Full Summary: Enjolras has never showed him anymore than reluctant acceptance. To feel close to him, Grantaire paints and sketches his Apollo as best he can but it's a waste of paint. He can't seem to capture his more than perfect image. Until, without warning, Enjolras starts warming up to him. He touches him more, includes him more deeply into their activities. His Apollo seems to trust him and it's more than he could ask for. Even with his drinking and hisgeneral discare for life, Enjolras seems to find something in him worth smiling at. But how much will Grantaire suffer before Enjolras realizes that his feelings are more than that of friendship? Through their enemies misdeeds and a nasty riot, can they both admit to what they want? Can their friends accept them? Can Jean accept that Grantaire is beyond his reach?

Set in modern day Rouen, France. The boys are all students (except for Feuilly) and they've come together to form the ABC, a group that picks up causes and plans out protests and volunteer work. Very liberal, very people oriented. I'm going to be using real French issues, as well as world wide issues. I'm American, please bear with me.

Also, as with most of my fics, there will be non-con but there will be happy endings for E and R.

Who could sleep in the mornings when the light was just so perfect? It streamed in so fresh and sweet, too young to have any real heat behind it. It reminded him of walking to school beneath the trees that lined the sidewalks of his street. He'd never been able to wake up properly unless he had a legal reason to so staying up was his only option. It wasn't any hardship on his part. There were read smudges beneath his eyes that spoke more of drink than exhaustion but at this point in his young life those two things went hand in hand. The marks stood stark against his pasty complexion and dark curls, an unruly mess that covered his ears and bunched almost too thick around his head. He'd given up long ago trying to tame it, settling for a well-placed beanie. He had a dozen of them in different colors and patterns but they barely restrained them enough to be called decent in public.

His hair reflected his life. Messy, unkempt, disappointing.

Grantaire grabbed the mug resting on the windowsill, taking a hardy swallow of spiked coffee. It was more whiskey than caffeine at this point (thanks to the bottle he'd brought with him but not the thermos) but he couldn't find it in him to care. It was too early in the day to be judging himself.

"No," Grantaire rasped aloud, the first time he'd spoken in hours, "Always is a good time to judge myself."

Good art was born of suffering.

The first tendrils of self-pity started to crawl up his gut so he took another swallow, drowning them. He clacked down the mug and took up his brush and palette again. He was perched nearly ten feet up on a ladder, the top wide enough and cushioned with an old pillow to make him comfortable. He had propped it right against the wall to reach the thick-silled, curtainless window in his apartment that faced the east so it could catch all that beautiful light and pour it across whatever it could touch. He'd finally found a use for the special-ordered ten foot easel Joly had given him for his birthday last year. At first he'd claimed it the most useless gift an artist could get.

When the hell am I going to need a painting up this high? I mean, honestly?!

But Joly had started to pout and he couldn't take the thought of breaking his happy friend's heart, even for a moment, so he'd corrected himself and swiftly promised to use it when he could. After a little chopping with some hedge clippers, it sat at the perfect height to match his ladder. High-end painting, if you would. There were no shadows up here, no cumbersome angles, just pure light. And up here he had to remain a certain level of sober to get anything done.

His home still held a chill from the night. He didn't have heat or air but thankfully Rouen didn't get hot, even in the peek of summer. But it did freeze and those nights were the worst. His bed was on the second level of the loft, a sturdier oak ladder leading up to it. Most nights, lost at the bottom of a bottle, he couldn't make it. Hence the heavy pile of blankets and pillow arranged in a heavy pillow in front of his only couch, his 'drunk nest' as Courfeyrac called it.

The place was single roomed but it was wide, giving room for book shelves filled with more supplies than paperbacks. A broad, flat desk sat piled with smudged sketch papers and charcoal. Half-finished faces, the first bloom of flowers, messy shadows across cobbled streets, put on hold more than abandoned. He couldn't actually afford to discard any bit of work.

