It was going to rain.
Everyone could tell that, but Enjolras was ignoring that fact. Blatantly. It wasn't hard to see the dark clouds gathering, to hear the wind rustling through the stables next to the Musain in a way that swirled. Grantaire knew that if the wind had a colour here it would be silver. A silvery blue, swirling and clouding, like an artist's canvas. His fingers twitched as he suppressed the urge to reach for his sketchbook and draw the wind. But he stopped himself-he knew it would annoy Enjolras. When the man went on a speech, nothing could stop him. And Grantaire was listening, but not to the words. He was listening to the man, to the sounds coming out of his hard mouth. The passion, the pleading, it was all there in Enjolras' speech to his friends in the back room of the Musain, they could all hear it. Grantaire could see that Combeferre was enthralled and Jehan almost had stars in his eyes, he was listening so hard. And it wasn't difficult. If voices, if tones had colours, Enjolras' would be golden. A golden red. If that wasn't a colour, Grantaire would make it a colour. But then that would make him want to draw Enjolras. And that was a tricky path. He knew that he couldn't draw Enjolras, he could never capture the perfection of the god in front of him. Enjolras' hair shone, his eyes were blue, piercing and firey at the same time. He was uncapturable on paper. Grantaire had tried. He had tried to draw his hands, his thin fingers and flat, lined palms, he had tried to draw his torso, with the red jacket but it had never worked. He had always ended frustrated. Just like he always felt after seeing the man. You couldn't meet Enjolras and not fall in love with him, it was impossible. And you couldn't love Enjolras and have your affections returned, Grantaire knew that much. As did the swarms of girls who chased after their golden leader, as did everyone. He was a golden ice man, a fire you would bring close to warm you and then find it was cold to the touch. He was a mystery and Grantaire wouldn't have had any problems if he was paintable. If only the lonely drunk could paint the love of his life, then everything would be okay. Then he could drown his sorrows in liquor and hues, but alas. You could not capture his stance, his power, his beauty on paper. It was impossible.
Grantaire was brought back to the present by Combeferre's claps and Joly's chair scraping as he stood. Enjolras had stopped speaking.
"Beautiful, Enj, but I really can't stay," Joly said, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. "As interesting as the construction of education is, I have my own education and patients to attend to."
Instead of his eyes darkening, Enjolras' lips quirked into a small smile. "I suppose I have been talking for a while."
"And it's going to rain," Feuilly said calmly, putting on his own coat and clapping Bahorel on the shoulder.
This time Enjolras glowered at him. "It's not going to damn rain, you ass."
Good-natured Feuilly laughed. "Mon ami, it is going to rain. You can hear it in the air."
"You can see it in the wind," Grantaire interjected. Heads turned his way and he grinned at the sudden attention. They often forgot or at least tried to forget that he was there. He knew that. "Can you not see the colours?"
Enjolras shook his head at the tortured artist with the coal black hair. "You're crazy."
Grantaire laughed, feeling a bit drunk, not on liquor, but on the presence of Enjolras. "I'm an artist."
Enjolras picked up his book from the table and sighed. "R, you're good for nothing, fool. That's what you are."
Grantaire was stung by his words but this was typical Enjolras. Nothing was different. Marius shot him an apologetic look as he followed all of Les Amis out the door. Grantaire stayed where he was. He always stayed after these meetings. Drinking was the only way to cloud the pain. It was the only way he could ever cloud the pain, the only way he could ever see the colours with which he could paint Enjolras. The only way he could ever feel like someday there was a possibility that his marble man could love him back.

Enjolras turned the collar of his coat up against the wind that was whistling through the narrow streets of Paris. His beautiful city. He cursed as he looked up at the sky. It was indeed going to rain. It had been such lovely weather this morning, why did it have to change? He chuckled to himself at that. He supposed weather was like people, ever-changing, ever angry and volatile. He sighed and walked down the street at a brisk pace, determined not to get caught in the rain. His vision was so shielded by his coat collar that he did not see the woman to his side until she had thrown herself at him. By reflex he caught her wrists in his hands before she could touch his face and he held her at an arm's length, repulsed. What the hell was she doing?
