Hello all! It's been a while since I've spent time working on a fic, but I decided to give it a shot again. I'm still figuring out the workings of this story, so it may be a little bit frazzled at first. I would love if someone were to beta for me, so if you're interested, I would be eternally grateful for a PM from you! I hope you enjoy and I beg that you tell me what you think. Really. Suggestions, critiques, hopes for the story...I crave it all. Also, I ran with the canon reference that Grantaire is a shoemaker, but don't worry, he's still an artist. Okay, on with the story, then! Thanks for reading!

"Are you sure they fit?"

"They're perfect, Grantaire. Really. I have not met your match in cobbling," Combeferre stood, looking down at his feet as he wiggled his toes around in the leather boots. The brunette sitting in front of him furrowed his brow, evaluating his work even now, after having been assured of its quality numerous times. He sighed and got to his feet.

"Thank you, Combeferre. I'm glad you trust me with your feet," Grantaire flashed the man a grin and brushed off his apron, then gestured for him to follow to the front of the shop. Combeferre gathered his things and paid for the shoes.

"Thank you, R. I'll be sure to tell les amis that they should never purchase boots again if they do not purchase them from you,"

With one last grateful smile and a pleasant exchange of goodbyes, Grantaire saw the blonde off with a wave, then reentered the shop. He threw his polishing cloth over his shoulder and knelt to busy himself in the caring of leather. There were two more orders still to be cut and measured before he could leave, and the sun was already yawning in its ever-sinking position in the sky.

It wasn't until dusk had completely fallen and he was working by the dim, flickering light of a half-burned candle that he heard the door open. Grantaire tilted his head as he stood, wondering who could possibly have such vital shoe needs that they would come past sunset. Perhaps Combeferre had encountered a problem with his boot. A tear, maybe. A give in the sole. He straightened and meandered into the front room, wiping his hands on his polishing cloth.

The figure that stood idly near the counter was most assuredly not Combeferre. He was shorter, with darker hair and a whimsical gleam in his eye that one would never find in the scholar's. A slight smile hung crooked on his lips as he drummed his fingers against his arm, which was clothed in a flowing shirt and deep blue vest.

Grantaire stepped forward, into the burning candlelight. "Can I help you, monsieur?"

The figure turned his head at the noise, his slight smile melting into a gleeful grin. He moved closer to the shoemaker, unfolding his arms and sticking out his hand expectantly. "You must be Grantaire!" he exclaimed, taking R's hesitant hand and shaking it vigorously. "Combeferre was just speaking wonders about you at the café, and I simply would not believe that such a skilled cobbler worked so near and we've never heard of him! So I figured it would be best if I were to stop by and see for myself,"

Grantaire's eyes grew wide as he stared at the young man, who was brighter and more exuberant than anyone he had ever seen. He laughed warmly at the praise, returning his cloth to his shoulder. "That's very generous of him. I'm glad he was pleased with the shoes. And you are…?"

"Oh! I can't believe I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Prouvaire. Jean Prouvaire,"

"Ah, Jehan! Oui, Combeferre has spoken highly of your writing,"

The poet immediately turned an impressive shade of pink and almost visibly swooned. "He's wonderful for saying so, but I just dabble, really. A poem here or there. You know, nothing extraordinary,"

"Seems extraordinary to me," Grantaire said, leaning against the counter. "I couldn't squeeze a sentence from these hands, let alone a poem. I'm sure your work is as impressive as 'Ferre made it out to be," Jehan blushed and looked down at his feet, a hand reaching up to run through his brown hair. "So, Jean Jehan Prouvaire, was this merely a social visit, or have you come to order some of my famous leather shoes?"

The man looked up, that warm smile seemingly permanent on his lips. "Of course I'm going to buy some of your shoes. I must see for myself what all the fuss is about, after all. I can return tomorrow, if you're busy, though,"

Grantaire shook his head and motioned for him to follow as he returned to the back room. "I was just cutting the material for some other orders. It'll be no trouble at all to get your measurements,"

"Wonderful!" Jehan bounced after him and sat down in the chair that he was instructed to reside in. He looked curiously about the shop, his eyes wide in a manner that mocked innocence and goodwill. Grantaire thought the man resembled a living embodiment of a pastry, all light and twinkling and sweet, as if he were continuously surprised by the goodness of the world. R shook his head and smiled to himself. It was lovely to meet a man with such an amicable disposition, but he could never see himself being that way. The world proved to be more bad than good, and it took enough energy to act as if it were anything to begin with, let alone act chipper and happy to be alive. The shoemaker got to his knees and began unlacing Jean's boots, then set them on the floor.

"So tell me, Grantaire. How is it that you are so well acquainted with Combeferre and he still has not dragged you to one of Enjolras' meetings?" Jean asked, leaning back in the chair as Grantaire took out his measure and began marking numbers on a sheet of parchment.

"Oh, he's tried. Believe me, he's relentless. It's just…not really my area of expertise. Freedom, rebellion, activism," the raven haired man shrugged and pulled a large sheet of leather from the table, placing it beneath the other man's foot. "I don't really care for it,"

"You don't care for freedom?" the poet raised an eyebrow. R sighed.

"It's not that, I…I don't see much of a future for the revolution," he admitted, etching marks into the leather around Jehan's foot.

"You believe we're all fighting for nothing?"

"No! No, of course not. I just don't…I'm not…I wasn't trying to offend you, monsieur,"

Jehan laughed and waved off his stammering with a careless hand. "I am not the least bit offended, simply curious. I can see how it might seem…useless. But it's empowering, really. It's a purpose, something to live for. And it brings the lot of us together. You should consider it. And please, call me Jehan,"

Grantaire nodded and switched to marking the other foot. "It just seems a bit…naïve. Thinking that you can change the world. I think I'd feel like a fraud if I attended a meeting," He finished with the markings and slid the leather out from beneath his feet, then began helping him with his shoes.

"You might," Jean agreed, standing so that he could finish donning his boots himself. He bent to lace them and then straightened, looking Grantaire in the eye. "But you'll never know unless you come. There's one tomorrow night at the café. I trust you know where it is. I look forward to seeing you there," he flashed him a wild grin and slipped out the door, leaving a few sous on the table as a tip. Grantaire stood dumb for a moment before swinging around the corner and catching the sway of the front door as Jehan left. He rushed towards it and stuck his head outside.

"I didn't say I would come!" he called after the slight figure descending into the darkness of the street.

"But you will!"

With that, he was gone, leaving Grantaire with the smell of animal hide and shoe polish and the ghosting curiosity that made him grudgingly admit that the poet was probably right.