The place was nice. Grey washed walls, lots of windows, high enough above the street to discourage any passing thief. It was rather bare of anything more extravagant than the leather couch he'd pilfered out of an abandoned apartment some months ago. Maybe fifty feet of walking space between the door and the wall, the small second floor giving it a depth it sorely needed. His friends called it cramped, too small for a grown man to live in, but he loved it for it's flaws. Like most things in his life it was flawed, unable to live up to expectations, and he couldn't judge it anymore than he wanted others to judge him.

When his mother had died she'd left him with a rather hefty inheritance. Kicked out and disowned by his family, cut off from the overflowing wallet of his father, he used her gift to keep him housed. With as cheaply as he lived he could milk it for a few more years before he'd have to really consider getting another job. His kindly mother had disapproved of his choice to be an artist so he dared not put a dime of her money into drink or paint so whatever he sold he used to keep the wine flowing and the supplies well-stocked.

Again, he could not afford to abandon even a sketch.

Grantaire plucked his robe up higher on his shoulder from where it had slipped, ignoring the smear well blended gold he smeared across his neck doing so. A gift from his cold sister from when he was young, the cloth brushed a bit below his knees and was woven from a soft cotton. It was dark, almost too much against his skin, but it covered his modesty and he liked to use the few things he owned. No matter where they came from.

The first few strokes across the canvas were practiced and small, simple curves of his brush. Dabbing in just a few dots of scarlet, he continued. Soon his vision came to life, a head full of golden curls appearing across the paper. He darkened it up, layered it, then went on.

He continued like that for about an hour until the sun grew too strong in the sky. He collected the blends in a few small jars and stopped them up with corks to keep them wet. He slipped them into the pockets of his robe, putting one paintbrush behind his ear while he stuck the other between his teeth. Balancing the pallet in his fingers, he swung himself around and started the climb down. He couldn't resist one last, lingering look at the marked canvas.

A mop of golden curls, tinted with blood, and the beginning of a shadowed profile.

Grantaire's heart throbbed painfully, he resumed his descent.

He washed off the pallet and scrubbed weakly at his neck and fingers, getting off what stains he could. There were probably more but he didn't care about anything past a power nap before the meeting. The ABC were joining up to discuss...something or other. He couldn't really remember what the hasty phone call from Combeferre had been about. He set the vials on a shelf, put the brushes back in their jar, and laid the palette on a towel.

Everything in it's place. Including him.

Grantaire had just settled down into his nest when a buzzing sound came from beneath him. He rooted around for a while, bringing up a candy bar that he'd long forgotten about. He stuffed half of it in his mouth before continuing his search. It was his phone. He flipped it open and found two texts. The one from Combeferre reminded him to go to class tonight after the meeting, the other from Lesgle told him he'd buy him dinner if he came to the meeting early.

Grantaire smiled as he laid back down. Lesgle thought he was being subtle but his attempt to make sure he ate enough was obvious. Sure he didn't spend a lot of money on food but he had limited resources and liquor was cheaper anyway. The two pounds he'd lost this year were starting to look obvious on his frame and he couldn't quite bring himself to turn down free food.

He tilted his head back until he could see his painting, the image threatening to shimmer in the brightening sun.

He fell asleep with the image of his Apollo seared behind his eyelids.

xXx

Grantaire woke up only a little hung-over, the chime of his phone giving him thirty minute warning. His mouth was dry but he wasn't nauseas. He managed a shower but didn't bother to look in the mirror, knowing he'd only hate what he saw. Instead he dragged a dark grey beanie over his head and slid some stone-washed jeans over his legs. Boots, some kind of threadbare t-shirt that was fraying on the sleeves, his backpack, his skateboard, and he was gone.

