Please ignore all the spelling/grammar/awful mistakes. I don't have the patience to run it through online spell check right now.

The boys crowded up the bar at their favorite pub, elbowing each other for the bartender's attention. The boy manning the drinks was small and blonde with fair skin that grew ruddier with each perverted comment the group threw at him. Every word was accompanied by a smile and punctuated with a wink, keeping the spirits up and light so he didn't think too badly of them.

The boy's name tag read Oliver and it was his first night on the job. They probably wouldn't see him again if his flustered stuttering was anything to go by.

Enjolras swept in with his usual air of grandeur. It was always the kind of entrance that needed its own background score. The only reason the ABC didn't tease their leader was because they knew he never did it on purpose. It was just his natural rhythm and stride. Nothing he could change. He spotted the boys and hurried to them, the way he didn't bother to loosen his scarf or unbutton his coat telling the all he was on a mission.

"Have you seen R?" he asks them all loudly, demanding to be heard over the crowd and the music.

"I'm too drunk for this," one of them muttered, though no one could decipher who exactly said it. They all knew that the two lovebirds had been shacked up (metaphorically) for the past few months and none of them had ever seen a couple more up each other's ass. It was definitely Feuilly who made a rude noise and buried his face in his mug of beer. The rest gave confessed to not have seen their friend for quite some time.

"Well," Joly piped up suddenly, "I've been texting with him for two days. He's working on some big project."

"A project?" Enjolras echoed, golden brows pinching up, "He didn't say anything to me about this. He left my bed a few days ago and I haven't heard from him since. I thought he was upset with me but to blatantly hide-"

" 'Ponine's with him," Marius interrupted, lips wet with the shots Bahorel had been sliding to him, "She's been doing his homework for him, you know."

"What?" That got Combeferre to look up from his phone, a scowl coming to his own mouth. "That brat. I'll throttle him! A disappearing act is one thing, but academic dishonesty is another."

"You can't take an artist out of his groove," Jehan fanned his hands out in front of him dramatically, "He needs to keep going until he's finished. We should respect and – more importantly – support him on this. If he needs to shut himself up for a few days, so be it."

"Excuse me if I'm worried about my partner." Enjolras wasn't sure if he liked that word more than 'boyfriend' but it got his point across well enough.

"As you should be," Joly wagged a finger at the older boy, "I keep reminding him to eat but I'm sure he has nothing but coffee and those awful meal replacement shakes in his belly."

Courfeyrac nodded along. "I'm not sure how Grantaire operates but I'm almost certain he likes to go 'all liquid' when he's knee deep in paint."

"I wonder what he's making," Jehan sighed with a sparkle in his eyes, "If he didn't tell Enjolras of all people where he was going, then it must be something outstanding."

"It'd be his first serious piece in a while," Lesgle chimed in from the farthest point of the line.

"That's not true," Joly countered, "He has a lovely portrait by his window right now."

Enjolras swore the tips of his ears caught fire by how hot they got. "You've seen that?"

There was a grin starting on the medic's mouth. "Of course."

Combeferre woke abruptly with an undignified snort, a knock echoing in his head. Where was he? What time was it? He groaned and closed his eyes tight, an embarrassed blush coming over his face. He'd fallen asleep studying and his cheek was glued rather unattractively to his book. He was still in his (now rumpled) clothes. A certifiable mess.

It took him much too long to realize that the sound was coming from his door. He braced his palms against the bed and pushed himself up, scowling and wiping his face with the edge of his shirt. The blonde practically rolled off the mattress, shuffling across the flattened carpet to the door to see who was knocking this late. (Early? No, late.) He flipped the lock and pulled it open, frowning deeply when he was met with the sight of his roommate standing there. Courfeyrac had a blanket around his shoulders and a surprised look on his face.

"What's wrong?" Combeferre dug his glasses out of his hair and set them on the bridge of his nose, "Is everything alright? You look as if someone's broken in."