She smiled at him in what she probably supposed was a seductive manner, but it just disgusted him. She might have been pretty, with thin blonde hair and a full bosom, but he was not interested. He was never interested.
"Hello, pretty," She purred at him, attempting to toss her head. "Why are you walking out?"
His grip on her wrists tightened, determined to keep her away from him. "I'm going home, mademoiselle, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stay away."
Though her wrists were caught in his hands, she still attempted to move her body towards him but he recoiled backwards. "Home to an empty bed? Oh, I'd be happy to help warm it for you."
Enjolras felt a drop on his head. Damn rain. Now he'd get caught in it before he'd get home. He'd have to go back to the Musain and get better clothing, more suited for autumn rain. But first he had to take care of this whore. He let go of her wrists and shoved her back, taking a step back, thus putting distance between them. "I don't want you."
"Well who do you want?" She purred, trying to move in on him again. The rain began to fall in earnest, a silvery coating on the cobblestones. "We have many more. I'd be honoured to be your companion tonight. But if you don't want me...we have bigger girls monsieur."
Enjolras shook his head, and turned on his heel, in the direction of the Musain.
"We have boys too, monsieur!" The whore called out after him in one last attempt but Enjolras just started walking faster, his legs burning with the brisk pace. And his cheeks burning to match, bright roses in them. Boys! As if. And yet….he sighed and took a deep breath to calm himself trying to convince himself that it was perfectly normal to be disgusted by that dirty whore. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean all women were repulsive. He just had to find the right one. He entered the Musain, feeling it's warmth wash over him, running a hand through his damp curls. No one noticed him as he walked to the back room, the meeting space of Les Amis d'ABC. The only place he felt calm.
He groaned internally when he saw that Grantaire was still there, drinking his eyes out. The man would kill himself someday. Not that he cared, Enjolras reminded himself. Grantaire was a good-for-nothing, all artists were. Especially artists who thought they could change the world. And especially Grantaire.
"You came back for me," Grantaire slurred, his head turning to look at his leader. Enjolras felt a twinge of irritation when he noticed that the stubble on Grantaire's cheeks made his face look narrower. He wasn't supposed to notice things like that. Not on Grantaire.
"I didn't come back for you." The reply wasn't as scathing as Enjolras intended and he silently kicked himself. He hated how he had to remind himself to be rude to Grantaire. He had to remind himself that the penniless artist was useless. Because Enjolras was afraid of what would happen if he didn't.
Grantaire shook his head as if that was the response he'd expected. He sighed and took another sip of the wine in front of him. He squeezed his eyes shut as if the sweet wine hurt him, as if everything hurt him. Enjolras felt a pang for him, for the lonely man in front of him. But alas. He couldn't help Grantaire.
In the silence, Enjolras pulled up a chair and sat down near Grantaire, wiping water droplets off the cuffs of his coat. The rain is coming down harder now, a torrent of water outside the cafe. Silvery sheets of rain.
Grantaire saw Enjolras' gaze to the small window and grinned. "So it did rain after all."
Enjolras glared at him. "I know it damn did, I can see that, R."
Grantaire held up his hands in surrender. "Well you said it wouldn't."
Enjolras stood up angrily. "I know what I said!" He turned, trying to control his sudden and shaking anger, running a hand through his blonde hair. He didn't know where this emotion was coming from, what was wrong with him?!
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Grantaire. "I didn't mean anything by it, Enj," He said, quietly. Enjolras could almost smell the sweet wine on his breath.
He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. "I know you didn't. I'm sorry."
Grantaire patted his shoulder and sat down again. Enjolras followed suite and sighed, his long fingers picking at loose threads on his trousers. Grantaire gestured to the marble man and smiled. "Alright then, Enj. Speak it. Your anger, what's going on with you?"
Enjolras glowered at him. "It's nothing. Leave me alone."
Grantaire shook his head and finished draining the wine. "I don't believe you. You can't lie to me, Enjolras, I know you too well."
"You're a bastard."
Grantaire grinned. "I know. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm really the only person right here you can talk to."