The air was crisp, the sun disappearing behind the clouds to give the city a little chill. The Les Amis cafe was only fifteen minutes by skateboard, he would be lucky to make it on time. Of course, he never really got there when he was supposed to. He loved barging in amidst Enjolras's speeches, forcing the man to stutter over his words for a second and glare before continuing. Even with the break in his flow, the man could bring countries to his knees with the power of his voice and the height of his passion. Most of the time they sat in awe of their fearless leader, other times whipped up into a frenzy by his plans.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't woken up early enough to get a bite. He snatched a pear out of a vendor's box as he passed, blowing a kiss at the irritated old lady who tried in vain to chase him. Still snacking, he glided into the parking lot and stopped only at the edge of the sidewalk. Flipping his board under his arm, Grantaire pushed through the glass doors and strolled in like he owned the place.

Said owner was giving him a look from behind the counter. A pretty woman with her hair cut short, her eyes dark and lips so red he could paint them for days with a dozen different shades and never get them right. The piece he'd done for her birthday was hanging up on the wall he passed. A white canvas with black lines swirled over it, meeting and touching until they formed the abstract shape of a woman with flowing hair. The only color on the piece were those full, blood red lips.

Fantine had almost cried as she hung it on the wall, kissing his cheeks for the thoughtfulness of it. Truth to be told, though the sentiment was there, he had little else to offer her besides his work. Valjean had demanded to pay him for it but he'd refused, instead taking a free coffee now and then in ways of compensation.

Les Amis was a geeky mix of old school coffee shop and book store. Fantine was a brilliant barista and her husband, Valjean, took care of their vast collection of books. They were like a well oiled clock, gliding around the store and seeing to it's every need almost effortlessly. And right now those beautifully deep eyes were shooting him a half-hearted glare.

"What?" Grantaire mumbled around a bite of fruit.

"You're late," Valjean sung from somewhere upstairs, shoes clacking on the hardwood above his head on the second floor. That's where the books lived, that's where the older man thrived.

"He's not wrong," Fantine cocked her head toward the door that led up to the attic, the one only employees were supposed to go through, "You'll interrupt him again."

"Oh, we don't that, do we?" Grantaire waggled his eyebrows at her as he passed, pushing open the door with his hip, "Wish me luck. I may come back in a bucket."

"I'll be sure to bake whatever's left of you into the muffins," Fantine's voice followed him up the stairs, "Think of that, my dear, spiked muffins. I think it'll be a special."

Valjean's deep laugh echoed through the thin hallway, chasing his footsteps all the way up. He finished his pear when he popped open the door at the top, dropping the last bit of the browning fruit into the bin right inside. The attic had been converted nearly a year ago into a meeting place for their group, littered with charts and tables and chairs. Everything a rag-tag group of freedom fighters needed to organize their escapades.

Grantaire slowly shut the door, tip-toeing toward the biggest of the tables. The gang was all there, including their beautiful leader amidst a passionate ramble on about their newest focus. François Hollande, their current president. Enjolras was always going back and forth on the man's worth, how good he was for the country and his people. Their welfare state was being threatened and only time could tell if Hollande would hold true to his "tax the rich" ways. Though they all came from wealthy families, most had renounced their bourgeoisie ways but there was still a few of them who couldn't afford it. Lesgle parents were good people and his father was an ambassador, he let them tromp all over his home when he wasn't there (which was a lot). Jean's parents were wealthy too and gave their son everything he asked for, which wasn't much more than an emergency card and an allowance. Petty cash really in comparison to what they were sitting on.

Everyone seemed enraptured. So it was even more obvious when Enjolras stopped mid-word and stared him down, causing all heads to turn in his direction. Of course this was when his headache decided to flare and he nearly tripped into his seat, pulling his beanie down a bit to try and hide his eyes.

"Grantaire."

"He speaks," Grantaire started with a grin, "Oh speak again, bright angel!"

"You're late," Enjolras's lips curled in a faint scowl, "Drunk, I suppose?"

"Hung-over," Grantaire corrected with a sharp gesture, "Please, continue. I'll just sit here and be extra, super quiet."

