Work Text:
Grantaire is covered in paint. Not even a smudge here and there, no. He has brush strokes of it across his cheeks, down his arms, across his collarbone. Even in his hair. It's bright red, like blood. Enjolras wonders what he was working on. Grantaire sends him a cheeky smile, and he realized he's stopped in the middle of a sentence to stare. That damn collarbone, though . . .
"What in God's name happened to you?" he asks finally, letting his disbelief show. Grantaire grins and plops into a chair by Courfeyrac.
"I was working on a painting. Well, more like a mural. Well, more like an illegal mural, but it looks good." Enjolras swallows and looks away (with difficulty, he might add).
"Where?" Jehan asks curiously, leaning forward.
"On the side of the school. There's a teacher who's staging an underground protest and he's encouraging us to stand up for what we believed in, so I did." Grantaire shrugs and takes a swig from his flask. "Not a big deal."
"You don't believe in anything," Enjolras points out, looking at Grantaire. He looks . . . healthy, Enjolras supposes. His eyes aren't red and he looks well-rested, which is unusual.
"Oh, I beg to differ, Apollo," Grantaire retaliates, smiling. The smile is bitter, though, and it stays in Enjolras's mind even after he looks away. He hears a noise of protest from Grantaire -- it's a small whimper, and Enjolras can only imagine Grantaire making that sound for him -- and when he turns around, Courfeyrac has stolen Grantaire's flask. He sniffs it and then takes a sip.
"This is water." Grantaire glares and holds out his hand.
"Yeah, shut up and give it back." Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow.
"You usually have vodka or some obscure shit in here. Grantaire's cutting back on the alcohol . . . oh! Grantaire, are you pregnant?" he asks teasingly, swirling the contents of the flask. Grantaire groans and rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, Courf, because that's completely anatomically possible. Just give it back." Courfeyrac finally hands the flask back, and Grantaire's sleeve rides up. There's something there, but Enjolras can't exactly see it. There's paint on his hands, along his wrist, and dear god, his shirt is a little too short and there's paint on his hip bone. Was the man painting shirtless?
"We should get back to business," Enjolras says finally, tearing his eyes away from the multiple paint smears on Grantaire's skin. Damn paint.
The next day, when Enjolras passes the university, he spots Grantaire's illegal mural. No one's noticed it yet, apparently, so he goes to look at it. It's truly beautiful -- people, painted in blue and black, looking up at someone on a pedestal. The figure is the only color in the painting, with a red coat and gold curls, his hand extended above his head, grasping a red flag. It's him. Enjolras stares at the mural, completely awestruck. He takes a few pictures of it on his phone and a few more with a professional camera he's been carrying around (for pamphlets, he insists).
"You like it?" Enjolras startles, dropping his water bottle and whirling around. Grantaire's standing behind him, looking bemused.
"I . . . yeah, it's very cool."
"I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." Grantaire means for it to sound joking, but it comes out bitter.
"Well, um . . . I'm sorry?" Enjolras squints up at the taller man. The sun's really bright, and he can't see very well.
"Yeah, don't be. I'm used to it."
"So. Um, was that really water the other day?" Grantaire nods, running a hand through his hair. That damn smudge of paint is still on his collarbone.
"Yep. Decided I was enough of a burden on everyone already without the drinking added in." There's an awkward silence after that, and then Enjolras says something.
"You're not a burden." Grantaire snorts.
"Right."
"You really don't believe me?"
"Nope." Enjolras kisses him, full on the mouth, with as much force as he can muster. He has to stretch up on his toes to reach Grantaire's mouth, but it's so worth it. It takes Grantaire a minute, but he responds in kind, placing his hands on Enjolras's arms. Enjolras runs a hand through the dark curls and if he knew kissing Grantaire would be like this, he never would have done anything except kiss Grantaire. Eventually they break apart, and Grantaire's breathless and Enjolras is breathless and they're both breathless together, and that's what matters.
Enjolras has never noticed, but Grantaire's eyes are a pale, icy blue rather than the dark blue he's always imagined them to be.
"Finally!" There are shouts from the building, and they look up. Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Combeferre are leaning out of a second-floor window, chucking rose petals at them
"I've just always wanted to throw flower petals at someone, sorry," Jehan calls, tossing another handful.
"Took you fuckers long enough!" Courfeyrac yelled. "And then you fucking make out at the fucking school?!"
Enjolras and Grantaire share a long-suffering look, and Enjolras notices that the red smear is still on Grantaire's collarbone. Damn paint.