#dwrves

"I was going to go to the Musain for some coffee and to finish my reading," he says instead. "I can’t promise to be motionless, but will that be still enough for your purposes?"

Grantaire’s nodding, overeager, before Enjolras has even finished speaking. “Yeah, yes. Thank you. That’ll be fine.” And he rises with Enjolras and they head off to the coffeeshop together.

2.

"I need your help," Grantaire says by way of greeting, grabbing onto Enjolras’s arm and looking a little frantic.

Enjolras just raises his brows and waits, until Grantaire releases his grip, looking abashed, and says, “Would you sit for me again?”

"Another portrait assignment?" he asks, and takes Grantaire by the elbow to steer him around until they’re both going the way Enjolras was headed. "I’ve got an essay I meant to revise later anyway, I could get an early start on it I suppose."

Grantaire looks surprised, and he’s not the only one. But Enjolras was pleased to discover last time that Grantaire with a pencil in his hands is much better company than Grantaire with a bottle of wine and nothing to do to keep himself entertained but play devil’s advocate. And there’s been a headache brewing behind Enjolras’s eyebrow all morning that he’s hopeful a cup of Louison’s coffee might be able to chase away.

"Not exactly," Grantaire says, but he keeps pace at Enjolras’s side. "I’m working on a study of different hair types."

"Hair?" Enjolras stops and frowns at him.

Grantaire’s gaze shifts off of him, sliding around unsettled. “Curls are a real bitch to draw,” he says at last, fingers closed tight around the strap of his bag. “I could use the extra practice.”

Grantaire looks like he might bolt if Enjolras leaves him hanging much longer, so he shrugs and keeps walking. Grantaire takes a few quick strides to catch up with him, and then he’s a warm, quiet presence at Enjolras’s side, all the way to the Musain.

3.

"I need another favor," Grantaire says, and Enjolras is getting used enough to this that he’d just turn for the Musain automatically but for the way that Grantaire is chewing on his lip and frowning like he’s already resigned himself to being refused. And he has no reason to think that when Enjolras hasn’t yet, so he stops and makes Grantaire turn to face him, makes him look at him.

"What is it?" Enjolras asks him quietly.

Grantaire takes a breath that fills his lungs and pulls his shoulders square. “I need a model. Not someone to just sit and do their own thing while I draw, but an actual model. We’ve got this assignment to translate a piece of famous art into our own medium and I’m doing Bernini’s Apollo and Daphne, and Floreal’s going to be my Daphne but I still need an Apollo and it’s kind of got to be you.” His face is so bright with painful hope that Enjolras is gripped by the ridiculous urge to agree without knowing anything more about the request.

He forces the reaction down, forces himself to think about what Grantaire is actually asking of him. “Isn’t Apollo wearing little more than a strategically-draped sheet in Bernini’s sculpture?”

Grantaire goes pink at the ears. “I’m modernizing it. No sheets or togas required, I promise. I just need you to stand how I put you for about an hour while I get the basic sketch down.”

"I’ve got a test in twenty," Enjolras says. He thinks about that hope on Grantaire’s face turning to disappointment and adds, before he can think better of it, "This weekend? My last midterm is tomorrow, so I should be able to spare the time after." He knows how that might sound, so he smiles to soften the impact. "Saturday?"

Grantaire gulps visibly. “Yeah. Saturday’s great.” He starts backing away before Enjolras can say anything else. “I’ll let you get to class. Good luck with your midterms.”

4.

All their friends are at the Musain and what started as a study session has turned into Enjolras ranting, taking some random university student to task for interjecting a poorly-reasoned and offensive opinion. Louison breaks it up when Enjolras is just getting warmed up, shooing out the troublemakers and giving Enjolras and his friends a look that is both disapproving and fond.

Enjolras drops down at the nearest table, and only belatedly realizes that it’s Grantaire’s customary table in the back, and that he’s got a sketchbook open and a stick of charcoal in his hands, his fingers all black and messy with it. “Sorry,” Enjolras says automatically at Grantaire’s startled glance. “I didn’t mean to disrupt you.”