"See that you do," his voice was clipped but it didn't hide the strange tone in his voice. Usually Enjolras didn't stop and call him out but today seemed to be different. Grantaire looked down to find Jean pushing a croissant in front of him along with a small water and a bottle of paracetamol.

"Are you not the sweetest thing God ever did put on this Earth?" Grantaire cooed, pinching Jean's blushing cheek. He shot a wink at Enjolras, their leader did not look amused.

"Is he not?" Grantaire needled playfully, looking back to Jean with a widening smile, "If he is our shining Apollo then surely you are our caring Hestia?"

As always, without fail, something softened on Enjolras's face at the nickname. But it was just a moment. Grantaire didn't catch it, too busy pinching both of Jean's cheeks and making him laugh, but the others couldn't miss it.

"And now you have my silence," Grantaire promised, leaning back in his seat and taking up the medicine, "On you go."

"How gracious of you."

Grantaire shrugged off the icy tone and went about taking his meds and downing the water. The bread was consumed much slower, fingers pinching off bits and pieces at a time and popping them between his lips. He was starting to feel a more ravenous hunger but he didn't want to show his desperation in front of the others. He suddenly wished he'd worked on something else this morning besides that selfishly beautiful painting. If it turned out half as well as he hoped it would he could easily make a few hundred off it. Sadly, he knew he wouldn't give up the new painting without a serious fight so it was more of a time filler than a job.

Maybe a career in art alone wasn't what he needed. Producing a nice piece and selling it quickly wasn't quite the creative motivation he required. It was like sending children off into the world without so much as coins in their pocket. Unprepared, incomplete, forced.

"You're still hungry," Jean didn't phrase it like a question, starting to stand up, "Let me get you something."

"Stop fussing, Jean," Grantaire grabbed his arm and started to pull him back down into the chair.

"Sit down!" Enjolras exclaimed between complete thoughts, pointing accusingly at the seat. Jean sat down obediently, smiling apologetically at his friend but only getting an eye roll in return. Grantaire shook his finger at him in a mocking manner, mouthing you should know better.

So the meeting droned on and Grantaire lost himself in the dulcet tones of their leader, falling in an out of his cadence. Like standing in the ocean, refusing to move, letting it rock you. It was just as calming. When Enjolras finally turned his back to start sticking pins in the map mounted on the cork board, Grantaire ripped off his beanie and scratched through his hair, satisfying the itch on his scalp. Jean clucked and started trying to smooth the unruly curls but it didn't feel right. He liked Jean, loved him like a brother (as he did most of the ABC), but it made him uncomfortable to have anyone touch him in front of Enjolras. He knew his love was doomed and one-sided, he knew he was meant for a life of suffering and pining, but he still felt like he was saving himself for his Apollo. Maybe for the day Enjolras went crazy and decided to be with him, maybe for a quick drunk fuck, maybe for a mistake. He wasn't sure what he was waiting on but he was waiting, nonetheless.

It was one thing to have a clumsy make-out session with a stranger in his loft or at a party, it was quite another to have a mutual friend show him such warm affection in front of everyone. Maybe some other time but not with Enjolras ready to turn around any moment.

Grantaire saw the start of the swivel in just enough time to slap Jean's hand out of his hair and shove the beanie back on, hiding his unruly mop. His friend looked a little put out but he said nothing, instead turning his attention back to their leader.

If the welfare state fell through, if Hollande mucked it up, then there would be mass protests.

"If it comes to that, we must be prepared," Enjolras snapped his folder shut, laying it on the table, "Let's end it for today. On Saturday I want us to meet again for rally points and prepared research on the type of uproar we'll be facing. It won't just be pacifists out there this time. I'm afraid violence will taint the whole display."

"I'll put my ear to the ground and see what kind of arsenal we'll be up against," Courfeyrac assured him, making a few more notes, "I doubt there'll be any lethal guns but I wouldn't put it past them to whip out the adamsite and the beanbag rounds."

