Enjolras' POV

It is with confidence (the same confidence that my friends admire in me) that I say last night mended all that was amiss with me and Grantaire. Now, it's not like we're perfect friends — we never were — considering he still doesn't talk much to me, and when he does talk, it's timid and fragile, but we're making good progress, and that's all that matters. Progress is still partial, but progress is a steady line towards the finish line, and I am determined to stick with it until we aren't fighting at every given chance.

Admittedly, some of my previous characteristics have dropped dead in favor of Grantaire, and I haven't realized it until now. I was certain in everything that I did, but now I find myself calculating every move, never trusting the intuition that hasn't let me down before but is nevertheless disowned for the time being, and even after sorting through every possible outcome of my actions, I still don't know what to do, because Grantaire is volatile and prone to hurt in ways that I couldn't imagine, ways that I couldn't analyze, ways that I couldn't prevent. I really don't want to harm him — I don't. Most people would beg to differ, seeing as most of our conversations involve me shouting at him for the same reason, but I wouldn't be hung up on that reason unless I believed it could be fixed. I tell him what he's doing wrong so that he can revise it, though he never does.

The old Grantaire wouldn't dream of revealing his emotions as he did last night, but this isn't the old Grantaire. Through our fighting, I warped him into a shell, and I'm terribly sorry, but I'm not sure that it can be reversed, at least not in the presence of me. I screwed everything up, and now I'm seeing folds of Grantaire that I would've never seen before, had he not been so emotionally devastated by what I did, but it's not very much of a treat to witness those hidden layers. I see now that there is a reason why they were secret in the first place. But everything's tumbling loose with us, so he can't really control which stays back on the ledge of safety, and for the first time in my life, neither can I. I require my qualities in order to help Grantaire, but I have nothing. I now dwell in the poverty of soul and spirit, of strength more important in mindset than in physicality, and I am calling out into the infinite void.

And by some heavenly stroke of luck, I've managed to reel in some of my pleas and some of my doubts and some of myself. I know through one simple action that Grantaire's faith in his old friend has been restored to some extent (whose intensity remains unbeknownst to me), and in that replenished faith, we fell asleep on the couch together, and drifted through the night as peacefully as a dove would drift through the sky, no destination clear in our minds as long as we're free.

It is by this luck that I wake gently upon the couch in my living room, feeling young and like budding flowers. Grantaire has retreated, which is probably more alarming to me than it should be, but I soon find him sitting in a chair that he brought over from the kitchen table, looking as pensive as I've seen him. He appears to be drawing something, judging from the piece of printer paper hooked to a clipboard in his lap, but he's awfully close to me to be drawing something about which I would've felt safe.

I don't enjoy talking about topics that regard myself, and I never have. I've accomplished so much, yes, perhaps more so than anyone I know my age, but there's no use in glorifying me for altruism when altruism, by definition, is meant to benefit other people. It is for that reason that I avoid pictures when they are not mandatory, and if anyone decided that they wished to draw me, then I would avoid that, too.

But Grantaire doesn't give a shit about what people don't like, because he lives to annoy people, or so it seems, so he wouldn't ever think to ask my consent before he procured some paper and a clipboard (I don't know how he found these things, if I'm being completely honest) and sat down to draw me. He's not an unskilled artist, no. In fact, he's amazing, from what I've seen of his work by casually sneaking behind Jehan when Grantaire shows the drawings to him because he doesn't want the rest of the gang to see them. My issue is that I should not be the subject of someone's praise, nor the cause of their graphite shortage. I don't want to waste their time with something as mundane as my worn old face.

If I ever told Grantaire to stop, which he probably wouldn't do after he's already started the drawing, he would most likely tell me that I deserve to be in a drawing, as he's been fawning over my appearance for as long as he's witnessed it, and he will continue with his work, despite my other ideas. It's his art, yes, but it's my face, and surely there's some sort of legal binding if he commercializes this particular piece. If he's infatuated with me as my friends claim he is, then he will pour every ounce of effort into drawing me, and his devotion will not cease. This will be one of his better drawings, so there is a larger chance that Grantaire will do something with it if he doesn't treasure it in his apartment.