The boy's wide eyed look set aflame his protective instincts. He grabbed a handful of blanket and dragged his roommate inside, sharp eyes dancing around the hall and front room.

"Is there someone in the house?" he whispered, fingers still tight in the material.

Raven curls bounced. "No. No one."

Combeferre visibly deflated. "Then what is so important? I was studying."

"You were sleeping," Courfeyrac pointed to his face, "You've got a book edge imprint on your cheek."

"That doesn't matter," he rubbed his knuckles along the mark, "What's do you want?"

"I want to go to dinner," the younger replied simply.

"It's very late," Combeferre let him go to take off his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose, "There's nothing open that delivers. Are you high again?"

"I'm sober," Courfeyrac promised, "And I meant dinner with you. Outside. Like you said before."

"A date?" that short-circuited whatever brain function he had managed to scramble together since he woke up, "You want to go on a date with me?"

His nose scrunched up irritably. "Yes. Is that so fucking hard to understand?"

"It is when you not only said 'no', but you told me I was an idiot for considering it!" Combeferre snapped before he could stop himself.

"Don't yell at me!" Courfeyrac's sneer was as cruel as ever, "It's not my fault you've got me confused! Like I'm supposed to know everything? I'm not Jehan, I can't just know what I want and pursue it relentlessly! God, 'Ferre, I've got a lot to lose here."

"And I don't?" he shot back with disbelief, "Do you have any idea how hard it was to ask you that? To admit my feelings despite all the overwhelming evidence against me?"

"Do I...?" Courfeyrac started breathlessly, catching his voice again with a new anger, "Do you have any idea what it's like to walk into your home one day and realize you share it with someone you love? You ruined me at the bridge and I've been trying to piece myself together ever since!"

Combeferre scoffed, "Do not act the child with me, it doesn't suit you."

He'd never seen Courfeyrac look so distraught, nor ever his eyes so dark.

"If it's only a child who can't understand when they're in love, then so be it!"

Combeferre felt the cap snap off his temper and he grabbed the darker man by the arms, slamming him against the doorway. The blanket fell from Courfeyrac's shoulders and fluttered to the floor, showing off miles of pale skin that was only interrupted by a pair of very unlawfully small underwear. The academic felt his mouth go dry and realized just how precarious his position was. Courfeyrac (being the little shit he was) flexed purposefully under his grip so he could feel the swell of his muscle. Gods above, this was no boy under his hands. It was a man who could outrun even Enjolras and had a tongue so quick and sharp he was almost afraid to debate with him sometimes. The muscle didn't stop at his arms. It laced down his chest, roping thick across his stomach, braiding itself into powerful thighs covered in dark hair that led to calves that could only be described as 'curvy'.

Courfeyrac was watching him. The shame sent heat across his cheeks and down the back of his neck.

"Fine," he conceeded through clenched teeth, "Is tomorrow good for you?"

"I was hoping Friday."

He shook his head, "Friday's no good. I have work and then Enjolras and I-"

He cut himself off with a little intake of breath.

"Nevermind."

"You two are meeting without me?" Courfeyrac's brow knit, the words coming out slow as he realized it was true, "You two never meet without me."

"Just this once," Combeferre loosened his grip, rubbing the skin a little to soothe the ache his vice must have left behind, "I was going to talk to you about this."

"About what, exactly?" the edge was back to his tone, "What are you two planning?"

Combeferre wasn't sure what to say. "A future."

"How poetically vague," Courfeyac spat, "What's it all about? Are you two planning to run away together?"

Guilt must have worked itself across his face in one way or another because the younger man's jaw dropped as if scandalized.

"You are!" Courfeyrac shoved him so hard he stumbled back and smacked into the edge of his desk. "How dare you!? What of R and his feelings? Did you ever think about that, you selfish prick?"

"Selfish?" Combeferre echoed, "I am many things but I am not selfish. You can't think beyond your dick or you would see that Enjorlas and I have been planning to leave this place since the beginning!"

Two fingers came up to cover his lips, as if they could help him swallow back up the words.