Bahorel hissed in through his teeth, "Are those the baggies with that grapeshot, bird shot shit inside them that kind of go phoosh when they smack stuff?"

Coufeyrac gave a smile without teeth, trying not to laugh, "Yes."

"God, I hate those," the ravenette rubbed his stomach, feeling the phantom sting, "I'm never doing another one with those things around. I'll take rubber bullets over those."

"We won't really have much choice, will we?" Feuilly pointed out, looking down at his watch, "I've got the evening shift, I'm out."

"Make sure you pick up something healthy on the way there," Combeferre pointed out as he sorted his papers and stuffed them into his messenger bag, "Watch your blood sugar."

"Yes, mother," Feuilly chuckled, slinging his backpack up onto his shoulder, "Good luck with your books, boys, it's time for the men to go to their real jobs."

"Men? I see no men here," Bahorel laughed outright.

He got a good smack in the head as the older men left the room, leaving him wrinkling his nose and rubbing a hand through his hair to ease the ache.

"Boys?" Fantine's voice carried up from the open door, "If you're done, I have a new canele recipe I sure would like to get an opinion on."

That grabbed their attention. Joly and Lesgle jammed up the thin door trying to get out at the same time. Combeferre parted them easily, taking down the stairs on quick feet. Jean and Bahorel fought to get down first as well, the raventte playing dirty with an elbow to the ribs.

"Did you see that?" Jean whined to Couferyac as he started down the stairs, rubbing his stomach.

"Yes, yes, he's a great brute," the older boy with dark curls followed, closing the door behind him, "Fantine always gives you more anyway, I don't know why you're complaining."

Grantaire stood slowly and threw his backpack over his shoulder, slapping his skateboard on the table as he struggled with the other strap.

" 'Taire?"

Grantaire straightened to attention, wincing when the bag fell off his arm with a hard thud. Enjolras was walking toward him with a sort of purpose, hand rooting around inside his bag. He pulled out a handkerchief and a small jar of vaseline, sitting them on the table next to the cynic.

"I haven't had one drink today," Grantaire started his usual speech, trying not to roll his eyes, "I haven't smoked. I'm even sorry I interrupted you."

Enjolras cocked his head slightly, "And you plan to go to class tonight?"

"Yeah," the ravenette snorted lightly, "It's Philosophy of Love and Sex in Art, with an emphasis on paintings. You think I'm going to miss that?"

Enjolras huffed, "Did you even look in the mirror this morning?"

Grantaire self consciously ran his hand over his hat, as if to smooth his hair, "What's wrong?"

The blonde broke a smile, just a flash of teeth, "You're hopeless, you know that? Hold still."

Grantaire didn't even flinch as Enjolras dipped the rag into the vaseline and rubbed it across his cheek, just below his eye. The blonde grabbed his cheek to hold him still, rubbing it in more firmly.

"Stay still for a minute," Enjolras commanded.

Grantaire closed his eyes and savored the feeling of the other so close and touching him, letting his warmth soak in much like a plant would. The times they touched were few and far between and it made him crave it three times as much. His dreams were fueled by pats on the shoulders and accidental thigh brushes. If he breathed deep enough he could smell the cinnamon soap Enjolras preferred, one of the few luxuries he'd kept in his life after running away from home. The man was just three years older than him but he felt like this huge power standing in front of him, setting him off-kilter in the best way.

He could wax years of poetry about the intoxication of this man but he'd settle for his plethora of sketches of small paintings. The one from this morning was the first big piece he'd planned in the likeness of his mighty leader.

"What were you doing up so early?"

"Huh?" Grantaire blinked a few times, shaking off his daydreams.

"I'm trying to make polite conversation, do keep up," Enjolras tisked, "Lesgle said you were supposed to come early to eat but you slept instead. A nap in the middle of the day? I can only assume you were up quite early. Or late."

