For the tenth time that day, Grantaire found himself staring at Bahorel's text message informing him of the meeting of the Amis that night. After a moment of silent cursing, he quickly shoved it into his pocket, hoping that his traitorous hands would forget about the information that weighed down his pocket, stretching his awareness to that place and time that he knew he could see Enjolras. With trembling fingers, he finished wiping down the counter that had been abandoned in his useless staring contest with his phone. He stubbornly refused to acknowledge the electric thrill that jolted his stomach at the thought of seeing Enjolras again, because he wasn't going to go. He had to stay away from Enjolras. He was dangerous.

Grantaire was already in a shitty situation. He couldn't drag Enjolras into it, not only because of his pride, but the risk of Grantaire becoming utterly destroyed under the pressure of both Pierre and Enjolras. Enjolras would be sickened by Grantaire's abusive relationship. Pierre would be sure to take out his anger at Grantaire's unstable emotions quite often. On Grantaire. And Grantaire wasn't sure which was worse. There was the deep shame curling in his belly, the heaviness of knowing that he was in an abusive relationship and not worth saving. He didn't know how he could handle Enjolras' shock and horror at his discovery of Pierre's abuse, but he didn't want to anger Pierre either. The only solution was to stay far, far away from that red and gold silhouette that haunted his subconscious. Giving in would only make it worse.

Somehow he made it through the rest of his shift without pulling out his phone. He mostly did this my doodling on napkins behind the counter to pass the time, but unfortunately found that his napkins comprised of arching eyebrow, curls masking wide set eyes and slender hands that were much to familiar to Grantaire's memory for his comfort. He quickly threw them in the garbage, disregarding the urge to cast one lingering glance over the inky lines that converged to make a face that Grantaire couldn't comprehend. Enjolras should not have seeped into his veins so quickly, should not already be bursting out of him. Grantaire should not be able to draw the quirk of those full lips without even realizing it. He shouldn't; but he did, and it made his hands tremble with a kind of desperation that he had only ever acquainted with alcohol. But this shaking wasn't a craving for alcohol and Grantaire knew it, and the thought made his stomach lurch and his throat burned as he kept the wetness from his eyes.

He retrieved his coat and left, walking briskly through the windy streets of Paris, steadfastly ignoring the thumping of his heart and the nauseous twisting of his gut as he was reminded yet again that he had not had enough alcohol today. He almost turned at a flash of blonde curls in his peripheral vision, but restrained the urge, forcing himself to breathe normally and to quicken his steps as he pulled his coat closer to him, wrapping himself protectively from the image of Enjolras in these very streets, leading his own life, a life that Grantaire would never allow himself to know. Grantaire kept his head down, partly to hide his face from the nipping wind, but also to watch himself place one foot in front of the other, his ratty converse making their way unsteadily over the uneven cobblestones.

Grantaire found his feet wandering through the park near his apartment, enjoying the weak sunlight filtering it's way through the bare tree branches, his steps crunching vibrant leaves underfoot. The air was crisp, with the teasing bite of the oncoming winter, and Grantaire smiled into his scarf. Grantaire enjoyed the fall, the graceful descent into death complimented his mindset, his moods. There was nothing more satisfying than seeing a red leaf fall, twirling in its last twitches of agony, towards the cold hard ground. It was innately satisfying and beautiful in a morbid way that fascinated Grantaire. He enjoyed the musky smell that carried a hint of apple and smoky scent emitted from chimney tops.

Grantaire found a bench to sit on, and let himself enjoy these few moments of peace. Things had been tense at home and at work. Grantaire felt eyes on him everywhere, and it was a luxury to have a few moments to himself. He perked up at this opportunity to relax, to engage in one of his favorite activities-people watching. As a person who dabbled in drawing and painting occasionally, he found himself fascinated with human beings. Not only their clothing, their gestures, their actions, but seeing the great diversity that came to a certain place for various reasons. There were young and old, students and businessmen, the occasional musician and someone working on their laptop or reading. Grantaire relished in watching these people, picking up on their tiny idiosyncrasies. There was a lady who ran by every afternoon at two, blasting Fall Out Boy so loud that Grantaire could hear the familiar chords every time she ran by. There was the old couple who came every week, always on the same bench, but with different books. The man was going through biographies; the woman was reading young adult fiction. Grantaire recognized a few titles. Sometimes he pulled out a cigarette, enjoying the languorous drag and the swirling patterns of smoke. Other times he would just sit and watch, or bring a book to read.

