Grantaire knew he was messed up. It wasn't a secret. Just his childhood would take years of counseling for him to be even close to normal. Between the abusive father, the homelessness after said father had found out that Grantaire liked boys as well as girls, the criminals that had used him when he was just fifteen and fresh faced for their own means without a care for Grantaire's well-being. Perhaps that was why he had rushed headlong into things with Pierre, believing that he had found the first good thing in his life. Pierre had seemed like a dream when Grantaire had met him. Grantaire learned that Pierre also had lost contact with his parents after he came out to them. He didn't seem to mind that Grantaire had a few too many glasses of wine often, that he had bouts of melancholia, that he was belligerent, that he only had a G.E.D. and was talented with a knife in ways that should be disturbing for anyone, let alone a twenty year old boy. Pierre knew about panic attacks and how to handle them. But most importantly, and later he learned this was also the reason Pierre had stayed, he tolerated Grantaire's innate self loathing that he persisted like a dog with a bone. Grantaire had just become an adult, had just gotten himself out of the streets and enrolled in college. Life was not shiny and new, but he had a seed of hope in his chest that seemed to take root as he learned more about Pierre. It wasn't long before they had moved in together and pooled their meager finances.

Grantaire wasn't in love, and he knew it. But he had little proof that love actually existed; in his short life, he had seen too much apathy and hate to account for love. His father abused his mother, there was little love lost between his parents. He had never felt love as a child and hardly expected to. Sometimes he wondered if he was broken, if he had lost the ability to love, or if had just been born that way. Make no mistake, he liked Pierre and their sex was great, but he knew that this wasn't love. He said the words, I love you, often enough, trying to make them true through repetition, but to no avail. Pierre said the words as well, but sometimes Grantaire doubted their sincerity as well. Grantaire knew it wasn't love, knew it wasn't healthy, but truly could not see himself finding anyone else that could understand him so well, who could look into his eyes and see the beginnings of a panic attack, who knew when he should hide the razors, who knew what days called for homemade soup and movies. Pierre saw all of Grantaire's flaws and that was already enough pain and humiliation for Grantaire. He knew that he carried emotional baggage, enough for three people, and no one wanted that in a relationship. So he stayed, because he needed someone, and Pierre was his only option. Grantaire wasn't happy, but he was far away from the life of his past, and that's all he truly wanted.

It wasn't until two years into their relationship, that Grantaire received his first blow, that he realized the universe was truly fucked. The world had gradually regained its tarnished appearance around its worn and ragged edges. Looking back, he saw the verbal abuse that he had withstood daily, resulting in his subsequent failure in college and his humble retreat to working as a barista. As he washed his stinging face with cold water, attempting to control his breathing and steady the shaking of his hands on the faucet, he met his eyes in the mirror. They were watery and bloodshot, but beneath the surface he saw his internal weariness, and even deeper, his resignation to his new life. He knew in that moment that he was lost. He could see no way out; he didn't particularly care to. Pierre had apologized profusely and bought him flowers after a dinner at a new restaurant in town that Grantaire hated, but Pierre deemed acceptable because of its high prices. That night, Pierre had been tender and loving, but Grantaire knew. His father had been an abusive, he knew exactly how the cycles of abuse worked. He understood that these periods would become shorter and shorter until he would have no reprieve at all.

It was in the first interim that Grantaire first laid eyes on Enjolras. They were loosely introduced via friend of a friend, but Grantaire had caught sight of him weeks before that happy event. He had come into the cafe where he worked, had ordered coffee and left. Grantaire hadn't been at the counter when this apparition ordered coffee. He was conflicted about this: on the one hand, he would never see the man again, would never hear his voice or gaze into his eyes, on the other, if he had the opportunity to gaze into the man's eyes, he would have surely forgotten how function. For the first time in years, his fingers itched with the desire to pick up a paintbrush, to brush those golden curls on to a canvas, to reimagine this divine being that appeared to have stepped out of one of Michelangelo's paintings, with marble skin and soft curls. The itch started in his fingers and made its way towards his chest, a sickeningly rapid journey that left his body on fire and a troubling ache in his chest as the itch persisted. In that moment, Grantaire knew that his situation had just sucked him in too deep; he was in over his head.

