Work Text:
I.
There is a simple, but monotonous routine to Grantaire’s life. Working sober throughout the day is difficult and he can’t help lacing his coffee with brandy or rum or Irish liqueur during his lunch break. It’s a support line, something to keep a level base flow before making up the excess with a bottle of wine, a few whiskey shots and maybe some beer when he gets home. And this is during the weekdays.
Friday starts in a crowded tube station. Its still winter so the tunnels are yet to grow sweaty, but the trains are stuffy as people bundle up in layers upon layers of coats, scarves and gloves to fend off the cold. Boarding the train is like trying to wade through a room filled to the brim with over stuffed pillows, and it’s a good thing Grantaire has no problem with touch, because personal space is a thing of the past in situations such as this.But for now, he’s stood on the platform; draining the dregs of the coffee he has treated himself to that morning. Beneath the dark green parka coat, he’s wearing the all black attire of his work uniform, nametag pinned over his left breast, ID pass around his neck, the strap of his satchel digging uncomfortable into his shoulder. Wearing his work uniform on the commute probably isn’t the best idea, but Grantaire is willing to risk it if it will buy him an extra half an hours sleep.
At least there are no freaks on the train at seven in the morning.
*
“They’re seriously putting this shit in the main display room? I mean really?”
They’re stood in the store room of the art gallery, inspecting the neatly wrapped, recently arrived pieces that are going in the main show rooms for the autumn season. Grantaire tilts his head, regarding the one-meter by one-meter square canvas covered in red paint with a large black dot in the middle. There are several more like it, dark green with a light green splotches, a canvas filled with black and white swirls creating a complex vortex for the eye to behold.
“I think they’re nice. I mean, the patterns in some of the more complex pieces are very intriguing” Jehan pipes up from somewhere deep within the storeroom where he’s checking the number of packages against the order list. Grantaire doesn’t want to think about how much money the gallery has spent on these pieces, let alone how much money some of these pieces will be bought for by rich clientele.
“Say that in my presence ever again and I’ll punch you in the throat.” Grantaire calls, earning a laugh in return. Maybe he’s biased, seeing as all the painting he’s produced have been photo realistic and ultimately rejected by the cruel world, but he can’t help the bitter feeling.
“Be nice, fair Grantaire, I do not wish to see you getting fired for being rude to the artist.” Despite snorting at the word ‘artist’, Grantaire knows he’ll keep to Jehan’s wishes, knows he’ll bite his tongue and keep his mouth shut because he’s painfully sober. Plus he knows that Jehan would be genuinely upset if he said anything out of turn, and that is enough to put a roadblock in place.
The gallery is quiet as it is most Friday mornings, with only a couple of tourists milling around the large rooms with mild interest, and a small group of art students sat sketching the sculptures in room seven. The visitors don’t normally arrive until noon and even then, it’s only for a couple of hours before it falls deathly silent again.
But today, there is a commotion in rooms one to three where the artist of the new exhibition has arrived to place his pieces. The launch is tomorrow evening and today will be spent organizing the layout, slotting in the new description cards, hanging the pieces and sorting the handouts, all under the watchful gaze of the lucky but no doubt nervous artist. The manager is trying to make him calm down but is getting nowhere and Grantaire has moved the same canvas to three different locations already and is now just standing there waiting for instructions with the monstrous thing in his arms.
He swears, if fate is kind, that when it comes to his exhibition he’ll be calm and collected and won’t make the tedious job any more of a chore than it already is. When Grantaire is asked for the fourth time to hang the canvas up in its original place, Jehan shoots him a warning look. A reminder to refrain when the irritation swells. Thank You Jehan.
It’s an awful habit though, to dream at unwelcome occasions, or to dream at all really. But Grantaire can’t help it. As he’s placing pieces for artists he doesn’t know and doesn’t care about, he’s thinking about where he’d place his own work. Thinking up the titles for his exhibitions, about what it might be like to stand and talk about the work to people who are actually interested. Dreaming of the day when it won’t be him serving drinks and tiny finger food and listening to speeches about inspiration and influence. Dreaming of the day when he will be artist and not the attendant.
But dreaming has never gone well, in fact, dreaming has done nothing but kicked Grantaire in the balls.
“I have to go, promise you won’t be an ass.” Jehan says into Grantaire’s ear, bag over one shoulder, black uniform replaced with floral trousers.