"I didn't sleep last night," Grantaire found himself admitting, "Can I ask what the hell you're doing?"

"Another minute," Enjolras's eyes danced to the clock on the wall, "And you didn't answer my question. What kept you from sleeping?"

Grantaire wet his lips, feeling the truth bubbling up his throat, "Do you know how amazing the light is when the sun first comes up?"

"As an artist, I'm sure you appreciate it much more than I," Enjolras pointed out, "What were you working on as the sun came up?"

"A new painting."

"Anything impressive?"

"I'd like to think so," Grantaire's heart was sputtering in his chest. Enjolras almost never asked him about his art. Hell, their conversation were always limited to the newest movement or affirmative action. Either that or some form of scolding.

"What is it of?" the blonde asked idly, watching the clock.

"God," Grantaire answered without a second thought. Enjolras's eyes rounded just a bit at the statement, head turning to look at him like he'd just grown an extra ear. And dear Powers That Be, did he love his one true god unconditionally. Those flaxen curls that caught every speck of light and changed color with the shifting of the clouds, how was he supposed to paint such a miracle? Those eyes, wide now but usually narrowed in anger, couldn't be placed. That color was special, one he couldn't quite mix with simple paint. He'd blown through two commissions trying to recreate it.

"And here I thought you didn't believe in anything," the orator tisked.

"One thing."

The honesty of his words were starting to burn a hole in his tongue. His cheek was tingled and Enjolras's fingers were burning fine lines into his jaw, forcing goosebumps along the line of his neck. The older boy (man? Were any of them men, truly?) looked like he was going to push it but a quick glance at the clock stopped his train of thought. Enjolras took the handkerchief and started wiping at Grantaire's cheek, firm enough at first but then a little diggingly. He winced at the pressure, unable to stop himself.

"Sorry," Enjolras murmured, brow furrowed in concentration.

"What are you-?"

"Done," the blonde declared, pulling the cloth back and showing it to him. A red stain now marred the white material, too bright to be blood. Grantaire rubbed at his cheek, fingertips coming away clean except for a slight residue from the Vaseline.

"You can't go to class with paint on your face, 'Taire," Enjolras's tongue clicked in almost off-handed detest as he stuffed the things back into his bag, "It simply won't do."

"I must've been distracted this morning, I don't remember it," Grantaire felt much too flustered for such a simply interaction, "I guess I looked kind of stupid."

"I think most would call it artistic," Enjolras's smile was small, barely a curl of lips, but it was there, "Now make something useful of yourself and go to class. And if you don't want Joly bothering you with glucose levels and parallel retention rates, I suggest you grab something to eat on your way out."

Grantaire moved aside to let his leader through. Enjolras walked to the door and paused, grabbing inside his bag once more in a way that showed he'd forgotten about something. Thinking fast, Grantaire pulled his overly-expensive-but-totally-worth-it camera out of the side of his backpack and flipped it on. He had a gut feeling about the next moment and couldn't stop himself from flipping it on and putting on the right settings for a high contrast picture. Peering through the lens, he watched Enjolras pull the stained handkerchief from his bag and stare down at it. A thoughtful crease came to his brow, a tightness to his jaw.

Perfect.

Grantaire snapped the photo as quick as he could, grinning behind the device. Enjolras looked up sharply, glaring.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Grantaire promised, slipping the camera away, "You first, O' Righteous One."

Enjolras tossed the rag away before hurrying down the stairs, a quick stride showing his agitation. Grantaire thought about calling out to him but decided against it. He'd ruined another could-be-tender moment between the two of them, what else was new?

But this time...this time he'd gotten a picture out of it.

As always, check out my tumblr for more info or cool photosets or just to see me :)

I'm only doing this to take a break from my other two fics, I just need to stretch a bit and taste something a little different. I hope you love it. I've got ten chapters planned so if you see something you like here, just tell me. Maybe something you want to see? Maybe you just want more? Review if you can, I'll appreciate it