, if he had sex or not.

But it did. It changed his world.

For years, Enjolras devoted himself to schoolwork, volunteer work, work-work, work to change the world. And it showed. Top grades. High praise. But no pleasure.

But High School flashed before his eyes and Enjolras was never kissed. It didn't matter. He didn't really want to be kissed anyway. He didn't think of anyone in that sort of way. It just was something that never crossed his mind.

He flashed back to a sixteen-year-old Enjolras, bleary-eyed, sitting curled up in bed with his laptop and looking up asexuality. The lack of sexual desire or drive. He had shrugged, glad to have learned that it was a thing and that he wasn't insane for not wanting to one day find himself in someone else's bed.

Like he was now . . .

The dark had brought a light to Enjolras's life. In that dark room, something primal, something undetected was unleashed and awakened. He was consumed by nothing but that something. Something that when he felt a small jolt of it in the pit of his stomach, it made his mouth spread out into the most ridiculous grin.

So. He guessed he could take that asexual pride flag button off of his backpack.

And also: why now? why junior year, college? why Grantaire?

Who was he now? Now that this . . . happened.

So many questions and not enough energy to think about the repercussions of this act or of this revelation . . .

The cafeteria surely wasn't closed quite yet. Dinner surely couldn't be over quite yet; it usually was opened a little longer on the weekends. He guessed that he and R could grab something sooner or later. Well . . . sooner rather than later. He'd get dressed first then wake Grantaire, because, he hated to admit it, they way the other man was curled up, snoozing away the evening, was actually kinda, sorta endearing. For a guy who was so vocal in class, seeing him quiet was something bizarre, and it was actually. . . charming the way he slept?

Savoring the last little bit of warmth, Enjolras fumbled out of bed and went on the quest to find his underpants. Beneath Grantaire's grey tee shirt and green jacket, he found his red boxers and his socks. He slid them on and then went on the search to find his jeans.

With his back to the wall, Enjolras did know that Grantaire had stirred awake as well until he heard his voice mumble into the pillow, "You leavin'?"

Enjolras looked back and watched as Grantaire pulled himself from his front and sat up in bed, leaning against the wall. He tugged the sheet over himself and ran a hand through his hair.

(He had even worse bedhead than Enjolras supposed he had.)

(It was endearing.)

"Not leaving, just getting dressed," Enjolras corrected, standing up.

Grantaire ran his hand over his eyes, hoping to brush away post-sex, post-nap sleepiness. When that didn't entirely work, he yawned, mumbling "What time is it?"

"Half past seven."

"Is that all?" Grantaire sighed. He pulled the cover over himself as Enjolras tugged on his jeans. It had only been four hours since they had gone back to the dorm rooms, since they had fallen into bed together. He yawned again and ended it with a, "God, I'm hungry."

"I was going to offer taking you to dinner," Enjolras said, handing Grantaire his shirt before looking for his own.

"Huh. I usually get dinner and then get fucked," Grantaire playfully observed as he tugged down his tee shirt. "Not up for convention, are you, Mr President?"

Enjolras didn't respond, having found his shirt underneath the condoms. Grantaire advised him to stuff them back into the box. "For next time," he added with a meaningful stare.

Enjolras blushed. He handed Grantaire his jeans and boxers.

"There is going to be a next time, right? This just wasn't a one and done kind of thing?"

Well. . .


Yeah. Of course. He had liked it enough.

(He had wanted more.)

Enjolras thought forward to the next time and the next after this sexual awakening. He thought about sex with R in the months to come. He conjured up a vision of them laying under the sheets, languidly enjoying each other's company. He thought about how good this had felt, how . . .

Yeah. He wanted another time. But where did this put them? Where did they stand after this sexual encounter? What were they? Boyfriends? Lovers?

One step at time. First, dinner.

R had dressed and pulled himself off the bed, tugging on a sweatshirt caught a glimpse of his mane of hair standing up and grumbling, he pulled his grey-colored beanie over it. He turned back to Enjolras, "Ready to go?"

Enjolras has grabbed his backpack and replied, "Ready."

And then he did something so un-four-hours-ago-Enjolras. As Grantaire had just turned to walk out the door, Enjolras pulled him back. Wrapped him close. Kissed his lips. They melted again.

Enjolras pulled back. He looked down and Grantaire. Grantaire smiled.

Grantaire took his hand. He held it tight as he left the room with Enjolras. Enjolras permitted it.