Only once or twice, had he brought a piece of paper and allowed himself to do some sketching. Grantaire found that he was most at peace when he was absorbed in art. He hardly noticed how dark the world around him was, hardly felt the pounding headache, almost forgot the apartment that stood waiting for him, a stranger that he almost knew most likely wondering where he was. Today, Grantaire just watched the people pass by, smiling as he overheard some conversations, frowning as he heard others. He tipped his head back on the bench, closing his eyes. The breeze ruffled his hair, playfully tugging curls over his head. He was sure to have terribly messy hair when he got home.

Slowly, the shade of the tree behind him crept up to overtake him and he sighed heavily, deciding it was time to get back to the apartment that he dreaded. He stood to go back, having almost forgotten the extra weight of the phone in his pocket, but being betrayed by the fingers that slipped into his pocket to softly caress it, checking that it was still there, almost as if it were a lifeline. As he hurried to his flat, he felt his walls come back up, and forced himself to take deep breaths, placing a false calm on his exterior that he didn't quite understand. But Grantaire had spent years on the streets, he knew when to put up an act, and he could put on a damn good one.

"Where have you been?" Pierre asked as soon as the door shut behind him. He didn't sound angry, but that was worse. Pierre was only ever deadly calm when he was the most angry. He persecuted Grantaire with a cold efficiency that chilled Grantaire to the bone. There was never a warning when the abuse came.

Grantaire forced himself to act normally, taking off his coat and scarf to hang them up, before replying. "It was a nice day, so I went for a walk in the park." Pierre had never been angry with Grantaire going for a walk, though he sometimes mentioned that it was a waste of time that he could be using more "constructively," to use his exact wording.

"Well, I was wondering where you were. You should have let me know that you weren't going to be home for a while." Pierre's voice was conciliatory, tinged with worry. Grantaire almost believed his sincerity, until he saw the ice in Pierre's eyes. It wasn't about Grantaire's wellbeing. It was about Pierre's dominance. Grantaire pretended he didn't know, lowering his eyes in what Pierre took as a submissive gesture. "I'm going to be gone tonight, there's a work gathering."

Grantaire nodded. Pierre had these work gatherings relatively often. Grantaire was never allowed to go because Pierre would be embarrassed to introduce his boyfriend, the barista with no future. Sometimes Grantaire got the sneaking suspicion that Pierre was cheating on him. He told himself that he didn't care, that he knew their relationship was normal, that he wanted Pierre to spend less time with him anyway because Pierre made him nervous. But no matter what he told himself, it still hurt on those nights when he didn't come home until the early hours of the morning, smelling slightly of alcohol and stealing into bed like a child caught out of bed. It didn't change the fact that his cold and empty bed seemed to press itself around him, strangling him, or the fact that by the end of the night his pillow was wet and he had spent half the night tidying up to distract himself from the barren loneliness that stretched deep inside of him.

Grantaire occupied himself with tedious household chores, trying to keep his hands busy as Pierre got ready for the night, showering, shaving, dressing carefully and double checking himself in the mirror. He determinedly paid no attention to Pierre's preening and even less to the fact that he had left his phone in his coat pocket. Pierre eventually left, with a "I'll be back late; don't wait up," called over his shoulder and the door clicking shut just a little too firmly, betraying Pierre's enthusiasm at leaving Grantaire behind.

Grantaire was left in the hollow flat, wringing his hands as silence settled into the dimness around him. He absentmindedly checked the clock before heading back towards the door and grabbing his coat. He found himself two streets down from his house before realizing that he had even left it. He shook himself, and turned back to his apartment. As he arrived, he saw a familiar figure loitering by his door.

"Bahorel?" Grantaire squinted through the twilight, surprised Bahorel even knew where he lived.

"R! Where have you been? I thought you'd be home, or at least that Pierre would be." Bahorel grinned, clapping Grantiare's shoulder in greeting.

"Nah, he had to go to some work gathering." Grantaire played his voice off as casual, wincing slightly at the sting of Bahorel's hand.

"And he didn't invite you? That was a little rude of him." Bahorel was smiling, but Grantaire knew from his inflection that Bahorel wasn't happy. Bahorel had never been a huge fan of Pierre, thinking that Grantaire could do much better, and that was most likely their only bone of contention.

"It's fine. I was looking forward to the flat to myself. Why are you here? Don't you have that meeting?"