But I need to stop portraying the person who always rains on other people's parades when they've done nothing truly wrong, and this is just a simple drawing. Especially since I argue with Grantaire whenever we see each other, and we already experienced a massive schism, I should leave him to his fun. But that doesn't mean I can't ask about his activities.

Grantaire notices my consciousness but doesn't pause his drawing session; I don't expect him to, anyway, as he looks as though he's submerged in both introspection and — surprisingly — diligence. He mutters a quick hello, and nothing else unless I prompt him.

"When did you wake up?" I inquire. Shaking the crust from my eyes with a vindictive finger ready to kill, I cover my swelling yawn with my other hand.

"Like, five o'clock." Grantaire is unfazed by his lack of sleep, though he's the kind of person to invite it into his life heartily, so the eight hours of rest he received was sufficient enough, I suppose. That's how many the doctors demand that you chug through.

"So you've been drawing for three and a half hours?" I push myself up from my awkward position on the couch, almost regretting it, but then I figure that if he's been here for a while, he's already marked down the basic outline of my form, and he probably knows how light reacts to it, having studied it for so long.

Now tilting his pencil so that the side of the cone-shaped tip drapes itself against the paper, and filling in something near the corner of the paper, Grantaire shrugs. "More or less."

"May I see it?"

My one-night roommate doesn't answer me to instead focus on smudging a patch of graphite with his already blackened finger, so I assume he has tacitly rejected my request. However, he soon turns the paper to me after examining it for a moment, and a simpering glow highlights his cheeks as he anticipates my response.

Although, I'm not sure I can provide him with a proper response quite yet, for I am rendered speechless by the masterpiece Grantaire has drafted. He paid attention to every detail, not once classifying them as either imperative or minute, only merging them all together as equals worthy of being showcased on the finished product. That's what I like about Grantaire — he includes everything, regardless of how the world would subordinate certain details.

"You hate it, don't you?" Grantaire asks, his tone indicative of his perception that it was bound to be this way, that I would despise anything he creates, which is quite the opposite, in truth. The reason I shout at him so often is because I see potential in him, and he has found potential even now, through his art. There's nothing I enjoy more in Grantaire than his manmade spectacles. I could never hate them.

"Grantaire, I...I love them more than I can say," I counter, my words soaked in the breathiness that regularly accompanies astonishment. "I wish you wouldn't think so negatively of yourself."

Grantaire brushes the last part of my comment off, but he is overjoyed at the beginning of it. I, the person over whom he's been fawning for months upon months, appreciate his work, and told him that his work shouldn't be degraded. To me, that's nothing more than what every friend should do, but to him, it means the world. It shouldn't be such a feat to hear this, but I'm glad he's ecstatic about it, I suppose.

"Really?" my companion gasps. I bet even Jean Prouvaire could not describe how Grantaire feels in this moment, how saturated by disbelief he is, how ebullient nevertheless. To see a cynic with a smile is to have witnessed a miracle. And then all of the sudden, his cynicism shoves into places where it is unwelcome, and storm clouds swarm over the sun. "You're probably lying. You don't appreciate my work."

Dealing with this man is quite the struggle, as his opinions swing back and forth on a regular basis, yet he's extremely stubborn about them for the time that they last, leaving everyone utterly confused and utterly useless in helping him, so I have concluded that it is my newfound duty to convince him that he is worth something, that he is worth everything.

"I do, Grantaire."

His voice sets into stone, his eyes following soon after. "Prove it."

My face swipes any and all emotion from its surface for a moment, just long enough for me to assess how I really feel about Grantaire's art and about Grantaire himself, and then welcomes a smile as I reach out to the man who is slipping away, cupping his jaw with a hand as smooth as porcelain.

Grantaire is not the echelon of conventional attractiveness. Most people would turn aside from the scratchy stubble upon which my hand falls in this moment, from the wild mess of raven thatched onto his head, from the shadows of deprivation ringing his lids, completely ignoring how brightly his eyes twinkle despite all of the hardships he's endured. However, Jehan Prouvaire has taught me to derive wonder from everything I encounter, and over time I have come to understand that, while Grantaire may not be model material, he is one of the most magnificent men I have ever met. His willful character outshines his physical faults.