Enjolras' hands shook with a passion that he couldn't place. He wanted to punch Grantaire but at the same time he wanted….no, no, he couldn't. He didn't want that, that was wrong and not him. He sighed, trying to control his hands. "I don't divulge the secrets of my heart, Grantaire."
The drunk's eyebrows shot up so quickly it was as if they were on a spring. "Your heart? This is a secret of your heart then?"
He glared at him. "It's none of your business that's what it is." He silently cursed himself. This was nothing that Grantaire needed to know.
"I'll trade you then. A truth of the heart for a truth of the heart. Yours and mine."
"What makes you think I'd tell you anything?"
Grantaire shrugged. "Nothing at all. But I am much too drunk to remember this conversation and I have nothing to lose. You despise me already and you have every right to. I cannot ever possibly make you happy. I am too worthless. And too in love."
Enjolras was taken aback by his bluntness. "Too in love? With what?"
Grantaire grinned, the firelight dancing on his black curls. "Too in love with my art. With life, with drink. With you, you beautiful idiot. I am too in love with you."
Enjolras could feel the colour in his cheeks not just rising but exploding. He felt like he was on fire and his hands were shaking in a way that he didn't understand, couldn't explain. He didn't know what was happening, he didn't like it. He was terrified.
"You who despises me," Grantaire continued in his drunken revel. "You, who thinks I am worthless, a moron. Well I am. I am a moron in love which is a thousand times more dangerous. And-,"
"I don't think you're worthless," Enjolras said suddenly, surprising even himself. It was as if he couldn't control his words, for what came out of his mouth next was not what he had expected to say at all. "I never think you're worthless. I have a cause, I follow it, and you don't. And I envy that freedom that sense of not being committed. I tell myself you are a fool...because I do not understand what would happen if I didn't."
Grantaire's eyes were suddenly afire and he was leaning in his chair, towards Enjolras. "You…" His voice was husky and quiet, sending a chill down Enjolras' spine. "You don't think I am useless?"
Enjolras grinned despite himself. "Only half the time, Taire."
Grantaire grabbed Enjolras' shaking hand, holding on tight, so tight it pinched. Enjolras was so surprised that all he could do was gape.
"Taire," Grantaire said fiercely. "That's what you said, not R, not fool. Why would you say that? What is that? What is going on, Enj? I am not going to remember any of this tomorrow, please tell me one thing. If the answer is no I will leave you alone forever, never burden your cause of you again. But if there is even the slightest….even the tiniest hint in your soul, mind, in your heart that you could feel something, anything for me, you have to tell me."
His eyes were burning and Enjolras was too confused to say anything, so he pressed his lips together in silence.
Grantaire's voice broke. "I'm standing on the edge of the world here, Enj, on the point of abyss and I'm about to fall. All these years I've hoped, I've wondered, I've dreamed that maybe, maybe you could possibly feel something for me, it's kept me up at night, it's driven me to drink. Enjolras, god amongst men, tell me, I'm begging you!"
His eyes searched Enjolras' and the pain, the passion Enjolras saw in them broke his heart. He could see a mirror of his own in them. This was Grantaire's cause, his dream, it was Enjolras. Not the decimation of a government, not the salvation of the poor, not even the salvation of his own soul. But Enjolras. And he was beautiful, that quiet, stupid drunk that Enjolras had always mocked, his strength that Enjolras had always ignored. They were so damn alike. And in that instant, as Enjolras looked inside Grantaire's dark brown eyes, he saw something so much more beautiful than what that whore on that street corner had to offer. So much more beautiful than what any woman had to offer.
And suddenly the moment was broken as Enjolras closed the short space between them and it was a clash of lips and all at once Grantaire's hands were on his torso and his fingers were in the black hair and Enjolras felt elevated, like he could fly, like he could do anything, because Grantaire was so beautiful and he was kissing him and he was his and the revolution mattered less and less and the stupid rain mattered less and less and all there was for Enjolras was Grantaire, just Grantaire.
And as the rain poured down and the flames in the Musain flickered a lost painter found his cause in a god amongst men and the marble man found his solace in the strength of an artist. It was beautiful. It was theirs. They owned the night and until the sun rose on a new day, they were lost in each other's eyes. And it's hard to imagine that they ever really found their way out.