Les Mis: The Street Artist
The square was a booming center of street art and hustlers. Bright graffiti splattered the walls, cafés awnings shading their patrons. Three young men walked in the sun, enjoying ice cream and coffees. One was tall, with medium dark skin and carefully gelled black hair, thick glasses hiding big brown eyes. Another was shorter, much shorter, and tan with tons of freckles marking most of his body. He had curly light brown hair and smiling light brown eyes. He was grinning up at his tall companion, dimpled cheeks turned up. The last man looked more of a boy than a man. He had soft, floaty blonde hair and gorgeous blue eyes. His haughty beauty earned him many glances from women, which he loftily ignored. He was dressed in a red vest, a bit old fashioned. He was the middle height of his companions, and easily the most attractive. He was enraptured by the art.
"Enjolras," the tall man said. The blonde looked up from a stand of recycled sculptures. "Keep up with me and Courf."
"Coming, Ferre," Enjolras said. The names used for his companions were nicknames, short for Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Despite his promise, he continued examining art. He came across, soon, a bundle of art. He stopped full. "Ferre! Courf! Come see these." The two turned back to look at him and came over, rolling eyes and endorsing grins. The art was layed out on a worn blanket. There were paintings on canvas and watercolor on large sheets and charcoal sketches. Enjolras knelt in front of it, sifting through it. It was wonderful.
"Total shit, I know," came a husky voice. There was a young man sitting behind the art. He had a bottle in his hand and a drunken smile on his scruffy face. Messy dark curls were tucked haphazardly into a green beanie. Enjolras blinked in surprise before smiling.
"Are you the artist?" Enjolras hoped not. He didn't want the man to be associated with these beautiful things.
"Yep," the man said, tipping his head. "The one and only. The name's Grantaire. You?"
"Enjolras," he said. Combeferre and Courf came there. "This is Courfeyrac, and Combeferre." Grantaire smiled.
"French," he noted. "We should start a club. Pretentious bastards with bad luck and French names." Enjolras shook his head and the man resumed his intent drinking.
"This is why the current President is so bad. It's not helping anyone. Look at this," Enjolras stood up. Courf and Ferre exchanged looks. "Vagrancy and blatant inebriation, and this is the nice side of town! It's the new legislation, I swear."
"Okay, no," Grantaire cut it. The three young men turned quickly, startled. "First of all, public drunkenness is legal so long as it doesn't lead to other crimes or driving any motorized vehicle. Second, vagrancy can be a choice and isn't always bad. Also I'm not a vagrant, I'm a street artist. I live in an apartment three blocks down. Third, leading cause of the increased vagrancy in this city is the depression, which began two years before the current president and was too in depth for him to turn it around. Lastly, the president could be the greatest man on earth, but everyone knows that if the system is corrupt the man cannot do much."
The trio blinked in unison. Combeferre looked nervously over at Enjolras. Enjolras blinked again and broke into a slow smile.
"The ABC Cafe," he said, handing Grantaire a piece of paper with a cell phone number scrawled on it in looping cursive. "Wednesdays, Mondays, and Saturdays. 12:00 to 4:45. I think you'll like it." He tossed a quarter into the tin cup of change as Grantaire squinted at the paper. Combeferre and Courfeyrac each fished out some coins as well. Grantaire began to smile.