A/N: Adapted from my response to a prompt on the fic meme, requesting "Enjolras/R - wedding night. (Use the prompt as you will and be as silly or serious as you like, my only requirement is that they actually be happy together in some way and not just almost-happy-but-not-really like in every other Enjolras/R out there!)".

I thought this was an interesting challenge, given that much of the power of their story is based on a reconciliation and redemption that only comes as the barricades fall. Resolving their conflict earlier runs the risk of taking away from the power of that scene - it can be done, but few fanfics have achieved it successfully. I won't attempt it here - instead, I've tried for an AU that, while lacking the power of Hugo's resolution, at least gives them the potential for a happy ending. A realistic resolution to their story? No - this is pure indulgence with a fantasy happy ending, so be warned of that at the outset.

This will also be toned down from the racier parts that will (eventually) be posted to the kink meme.

The study door was slightly ajar, so Grantaire pushed it open and paused, struck by the scene in front of him, smiling as Enjolras, oblivious, continued to work on his papers. The form of his partner was seated in profile against the shuttered tall shuttered windows, his pen flowing over the paper, the ideas unstinting, the outward manifestation of a mind as active as ever. He must have been working here for hours, probably since Grantaire had left in the late afternoon. The gas light sconces had not been lit, and the single source of illumination was a table lamp. It was important business for the Republic, no doubt – it was always important business.

Drawn back to his early art studies, Grantaire was reminded of Godfried Schalcken's works, and the effects of candlelight on a subject's features in an otherwise dark room. But the picture before him had none of the slightly sinister overtones of the Dutch master's work. Rather, the years seemed wiped away from his lover's features. It smoothed the lines from his face, softened the harsher angles to his form. The sober black of his attire (an old frock coat that was beginning to look a bit rusty – Enjolras was inclined to absent-mindedly let his tailoring lapse) might have clothed the same spare figure of thirty years ago. In this light, the hair that had darkened over the years, with liberal streaks of grey at the temples, seemed all ablaze once again with the warm gold of his youth.

But Grantaire did not mind the signs of the encroaching years. He cherished the idea of growing old with Enjolras, hugged it to himself with a secret glee. He was fond of the creases between his partner's eyebrows over his nose, the grey, and the tempering effects of age. Now, though, as Enjolras was leaning further towards the paper - evidence that he was straining his eyes trying to read in this dim light (and had no doubt misplaced his reading spectacles again) - it was time to interrupt him.

Grantaire walked softly over the floor rugs, so softly Enjolras did not look up until he felt the arms wrap around and his shoulders. He put his pen down and clasped the hands that closed tightly over his chest in an embrace. Grantaire breathed a kiss into his hair.

"Have you come to convey mère Marie's scolding because I have missed our evening meal again?" Enjolras asked, tipping his head back to look at Grantaire with a smile. Courfeyrac was not the only one in their circle to observe in amusement that their housekeeper ruled them both with a firm, if benevolent, hand.

"No – she thinks that having to remind you to eat twice in one day means that it serves you right if your meal is ruined. But of course, she's keeping some soup on the stove for you. You're banished to sitting in the kitchen to dine tonight. I'll happily share your exile." He paused, running his fingers through Enjolras' hair in a familiar gesture. "Do you recall what day it is?"

"Day of the week? Monday, do you mean?"

Grantaire shook him slightly.

"It's an anniversary you should remember."

Enjolras turned around now, curiosity engaged. "Anniversary? I can't think-"

"Our wedding night."

"Our...?" The crease between his eyes deepened in mild puzzlement. "I'm sure I'd recall something as irregular as a wedding ceremony for us." He smiled, and as Grantaire moved his hand down to stroke that pale cheek, Enjolras reached up to lace his fingers in those of his beloved. "I have never needed a formal recognition of our love and our union."

"You still think like a lawyer, however many years you have been a Representative. I did not say wedding," Grantaire murmured, his voice taking on a tone less teasing and more husky. "I said wedding night. Mardi Gras fell on February 16th in 1833 – that was the day Pontmercy was married, and the first night that you and I were together as one."

"Ah."

Grantaire ran his thumb over Enjolras' cheek, a gentle stroke, but with the firm, long accustomed touch that gave it added intimacy. Enjolras' eyelids hooded his gaze slightly, memory alight in the blue eyes.

"I have always thought of that as our wedding night," Grantaire continued. "It was when we were joined in body and in soul." He bent down and kissed Enjolras with the same soft, sure touch of his caressing fingers over his lover's features. "And we have not been apart since."

"No..." Enjolras smiled, so close that Grantaire could feel the heat of his body set against the evening chill. "Never apart." He reached up a hand to the back of Grantaire's head and pressed him in for one of those swift, fierce kisses, warm and long.

Thirty years, and he still had the capacity to provoke surprise and wonder in Grantaire.