"I'm picking you up, loser. We have to run cause we are going to be late." Bahorel grabbed Grantaire's arm and started pulling him quickly down the sidewalk as Grantaire's brain struggled to keep up with Bahorel's far-fetched explanations.

"Bahorel, I'm not going!"

"Why not? I know you're curious." Bahorel was still marching deliberately down the street, but he had to do less pulling now that Grantaire's legs had caught up to the task.

"Because! First of all Pierre doesn't know. Secondly, I'd rather not involve myself in something I find to be utter bullshit, and thirdly I don't actually want to go." Grantaire's voice was firm. He couldn't have Pierre finding out about this.

"Ok, well fuck Pierre. He doesn't control you Grantaire. What's the worst thing that could happen if he found out?"

Grantaire kept silent, unwilling to look at Bahorel, because if he did, he would break down and tell Bahorel. And he could not do that. Grantaire was tough, and he didn't want Bahorel's pity.

"Just don't tell him, man. What he doesn't know won't kill him. He doesn't get back until late right? Just get home before he does and you'll be fine." Bahorel's tone was soft, and Grantaire hated it, but he did concede that Bahorel had a point there.

"Fine. I'll go. Just this once, Bahorel. This can't be a regular thing." Grantaire's statement sounded week, even to his own ears, but he pretended that he was fine and continued to walk beside Bahorel, discreetly putting some distance between them, as if not touching him would conceal his thoughts from Bahorel. The remainder of the walk was silent, the muffled sound of their feet hitting the pavement only broken by the occasional sound of a rumbling car or distant bursts of conversation.

The meeting was located in the Café Musain, a few streets down from the café where Grantaire spent his mornings serving people. It was small, but Grantaire had been there a few times and knew that the food was decent, even if their selection of alcohol left something to be desired. It was cozy inside, somewhat cluttered, but with a homely feel. Bahorel led Grantaire to the back room, where a conglomeration of people was mingling around the room. There looked to be about ten people there, all in their twenties. Grantaire took a table towards the back and Bahorel joined him.

Grantaire had spotted Enjolras as soon as he had walked into the room. His curls shone in the electrical light as he organized papers and files on the table in front of him. He was flanked by two other men, who seemed to be flirting over his head. Enjolras was oblivious to this as he scanned the room with his azure gaze. Their eyes met and Enjolras smiled slightly at him. Grantaire felt his hands dampen against the beer that Bahorel had given him. He gave what he hoped was a smile, but feared it was more of a grimace. Then, he dragged his eyes away, to look anywhere but at Enjolras' penetrating stare.

"Boy, you got it bad." Bahorel interrupted Grantaire's staring match with his beer bottle, his voice lowered and slightly teasing. Grantaire punched Bahorel's shoulder.

"Shut the fuck up man. You don't know anything."

"Don't be an idiot Grantaire. I have known you for a while and I'm just worried about you ok?" Bahorel's brow was furrowed, concern in his eyes. Grantaire dropped his gaze.

"Well, it's none of your business," Grantaire muttered as he brought the bottle to his lips. He hated the necessity of being on his own, of lying to Bahorel, who he considered a brother, but some things were better left alone. He pulled his defensive barriers closer around him.

"Just be careful," Bahorel said softly. Grantaire didn't respond, glaring at the scratches on the tabletop as if they had personally offended him.

Enjolras stood, calling attention to himself with a clearing of the throat. Grantaire kept his gaze down, refusing to look at the figure that commanded the room and Grantaire's sanity it would appear. Then Enjolras began to speak. He was impassioned, he was glorious, he was the sun. In that moment, Grantaire knew he was lost. He didn't believe in anything that Enjolras said, couldn't understand that Enjolras believed he could change things, couldn't comprehend how he overlooked the basic components of humanity: greed, apathy, hate. And yet, before he had realized it he had raised his eyes to this vision in all his magnificence. Grantaire didn't know how much time passed, but he knew that when Enjolras finished, he was probably gaping at him like a fish. Grantaire quickly lowered his head again, hiding his eyes behind the fringe of dark curls that hung in his face. He started picking the label off of the beer bottle as he listened to Enjolras and his two advisors conclude the business of the meeting, discussing raising awareness and flyers and posters. Eventually Enjolras sat down and started putting his papers away, which seemed to be a universal sign for the end of the meeting, as people got up and started chattering. Grantaire noticed that he was getting some curious glances, and hurried to make his way out of the door, deciding he would apologize to Bahorel for leaving him at their next boxing session.