"Leave?" Courfeyrac's ran hollow now, the fire gone as if doused, "What, is Rouen not good enough for you? Is R not good enough for him?"

He swallowed thickly, lips curling around words that struck a chord deep within his friend's chest.

"Am...am I not enough for you?"

" 'Feryac, please," Combeferre came back into the man's space, carefully laying his hands on bare shoulders, "I love this city. I love our friends and Fantine and Valjean. I love everything we've done here. I adore this place and though you may have hurt me a little you've been the greatest friend and flatmate a man could ask for."

His thumb rested in the dips of marble collarbones.

"It's just that...Enjolras is a force," he began hesitantly, "You've seen it, you've felt it. He can do so much more somewhere – well, larger. He needs room to grow. He needs an opportunity to do some real good in this world."

"And he can do all that with you by his side but not me?" There was betrayal carved all over his handsome face. "Have I not served him as faithfully? Haven't I proven myself worthy at every turn? Why would he tell you and not me?"

"Because he didn't think you'd want to leave," Combeferre replied honestly, "He thought you were too deeply rooted in Rouen and he didn't want to rip you away from her. He was just doing what he thought was best."

"He was wrong!" Courfeyrac yanked him into a hug, their bodies colliding harshly. A rush of musk filled Combeferre's nose; there was sweat from the pick up game of football earlier, the salt of the chips he'd eaten at the bar, and he was hot all over.

"My place is beside both of you, as it has been these past five years," there was a sharp sniff next to his ear, "I've invested my heart within you two and if you leave, so help me God, I will kill you both in cold blood on the street."

Combeferre could feel his heart swelling with remorse over all the secrecy and he had to hug his friend back to keep it from bursting.

"And..." Courfeyrac dug his fingers into the blonde's shoulder, "I may have invested myself a little too deeply within one of you."

"Courfeyrac," the taste of the boy's full name on his tongue was almost bitter, "Don't tease me."

"I'm not teasing," the ravenette promised, pulling back and looking up into his face with that same pinched expression, "I'm just...confused. I'm unsure."

Combeferre let himself study the other's face as he'd done a hundred times before. He was so handsome; an aristocratic nose, shell pink lips, chocolate curls that framed a blessedly expressive face. Every time the man smiled he carved deep lines into his skin and they only accentuated his bone structure. It slayed the ladies, and it latched a chain around his heart. One he was more than happy to have. He couldn't leave it like this. He couldn't hurt his friend this way.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked suddenly, unplanned.

"Yes," Courfeyrac replied tentatively.

Combeferre seized the moment and bent down, noting the other's big eyes before he closed his own. He found his lips to be perfectly soft and yielding, the stale taste of cigarettes clinging to them. He flicked his tongue out for a brief taste before he managed to pry himself away. Another second longer and he would've forgotten himself. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, looked like he'd been shocked.

"Was that too much?" he asked uncertainly, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to overwhelm you."

"No one's ever kissed me quite like that," the younger touched the tip of his lips, a shadow of what Combeferre had done earlier to choke back his words.

"Like what?"

"Like they mean it?" Courfeyrac said it like a question, like he wasn't sure what he was saying.

"Sweetheart," the endearment slipped out, like so much of everything in this night, "I would kss you like that every day if you would allow it."

Courfeyrac fell against him, breathless, staring up at him like he held all the secrets that God ever created. It was most definitely not a swoon, but it was close.

Close enough to give him hope.

Enjolras didn't want to lower himself to stalking but he had little choice left. Three and a half days of zero contact and he was getting antsy. He'd try to respect the man's space and give him his artistic time, but it was getting to the point where he couldn't think of anything else. A good run had always fixed his problems before but this time it just left him with sore knees and calves worked down to embers. He'd written two speeches, completed three papers, and reread Slaughterhouse Five. With every word and mile all his blood sang of was a steady rhythm of Gran-taire, Gran-taire, Gran-taire.