Though I admire Grantaire for that willful character, it seems he has morphed into a puppy as I hold him. It is unfortunate that he is so afraid in the presence of someone who only wants to be his friend, his equal. With a reassuring nod, I dispel his fright the best I can, and my companion settles into a calmer state of proportioned breathing and mollified muscles. It is a comforting sensation to see him adopt the wings of a butterfly.

I had never believed what teenage romance novels said about the world halting to instead serve what then seemed like the only two people in the world, but perhaps it's not such a false description. The friendly hum of the air condition retreats into solitude elsewhere. The chirping of morning birds outside ceases as if in death. The world is at our command.

If the world is at our feet, then it will not allow me to be shackled by fear. I shall not overanalyze everything as I have been doing. I shall act solely upon impulse, and see where it takes me. I shall live on the edge, and in Grantaire's heart.

With the speed of a lake uninhabited, and the gentleness of a bird in flight, our lips ease into each other to enact something we thought would never transpire, but this is sweet spontaneity, and this is life. We are paint of two varying shades, mixing together to form a color whose finesse the world has never before witnessed. We are moisture slipping over hands as they attempt to catch a falling object, snatching the fluidity of cream rubbing against itself.

Everything is perfect. Neither of us hold any qualms against each other, nor this action. We work together, like gears supporting the spoke next in line, only to be supported itself. We are at peace with each other, until a shudder rumbles through Grantaire, and he retracts like he's just had an epiphany of gigantic proportions.

"Are you okay?" I ask, ultimately perplexed as to why he pulled himself away when he indicated that he was enjoying our connection.

Grantaire nods, albeit much too frantically for someone who has finally achieved what they've spent months working towards, and all he's doing is leaving me confounded. His motions represent a panic attack, though I know not what for, and if he'll tell me. "It's just...we were fighting only two days ago, and now we're...we're...all intimate and stuff. You're disorganizing me, Enjolras."

I can understand his concern, but I cannot understand its origin. Grantaire isn't an analytical man. He wouldn't usually care if something like this happened, notably since he has been wishing that this would happen for as long as he's known me, so why does he care now? Yeah, I recognize that he was devastated by our argument, and that, I suppose, is a considerable reason for being hesitant, but everything is so convoluted that I can't decide what's real and what isn't.

"I'm doing this new thing called living in the moment," I explain. "I've started thinking about my emotions instead of shoving them all aside in favor of my love for liberty, and I've also started thinking that we could work. We could help each other, a symbiotic agreement, if you will."

Grantaire is skeptical (but when isn't he?), contemplating his options and their outcomes. He is not a pensive person, I've noticed, but he cares deeply about this subject, deeply enough to spend a while pondering it. It's not something I take lightly. I'm incredibly thankful that he views me in such a respectful way.

It looks as though he'll be considering this topic for a long time, so I rise to start preparing breakfast so that he can weigh the circumstances without me staring heavily at him, because now I'm thoroughly invested in what Grantaire and I can do for each other, and his decision will mean a lot to me. However, before I can step even an inch to the left, Grantaire drives his lips into mine, much more passionately than our first kiss.

He devours me as if he hasn't eaten in a millennium (scanty fruit cups can have that effect on you), as if he's been living in a barren wasteland of melancholy and desolation. He's hungry beyond compare, and he seeks to claim his prize for his own, to hide it from anyone else, by pinning me against the sofa and hovering over me with no intentions of allowing me to escape.

"This is your answer, I see?" I joke, admitting a slight chuckle into the air.

I detect a smirk stretching across our interlocked canvases, and Grantaire replies, "You know it, golden boy."

Combeferre is going to be in for quite the surprise.

~~~~~

A/N: there was barely anything leading up to this but this whole fanfiction is so confusing idk

my authors notes are getting so shitty

~Dakrappy-author