Grantaire sighed in relief at the chilly night air, feeling his shoulders relax after the tension of the past few hours, between Pierre, Bahorel, and Enjolras. Grantaire fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He paused on the sidewalk to light it and took his first drag, gazing up at the glittering stars above him. He jumped slightly as a voice cut through his reverie. "Those are bad for you, you know."

Grantaire knew immediately that Enjolras was speaking to him. He didn't turn around; he just waited for Enjolras to catch up, measuring his breaths against Enjolras' steadily approaching footsteps. He deliberately took another drag, attempting to calm his nerves, but he could feel his heart pounding in his ears. "I know," he answered Enjolras belatedly, not taking his eyes off of the heavens, somewhat incredulous that Enjolras had desired his company.

"I'm surprised you came. Glad of course, but I hadn't expected it." Enjolras' tone was casual, almost practiced in its ease.

Grantaire huffed a laugh. "Couldn't stay away, Antinous. You're light draws all us cynics, like moths to a flame." He took another drag. Enjolras remained silent at that. Grantaire felt his hot gaze on his face, but he forced himself to continue gazing at the stars. He eventually finished his cigarette and stubbed it under his foot. "I should get home." Grantaire wanted to wander the streets, to feel alive in the dead of night, but he knew he had to be home for Pierre.

"Do you mind if I walk you?" Enjolras' voice was unsure, and Grantaire shot a furtive look at his face. It was slightly troubled, but it wasn't aggressive. He seemed sincere enough in his offer.

"It's your funeral." Grantaire started walking again, not bothering to see if Enjolras followed. Enjolras fell into step with him. They were quiet, Grantaire watching their feet slowly come into sync with each other, Enjolras watching their cold puffs of breath mingle. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, Grantaire's flat wasn't too far off, so he didn't have enough time to decide whether or not he was obligated to make conversation. He was terrified that if he made conversation Enjolras would be bored, but equally terrified that the uncomfortable silence would make Enjolras bored. "This is me," Grantaire said eventually, as he saw the entrance to his building a few feet ahead of him.

"Alright. Thank you for attending the meeting, Grantaire." Enjolras put his hand out to shake, and Grantaire took it hesitantly. Enjolras' hand was warm from his pocket, and Grantaire felt his stiff cold fingers come to life briefly in his grasp.

"Thank you for the escort home, jefe." Grantaire gave a little smirk at Enjolras' narrow-eyed response.

"Hope to see you again soon." Grantaire's heart did not flutter at that. He ignored it completely.

"Good night, Enjolras." Grantaire entered his building and waited until he heard Enjolras' footsteps walking away to climb up the stairs. He collapsed against his door as he shut it and hurried to the window to see if Enjolras was still visible. Enjolras was at the end of the street, under a lamplight with the telltale glow of a lit cigarette between his fingers. His head was dropped back against the lamppost, and Grantaire quickly averted his eyes and forced himself to change out of his clothes and commence his nightly routine.

Grantaire glanced at the lamppost again before shutting the blinds to find the glow of light there empty. He pulled them shut sharply and wondered what he had done in his past life to deserve such a mess. Grantaire flopped on to bed and watched the shadows from the cracks in his blind play on the ceiling. He didn't sleep; his bed remained empty long after the morning sunlight stretched across the barren room.


Combeferre looked up as Enjolras shut the door to their flat. He was clutching a book and there was a cup of tea sitting on the coffee table beside him. It was half empty. "Where have you been?" Combeferre asked as Enjolras began to shed his coat.

"I talked to Grantaire. Walked him home," Enjolras answered shortly. He sat on the couch next to Combeferre.

"Have you been smoking?" Combeferre asked in surprise, wrinkling his nose.

"Is it that obvious?"

"You reek, Enjolras. Are you ok? You haven't had one in a while." Combeferre put his book down carefully, turning to face Enjolras.

"Yes. I'm fine. I don't know what happened, I just found myself with one in my hand." Enjolras looked down at his hands, hating his moment of weakness.

Combeferre sighed and got up to make Enjolras a cup of tea. He could tell that it was going to be a long night; it had been awhile since Enjolras had a cigarette. Obviously something had triggered it, he just needed to find out what happened. Besides, he hadn't been getting any reading done in the first place, too wound up from the meeting and Courfeyrac's increasingly suggestive comments to focus on the plot. On second thought, Combeferre thought, glancing at the morose Enjolras sitting dejectedly on the lumpy couch, perhaps coffee was a better idea than tea.