It brought him here to the art building. He'd gone through great pains to get Eponine's schedule and he knew that any moment she'd walk out the doors. And when she finally did, he pounced. He caught her between the stairs and the wall and effectively boxed her in with a hand on the shoulder.

"Enjolras," she said with her usual distaste.

"He won't answer his phone."

"He's busy," Eponine pulled a sour face and shrugged off his touch, "I don't expect someone like you to understand."

"Someone like me?" he parroted.

"A non-artistic type. You don't understand the process."

"Not this nonsense again." Enjolras couldn't help but roll his eyes. "Can't you tell me where he is?"

Eponine made a move to leave but he stepped in her path, hands pressed together like he was praying.

"I'm worried," he admitted, "I just want to make sure he's alright."

Eponine's dark eyes nearly burned through him but after a few moments her persona broke.

"For fuck's sake, Enjolras," she cursed lowly, "He made me promise not to tell you."

That gave him pause. "What?"

"I don't know," she pulled out her phone, "I'll text you the address. But don't go over until tomorrow. He's almost done and he's never going to forgive me if you see it before it's ready."

Enjolras huffed. "His health means more to me than some painting."

She laughed loudly, right in his face, "You haven't seen it."

This time she got past him, breezing by as if this was all quite easy and simple.

"I'm the one who stays up with him, you know."

Her shoes skidded to a stop on the pavement.

"You may be his best friend, and he may love you more than anything, but I'm the one who gets up and sits with him when the nightmares get to be too much," Enjolras jutted out his chin, daring her to argue, "Between his own mind and Montparnasse's shadow, I can't get him to lay down for five hours at a time. So excuse me for worrying about his health."

Dark nails bit into the strap of her bag, knuckles whitening. "He didn't tell me he was having nightmares."

"He doesn't want anyone to know how much it is affecting him," Enjolras inched closer, keeping his voice down for some semblance of privacy, "I like to spend the nights with him."

She grimaced. "What? Out of pity?"

"For selfish reasons," Enjolras' eyes flickered to the pavement, "He needs someone to be there for him and I...I like to be that person. More than I'd care to admit."

"You barely deserve him." Her judgment was swift and cool, passing through him like a fresh blade. "Barely."

Enjolras hunted his lover down by address alone, using his phone as a horribly unreliable GPS. He found himself huddled into his scarf and jacket outside a warehouse late into the night. Much later than was proper for a man his age to be out and about in search of someone who may or may not have been drunk. Though the place looked abandoned, there was actually a front desk with a sweet older woman behind it to answer the phone and have guests sign a check-in booklet. She politely answered his question about where exactly he'd walked into. It was a housing for art studios, temporary places for artists to create in relative quiet in their own spaces.

It was quite genius. If he were inclined to such crafts, he would've been taking advantage of it.

There were no real doors, just gaping garage size openings leading into studios with only heavy curtains to give them any sort of privacy. There were half a dozen long, white hallways and he picked the one with the 'six' above it. He doubled checked Eponine's message and set off down it, eyes dancing from each labeled room in search of the letters 'CC'. And when he found it he went with instinct and yanked back the curtain, revealing the room.

A tarp had bee put down on the cement floor. Almost every inch was covered or at least speckled in red paint. Buckets upon buckets of the material were carelessly laid open around the room, two different sized ladders collapsed on top of them. Puddles turned tacky as smears and splotches of color dried on the walls. Brushes lay abandoned amongst the carnage, crumbled paper balls that once were sketches molded into wet piles on the ground, and one canvas was ripped to ruins in the corner. It's successor was propped against the back wall and stood no less than ten feet tall.

Upon it was the most beautiful mural he'd ever seen. It was an archangel, a soldier, or a god – it had to be. The whole work had to be a companion piece to the smaller painting in Grantaire's apartment. This was a play of light and shadow with only a single subject matter in the middle. A man and a pedestal, a short sword in his hand and what looked like a scroll in the other. There were very little details of the shape, just the hint of a jaw and a few lines of clothes to give him dimensions. The sword gleamed at the end and there was a well-crafted string holding the scroll together. The outline showed curls with hints of gold and long legs, the pedestal stone and grey beneath his dark feet.