Pierre was quiet that night. That was to be expected. They were still recovering from the blow that Grantaire had received and Pierre was tiptoeing around Grantaire; he had a higher chance of keeping Grantaire forever if he lengthened the period between the first two blows as long as he could. Normally, Grantaire would enjoy the silence, less negative comments about his cooking and his hair and no slight digs on his exercise schedule. Tonight, it allowed his mind to wander to the mysterious man in the cafe earlier. He didn't want to think of him in front of Pierre. Not only did he run the risk of Pierre discovering his rather embarrassing devotion to a man he had only seen, Grantaire did not want to contaminate this man by comparing him to Pierre, by bringing Pierre closer to this man who could have hung the heavens. Grantaire's teeth were on edge, and his shoulders taught with tension. Each scrape of silverware and exhale of breath from Pierre heightened his terrified heartbeat and put yet another brick of distrustfulness on his defenses. By the end of the night, he was glad to have the excuse to go to bed, to escape Pierre's inquisitive gaze. As he lay next to Pierre, he deepened his breathing, pretending to sleep beside this man that was a stranger to him. He didn't dare move, afraid that Pierre would find his actions suspicious and tear the truth out of Grantaire. The next morning he got up. He hadn't slept a wink, yet he never remembered feeling so alive.

The weeks passed and Grantaire saw him twice more. He didn't speak to him either time, though he witnessed the attempted flirtations by the barista and the curt replies in a voice that wasn't as deep as he expected, but contained its own lilt and unique phrasing that so pleased the ear, that one wished that he would never cease talking. Of course, his phrases were usually about his coffee order and the weather, but to Grantaire they could have been exhortations on umbrellas and he would find it the most fascinating thing he had ever heard. Grantaire resigned himself to the hopeless odds ahead of him. This man was surely already taken, probably not even interested in men, and he only came for coffee once every few weeks. The odds were that they would eventually have a conversation, but that it would be about his order and nothing more. This was perhaps the cruelest scenario that Grantaire could see Fate pulling on him because he would inevitably read into ever gesture and nuance of the conversation and it would leave him broadsided and dazed. Yet he resigned himself to the fact that the odds pointed to an interaction between the two, and soon.

At home, things were still running smoothly. Pierre was as gentle as ever in the weeks after the initial blow. Grantaire began to relax in his presence. He knew it would happen again, knew that he should be running far from Pierre, but he had no other life besides him. He didn't have many friends- Bahorel, with whom he went to the gym, Bossuet, who was extremely unlucky and therefore was a fine companion to him, and Joly, who had been introduced to him via Bossuet and who always fussed over Grantaire despite his health. He couldn't ask them to give up their lives to take care of him as he recovered, couldn't burden them with Pierre's wrath. Besides, things were going well, they truly were. Pierre had actually complimented his cooking the other night and things were normal again. The tension in Grantaire's muscles eased and he found himself laughing with Bahorel in a way that he hadn't been free to do in weeks after a particularly grueling boxing session.

The next day he found himself whistling as he wiped off the counter during a lull in customers. The bell tinkled and a gust of chilly air entered the shop; a shiver worked its way down Grantaire's spine. "Be right with you," he called, heading back to put the rag in the back room and turned to see the lonely customer standing at the counter. It was Apollo. Of course, Grantaire knew that it wasn't truly Apollo, but as he didn't know his name he had taken to calling him Apollo in his head. He was wearing a blazing red pea coat and tight skinny jeans, that Grantaire immediately tore his eyes from because ogling the customers was not only against the rules, it was highly embarrassing to both parties. And Grantaire was not embarrassing. He was smooth. Even if those golden curls looked soft to touch. Grantaire gathered himself and straightened his spine, making his way to the counter. The man locked eyes with him and Grantaire's breath hitched. He had known, of course, that his eyes were a cerulean blue, had seen that before, but he had never had them meet his. Grantaire didn't think he had ever been under such an intense focus and the thought of what this man was seeing made his hands tremble slightly. He hadn't shaved this morning, and he couldn't even remember if he brushed his hair, and he was sure that his tattoo was peeking out from this t-shirt; it had shorter sleeves than the ones he usually wore to work. He made it to the counter by some miracle and managed to sound vaguely normal when he said "How can I help you?"

