Enjolras woke up in an unfamiliar bed but with a familiar body draped over his. His head fucking hurt and his tongue felt fuzzy and too big for his mouth. He opened his eyes halfway and groaned at the sunlight.

"Sorry, love, I couldn't get the curtains to close the whole way," Grantaire softly apologized.

"Everything hurts," the blonde announced to his boyfriend, who burst into a fit of laughter.

"Yeah, I bet it does."

"What the fuck happened?" he asked. His fingertips felt like pins and needles, and he was pretty sure there was a bruise that Grantaire didn't realize his fingers were brushing on his side.

Enjolras scrunched his eyes shut. The room was spinning and if he closed them it wasn't as bad. He tried to take inventory of the facts he could recall. He and Grantaire were in a hotel. They were supposed to go to a show…last night?

"You, sir, got epically shitfaced," Grantaire grinned. He grabbed his boyfriend's face and bestowed a sloppy kiss on his lips.

"Liar," Enjolras automatically accused.

"So, tell me about the show, then," he teased. He knew there was no way in hell Enjolras remembered anything save for the first twenty minutes of the show.

"I got you tickets for your birthday," Enjolras said. Grantaire nodded. "We are in a hotel," he guessed, "and the concert is tonight."

Grantaire stood and jumped on the bed, which only nauseated Enjolras further. "Sorry, love, you're a bit off. Pomegranate vodka ring any bells?"

"No-," Enjolras started, before he was suddenly assaulted with fresh memories flooding his senses.

A clean, crisp hotel room. Hot sex. Grantaire was drinking fucking pomegranate vodka from a bottle. Enjolras took it and threatened to drink some. Grantaire triple dog dared him. Enjolras, for the first time in his twenty-two years, took shots. Five of them, to be precise.

"Goddamn," he sighed. He tried to sit up, and winced in pain. It felt like he had been hit by a car, but not just a car, a car that possibly had chewed him up and spit him out. Grantaire ceased his bouncing and crashed down into his boyfriend's arms.

"I probably should have taken you to the hospital," he admitted, "but I didn't think you'd appreciate that."

"Hospital!"

"Um, well, this happened," Grantaire said, and he pulled the sheets down. Both men were clad only in their boxer briefs.

Enjolras was absolutely covered in cuts and bruises. He noticed a searing pain in his legs, and he wondered why he hadn't noticed sooner that he had three deep scratches up his left calf. Probably deep enough to have required stitches, but they were scabbed over now. Enjolras glared at Grantaire, asking questions with his eyes.

"You insisted on the shots!"

"I quite underestimated the effect they would have on me."

"Obviously," Grantaire snorted. "So, what the fuck did you pick a fight with an escalator for?"

Enjolras turned approximately the color of a beet as the memories came back to him. The shots, then the shuttle from the hotel to the arena where the concert was. The shots of fucking pomegranate fucking vodka. Sitting on Grantaire's lap and making out with him on the shuttle…fuck. Stumbling up to their seats and buying beer…how much beer? Everything was a bit foggy.

"Honestly, I don't remember anything after the first…three…songs?"

"Not even the escalator?"

"No."

"Well, for some reason you picked last night to be your first blackout, then."

"I'm never drinking again ever," Enjolras vowed. He still kept his eyes screwed shut. Grantaire crawled over him and straddled him.

"Let me know how that works out," he said, before leaning down to kiss the blonde. Enjolras opened his eyes and let out an extremely unbecoming scream as Grantaire's hand met his arm.

"What part of 'everything hurts' did you fail to comprehend?"

Grantaire pulled pack, holding Enjolras' hands in his own. He surveyed the damage and whistled. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize that you managed to hit every single stair on your way down," he finished with a chortle.

Enjolras' whole body hurt. He had never been hungover before and he wasn't sure how to make it go away. Grantaire never let his hangovers how like this.

"Would you like a shower?"

"Fuck no," Enjolras replied, pulling the sheets up over his head. He couldn't fathom the idea of standing up in hot water for even five minutes.

"I'll fix you up," Grantaire promised. He tugged at Enjolras' shoulders, ignoring the hiss he made. He pulled the sheets off of his boyfriend with a flourish, exposing Enjolras to the still air of the room. Enjolras stood, and let Grantaire guide him to the bathroom.

Every day, each man wondered what he would do without the other. They were total opposites, but together made a perfect match, like complementary colors.

"Let's see the damage," Grantaire said. He directed Enjolras to stand in front of the full length-mirror that occupied one wall of the lavish bathroom. Enjolras stood, the perfect Vitruvian man, as Grantaire inspected him. He met each bruise with a kiss.

Forehead. Left shoulder. Left bicep. Right wrist. Right collarbone. Left side. Entire left ass cheek. Both shins….the scratches- no, lacerations- on the left shin, especially.

Enjolras watched Grantaire's ministrations in the mirror, and wondered if his boyfriend had any idea how fucking sexy he was.

He put his hands in Grantaire's black curls, prompting him to stand up. "About that shower," he prompted. "I think I'm up for it after all."