It punched the breath out of him.

When Enjolras was finally able to tear his eyes away from it, he discovered his boyfriend sitting beside the door. He was slicked in paint up to his shoulders, a ripped sleeveless shirt stained black and matted to his chest and shoulders. His jeans were ruined as well and their ratty bottoms gave way to bare feet, the pale soles of them stained gold. The boy had yet to notice him, his eyes were glued to the mural though there was exhaustion across his face. There were tears on his cheeks, small trickles that disappeared into the heavy scruff of his week-old beard.

"Darling," he breathed out, a mix of worry and relief in his voice, "Why are you crying?"

"Isn't it beautiful?" Grantaire pointed with a heavy hand to the painting, "I...it's so..."

"It's gorgeous, R," Enjolras hooked his finger in his scarf to loosen the material, "I've missed you."

"I did this for you," Grantaire proclaimed with sleepy grandeur, "This is what you are to me."

The blonde frowned. "I don't understand."

"You're everything," he tilted his head back, showing off the diamond-gleam of his eyes and the sweet curve of his lips, "Do you like it?"

"I love it," Enjolras dropped down to his knees in front of him, cradling the other's jaw in the palm of his hand, "Are you finished?"

"Yeah," dark curls bounced softly as his head dipped, lashes fluttering with another wave of sleepiness, "I just got done a little while ago."

"Do you know it's midnight?" he asked gently, trying not to startle the younger man.

Grantaire clenched his eyes shut, gathering his bearings. "What day is it?"

"Friday."

"Oh," Grantaire patted at his pockets thoughtfully, "I, uh, I don't have my phone. I'm sorry. We had a date, didn't we?" A titter of panic raced across his expression. "Oh God, Enj, I'm so sorry."

"It's quite alright," he laughed, releasing all that balled up nervous energy, "I'm just happy you're okay. Do you want to come home with me? Get a bath, maybe a shave?"

Grantaire grinned when the blonde's fingers tickled under his chin where the hair was thickest.

"Though, I must admit, I kind of like the rugged look on you," Enjolras mused, each word bringing the artist up out of his haze.

"Oh, do you?"

Grantaire grabbed him by the collar and dragged him down until their mouths could meet. It was sudden and rough, lips bruising as the taste of primer and the smell of paint swirled between them. It was bitter, base, like soap. It was passionate, at first, but gradually the ravenette's fingers loosened their death grip. Enjolras pulled back with a tisk, scratching his nails through those dark curls.

"You're falling asleep," he scolded, the other's eyes already shut. "It's late, R, you should be home."

There was nothing but a murmur for a reply. Enjolras just shook his head and urged him up, yanking him up like Feuilly had taught him until the artist was draped across his back. Grantaire grumbled about a 'piggy back ride' and managed to wrap his arms around the blonde's neck, the grip of his thighs a little weaker. After getting the weight balance and deciding he would be able to do this all the way to the car, and after another minute of contemplating why that wasn't a good thing, he started out of the room and down the hall again. This time there was no burden of worry, only pounds.

" 'M ruining your clothes." The words were loud in his ear.

"Be quiet. I don't want to hear it."

The rude look they got from the front desk secretary was worth everything.

Enjolras rolled the sleeping boy into his passenger seat, getting a few more tired rumbles but this time he didn't wake up at all. He buckled Grantaire up and made sure he was comfortable before he got behind the wheel, starting the car up and turning on the heat in hopes of killing the chill of the night. He drove through the city, taking the longest route home to give his boyfriend time to nap.

The street lights played off his pale face. Dark lashes fluttered occasionally bust mostly they laid against the sleepless bruises under his eyes. His poor R. His starving artist. His talented little sufferer. After he made him sleep at least eight hours, he was going to cook up at least three courses and shove them all down his throat.

Enjolras would suck it up and play the dutiful, understanding boyfriend but – damn it – he was going to make sure Grantaire survived it.