Grantaire’s smile flashes, masking the surprise in his eyes but not quick enough to hide it. “That’s all right, the tableau was broken anyway.”

"May I see?"

Grantaire looks hesitant, reluctant. Enjolras waits, not pushing, and finally he heaves a sigh and says, “Oh, very well. Don’t laugh, I had to get it down quick, you were moving around a lot more than I’m used to.”

His words are warning enough that Enjolras isn’t surprised when Grantaire turns the sketchbook around and shows him a sketch of himself, standing on one of the Musain’s tables though Enjolras is quite sure he never did, drawn in quick, rough lines of charcoal that somehow capture energy and motion and a simmering sort of intensity that makes something thick and sticky catch in Enjolras’s throat.

"Is it all right?" Grantaire asks, his brows pinched, when Enjolras hands the sketchbook back wordlessly.

Enjolras makes himself smile. “It’s wonderful. You’re very skilled.”

Grantaire’s face brightens, worry washing away beneath happiness. “It’s just a quick sketch right now. I’ll show it to you again when it’s finished.”

"I look forward to it," Enjolras says, and means it.

5.

Enjolras is modeling for Grantaire, again — “It’s just for a hand study,” he said, “I have to do at least twenty and I’m running out of friends, you don’t have to stand or pose or anything, just get comfortable and keep your hands still” — and he thought it would be easier this way, slouched in one of the Musain’s armchairs with his hands curled loosely over his stomach, Grantaire’s assignment an excellent excuse to take a break from his coursework and just let himself do nothing for a short while.

But he’s quickly discovering that he’s not wired for doing nothing. He’s bored out of his mind, and in lieu of anything else to do, he’s left watching Grantaire, the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating on his drawing, the way he tucks his tongue into the corner of his mouth as he lays in lines and shading that Enjolras can’t see. The way his gaze lingers on Enjolras’s hands longer than he thinks must be necessary to get the shape and the angle and the lines right. The way he blinks sometimes like he lost himself for a moment and is only now coming back to himself, and the sudden scratch of the pencil across the paper serves only to highlight how it had fallen still while he stared.

Enjolras is not the sort to handle restrictions and prohibitions gracefully. Being forbidden to move only makes him want to do it all the more, makes his hands itch, makes his mind fixate.

"All right," Grantaire says at last, laying the sketchbook down. "I think that’ll do it—"

Enjolras is moving before he’s even given actual permission to do so, reaching across the table to grab handfuls of Grantaire’s shirt, to curl and clench his fingers the way he’s wanted to since five minutes after Grantaire started drawing. Enjolras hauls him over the table, meets him halfway across it and kisses him, hard and desperate and just as shocked at himself as Grantaire seems to be, his hands flying to grab at Enjolras’s hair, his pencil forgotten in his grip, tangling in Enjolras’s curls, and Enjolras doesn’t care because Grantaire’s mouth is just as skilled and just as incredible as his hands.

+1.

Enjolras isn’t asleep, not exactly, but he’s drifting, hazy. It’s the sound of a pencil scratching lightly across paper that rouses him, brings him back to himself. He rolls over and Grantaire makes a sharp, frustrated sound. “Well, now you’ve ruined it.”

"Let me see?" Enjolras pushes himself upright and holds a hand out for the sketchbook, but he doesn’t take and he doesn’t demand. He waits while indecision flickers across Grantaire’s face, waits until he sighs and decides, smiling a little shyly. "It’s not great, I didn’t get very far, you moved before I could."

Enjolras takes it and looks. It’s him, of course, drawn in repose. It’s a quick sketch, Grantaire wasn’t wrong about that, but it’s better than he thinks. Even unfinished Enjolras looks lazy and satisfied and replete, which is entirely accurate.

"It’s wonderful," Enjolras says firmly, and apologizes by rolling in and pressing against Grantaire’s side, wrapping his arms around him, twining their legs together. "I’m sorry for ruining it."

Grantaire hums a little, a happy sound, and works his arms around Enjolras in turn. “Next time I’m just going to have to do a better job wearing you out, so you stay still longer.”