“Sure. I take it you won’t be coming out tonight?”
“I have to study, take it easy won’t you? I don’t want to help Eponine drag you out of the gutter again.”
Grantaire’s smile is boarding on rueful
“There are only so many promises I can keep.” Jehan’s returning smile is weak.
“Of course, I’m asking too much. I’ll see you later Grantaire.” With a small kiss to the cheek, Jehan is gone, walking out the front door and leaving Grantaire with no one else to talk to.
*
“ I didn’t realize we were expecting company tonight.” Grantaire says with a smile and good humor upon entering the bar. It’s slightly nicer than the seedy underground pubs he often inhabits, with its padded leather booths and amber lights; Eponine likes to treat herself sometimes and Grantaire was always willing to accompany. Neither of them have a huge number of friends to rely upon, so as roommates, they were obliged to act as a stand in.
But it appeared the friend date was off, and the twosome had become a threesome.
“We got you beer and a whiskey shot.” Marius said, gesturing to the filled glasses on the tabletop.
“Oh Marius, you certainly know how to win my favor.” Grantaire sighs, downing the whiskey and sliding into the booth next to Eponine. He looks at his roommate knowingly and she ignores it.
Marius is a student at the local university, who had been online friends with Eponine for years before they actually met in person. Since that grand meeting she had been more than a little attached to the younger student… less attached per say and more hopelessly in love, in a devastatingly unrequited manner. As far as Grantaire is concerned; Marius is a nice guy, easy to talk and drink with, not blaringly obnoxious like some of the students he’s met before. A lot of the students who came to the gallery were a pain in the ass.
Grantaire drinks, complains about the new exhibition and thanks his lucky stars that he doesn’t have to attend at the launch party tomorrow night. That would be the last bullet loaded in the cartridge of the suicide gun. Eponine talks about some guy who flirted with her in the garage today in some mild attempt to get Marius jealous, an attempt that went sour as Marius remains blissfully oblivious.
“We’re going to the cinema after this, do you want to come Grantaire?” Marius asks after his second beer. Grantaire glances over the rim of his beer glass towards Eponine who shakes her head slightly, wide eyed and demanding. It would be cruel to become the third wheel.
“ I’m okay Marius, I have a date with some vodka shots and a cigarette packet waiting for me at home.” The grateful look in Eponine's eyes is heart warming, almost as warming as the whiskey. Marius shrugs and looks amused, positioning his hand at the small of Eponine’s back when they start to leave. Grantaire trails behind, the edges of his being tinted with alcoholic bliss, but nowhere near his preferred state. Eponine looks content, leaning slightly back into the hand at her back.
Outside the night is chilly and Grantaire pulls his parka tighter around his body, fishing for a packet of cigarettes in one of the many pockets. Marius and Eponine say their farewells, turning into the London street and walking towards the tube station. With them, Grantaire free spirit goes, replaced with a melancholy feeling that tickles the edges of self-loathing. Today had not been a good day, and there is not enough alcohol within him to make the numbing waves ebb and flow.
Cigarette smoke fills his lungs, soothing like a sweet caress and maybe that will be enough to mend the ache echoing in his bones. The streetlights are bright against a never quite black sky and there’s water dripping from a gutter following the rain that had poured during the day, but the night is dry with chill. Tangled earphone cords catch in the zipper of his coat and in the loops of his hairs, threatening to yank the buds from his ears with each step. There’s very little money left to spend so the best option is to go home and raid the extensively supplied alcohol cabinet. Eponine and Grantaire take great pride in their liquor store, along with their collection of green glass cups bought for a couple of pounds out of the back of someone’s van. They’d been high at the time and really had no need for the glasses, but kept them nonetheless.
Crossing at the lights, Grantaire turns into the street of tiny shops, each with narrow two storey flats above the shop fronts. Most of the shops are closed or for sale, and a few are boarded up after the windows were smashed. Slowing a couple of buildings away from his apartment, Grantaire glances at the boarded up window of a long since derelict shop. Written in stenciled black spray paints is
‘Freedom Is Yours To Take’
Grantaire snorts, smirks and shakes his head. People and their stupid ideals, their never-ending optimism that blinkers them from seeing reality. There is no such thing as ‘freedom’, just the never ending cycle of longing and dying. A bubble of irritation swells and bursts in the slow moving channels of his veins, and suddenly Grantaire is crouching, a fat sharpie pen removed from his inner pocket. He scribbles underneath, small enough to not be overbearing but large enough to still be noticed.