"I'd like an espresso with two extra shots, please." Grantaire already knew that was his order, but he could hardly admit to that without seriously creeping this guy out. So instead, he lifted a single eyebrow as he looked the man over. Which was a mistake, because his mouth went dry at the delicately sculpted collarbone that peeked out at him from underneath the also tight v-neck shirt.

"Two extra shots? Not sleeping well?" Of course, Grantaire had to go put his foot in his mouth by asking personal health questions to this god descended to earth in what was likely to be their only conversation. Mentally, Grantaire kicked himself, tearing his eyes from the collarbone to the man's face, which could have actually made the situation worse. How was it humanly possible to have such sculpted cheekbones?

"No, actually, I just have a lot to do." His tone was brisk, but he didn't seem as curt as he had with the other baristas. Grantaire detected a slight wrinkling of his eyes and was slightly encouraged. Of course, Grantaire countered internally, Grantaire would take any kind of neutral action from this man to be affection, he was that far gone. He tried to take deep breaths through his nose, hoping that the blonde would not notice he was close to passing out from hyperventilation. Now would be the worst time for a panic attack.

"Really? Saving the world? Hanging the stars, Apollo? How very noble of you." Grantaire grinned, because if he was going to fuck this up, he was going to do it royally, so that there was no chance of it coming back to haunt him later. He watched a flash of irritation cross the blonde's face. Apparently, he had hit a sore spot. Grantaire wasn't sure what exactly about his statement had made the other man squirm, but it was a rather enjoyable show to watch. He could almost see him squirming beneath him as he put his tongue-Grantaire flushed.

"Just because I run a far left social justice group doesn't mean I plan on saving the world. The idea that one person has to save the world is inherently damaging to society because they don't understand the power that the people hold, and they are therefore exploited-wait what did you call me?" He looked as if he had received cold water to the face. It was clear that he had gone on this impromptu speech several times before, he had it down by rote. Apparently, no one had interrupted him before.

"Apollo." Grantaire answered, leaning his hip against the counter. He was rather enjoying getting reactions out of this man, it was like drawing a wild card. One never knew what the result would be. "Why?"

"Why would you call me that?" The man's face was genuinely befuddled now, his brow crinkled and a quirk to the full lips. If Grantaire used cliches, he would have said he looked as pretty as a picture. But Grantaire did not use cliches. He had been an art student and did not stoop that low. If Bahorel could see him now, he would never let him forget it.

"Because I don't know your name." Grantaire watched the expression of confusion lighten slightly, before it darkened once again, finding another flaw in his reasoning.

"But why Apollo?"

"Have you, by chance read any Greek mythology? Or looked into a mirror?" Grantaire's flippant remark met silence and Grantaire felt his ears go progressively warmer. He cleared his throat brusquely before picking up a cup and a sharpie. "So will you be giving me a name or will I be forced to write Apollo on this cup?"

"Enjolras." The man hadn't taken his eyes of Grantaire's face and he felt himself shrink under such intense scrutiny. The only other person that watched him this closely was Pierre, and it usually did not bode well form him. He kept expecting this man to suddenly make a comment about how he was a nuisance or couldn't even serve coffee properly.

"Bless you." This conversation needed to end soon. Grantaire didn't know how much more he could take of standing so close to this man. He had reached the end of the bedazzled stage and was beginning to work himself into a panic.

A small smile curved into slight dimples and Enjolras opened his mouth again, saying "No, my name is really Enjolras. It's spelled E-N-J-O-L-R-A-S."

Grantaire scribbled the name down as he spelled it. "That'll be right up for you." There must have been something dismissive in his tone, because Enjolras nodded and wandered off to look at the new art series the cafe had put up. Grantaire waited for the coffee to brew and his eyes strayed to the cup, a painful white against the black lettering of a name. Before he could think twice, Grantaire grabbed the cup and uncapped another marker, and began his masterpiece.

"Enjolras?" Grantaire held up the cup of coffee. "I hope I didn't offend you earlier. I wouldn't want the wrath go the gods raining down upon me."

Enjolras quirked his brow and flicked his eyes down to Grantaire's name tag. "And I hope I didn't jump down your throat too much, Grantaire." Enjolras took the cup, a spark flashing as their fingers brushed and their eyes locked yet again in an inexplicable exchange that seemed to stretch the millisecond it was held into an eternity. He raised an eyebrow and Grantaire quickly let go, pretending to busy himself with the cash register as Enjolras' footsteps made their way to the door.

"Thank you," Enjolras called over the tinkling of the bell and the momentary burst of noise from the outside world. Grantaire looked up and waved awkwardly, watching him go, the silhouette of red and black fading into the crowd of people bustling through the streets, but growing stronger and clearer in his mind's eye. He still felt his fingers tingling and the back of his neck was most definitely flushed red. He hurried to open a few windows, feeling warm, his clothing too constricting, his apron a shackle to the disappointment he was to himself, to Pierre, to his family, even to Enjolras, whom he had only just met. He collapsed into a chair, his legs giving out. He thought of what Enjolras' reaction would be in seeing the quick doodle of Apollo on a chariot that he had done on his cup. Maybe he wouldn't even notice it. That was the most likely outcome.

He took a moment to assess the battle. He had been a general jerk, or at least somewhat irritating and perhaps flirtatious. Just as the other baristas. And while Enjolras had not thrown his advances back in his face or answered curtly, as he had with the others, he had not reciprocated. Had he even known that Grantaire had been flirting? Perhaps it had gone over his head. After all, he was probably thinking about his "far left social justice group." Grantaire smirked at his recollection of Enjolras' dark scowl accenting the high brow and smooth cheekbones. The fact that Enjolras had not reciprocated Grantaire's flirtations, left him in a precarious situation. He had not been rejected, which would have been the easiest way out. Instead, he had told him his name, a dangerous piece of information. With that, Grantaire could almost complete his fantasies of the two of them, could have a name to moan when he pleased himself in the shower. But most dangerous of all, having a name made it all the easier for Pierre to discover his dirty little secret. Perhaps because he was awash in a glow of happiness, or perhaps because he was surrounded by sunlight and the newest 1975 song, but that thought did not bother him as much as it should have.

As he sat in the soft chair, bathed in sunlight and wrapped in the memory of his name on Enjolras' lips, lost in the fantasy of imagining this life, Grantaire couldn't bring himself to care about the peril his treacherous heart was suffering. For he had just seen a guardian angel.

Enjolras was incredibly late in meeting Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but something about that barista, Grantaire, had seemed so intriguing. He was carefree and joking as the other baristas had been, but he had a wit more intelligent than the others it would seem. References to Greek literature and culture? No one had ever tried to pick him up like that before. He smiled slightly at Grantaire's baffled expression when he had gone on his little ABC rant, but then thought that this man could be interested in the group. He seemed intelligent, and he could truly use a few more people to help him out. Also, the coffee he had made was excellent, possibly the best cup of coffee he'd had in weeks. This was also a great draw to him in Enjolras' head. Who knew what other talents this man could give to the cause?

Enjolras burst into the flat that he shared with Courfeyrac, grateful for the warm blast of air that greeted him, painful on his cheeks and nose. "I'm here sorry I'm late!" Enjolras called as he took off his coat and kicked off his shoes. He headed towards the kitchen.

"About time," Courfeyrac said. "I was just telling Combeferre that maybe we should put in a movie and cuddle on the couch because I am lonely and you had yet to show up. But I guess Combeferre's sacrifice towards the greater good won't have to take place today. I'm sorry Combeferre, I know just how much you were looking forward to it." Courfeyrac touched Combeferre's knee and Combeferre smiled slightly over his book before closing it and taking his glasses off to rub them clean. This was a tactic he used often when he wanted to remind a person that he had other things to do and could easily leave if they didn't stop wasting his time. Enjolras winced.

"I'm sorry, I stopped to get coffee and it took awhile. I should have let you know." Combeferre smiled and waved his hand slightly. All was forgiven as usual.

"Is that a number on your cup?" Courfeyrac asked, sitting up straighter and leaning in to look. Combeferre lifted an eyebrow at Enjolras, and glanced at Courfeyrac, who was inches away from the cup.

Enjolras lifted his cup in surprise and what met his eyes caused him to chuckle slightly before breaking into a full belly laugh. Combeferre and Courfeyrac never fully understood why the Greek looking man in a chariot had set off Enjolras in such a manner, but Combeferre later pinned it on the coffee. Courfeyrac did not give a reason, but he had a mischievous glint to his eye that suggested that he had his own suspicions and that he was going to get to the bottom of it.