What if I don’t want to take it?
*
The next few days are an emotional rollercoaster. Well, an emotional rollercoaster that Grantaire isn’t directly riding, more witnessing from the sidelines.
It starts the next day, when it’s not raining for once and the sky is a luminous grey. He’s curled up on the couch after taking a shower, coffee on the table, cigarette stubbed out in the ash tray, some extremely boring cooking program droning away on the television. A sketch book in resting in his lap, and Grantaire stares at the blank page willing his pencil towards the paper to no avail. He hasn’t sketched or painted or done any art in two months.
“You’re awake, good.” Eponine says cheerfully, bouncing down into the empty space besides him. Grantaire grunts, eyelids heavy with tiredness. “ I think Marius is starting to like me.”
The announcement is met with an eyebrow raise.
“Of course he likes you, the point is he hasn’t ravished you.” Eponine shakes her head, smiling despite herself.
“You don’t get it. We went out last night and he held my hand and he helped me with my coat and we shared popcorn. He even said we should do it again sometime, just him and me.”
“Oh how silly of me, holding your hand is true sign of sexual frustration brewing beneath the surface. Did he write you a sonnet as well?” The sarcasm earned Grantaire a punch in the arm and the removal of his coffee. There was no deterring Eponine when it came to Marius.
*
It only progressed from there.
Tuesday came with the grand proclamation of “Grantaire, I think I’m in love.”
Repressing an exasperated sigh, Grantaire grabs a bottle of water from the fridge in the gallery canteen, an excited Jehan skipping at his elbow. The student was yet to change in his work uniform and gladly took a seat opposite Grantaire in order to tell him all about some guy he had met on the weekend.
“I mean, I’ve always known who he is, I’ve just never really spoken to him and then he was playing at the open microphone night at the uni bar. He has such a beautiful voice, and an adorable face and we spoke for hours upon hours.”
Yet again Grantaire would say something about writing a sonnet, but it was extremely likely that Jehan already had. The only problem with Jehan was he had a love for humanity and for emotion and used to term a little too liberally. Whether or not he was actually in love with this new guy remains to be seen, but the answer was he most likely wasn’t.
“Oh Grantaire, I wish you could meet him. You would have gotten along like a house on fire.” Jehan has reached across the table to curl his fingers around Grantaire’s, a dazed look in his eyes as his face looks positively radiant.
“Sure why not, I would love to know who stole your heart away from the likes of myself.” Grantaire teases with a shrug and a smile. Jehan’s eyes light up and his grip tightens.
“You’d really like to meet him? Well, I was thinking about inviting him to the poetry reading on Saturday, maybe I can introduce you then?”
Grantaire nods.
*
The new exhibit in the gallery gets great reviews.
“The artist shows a thoughtful insight into the complex workings of the human mind, with patterns that are both sympathetic and angered by the human condition. It is a truly magnificent way to start the autumn season.”
Grantaire throws the magazine across the room with a scream.
*
Wednesday comes like a blow to the head.
The tiny apartment is dark when Grantaire gets home from work in the evening, carrying an arm full of take- out to surprise his roommate with, only to find that she’s locked herself away in her bedroom.
“Eponine? Come on, let me in” Grantaire says through the closed door after the third knock. There’s a shuffle and a snuffle on the other side and Grantaire’s gut twists. She’s crying.
“Is it something to do with Marius?” He says it so softly that he’s pretty sure it can’t be heard, but the cry of despair says otherwise. He lets himself into the room anyway.
Eponine is just a mass of heaped duvet covers, curled up tight and sobbing. Grantaire pulls the covers back and crawls in besides her, allowing Eponine to bury her head in his shoulder and cling a little too tightly.
“I hate him.” She sobs when the more violent crying has passed, leaving a damp patch on Grantaire’s t-shirt.
“I know.” Grantaire whispers, pressing a soft kiss into her hair and rubbing soothing circles into her back.
*
II.
Marius has fallen in love…again. Enjolras sigh boarders on irritation at the grand announcement that has the rest of the company smiling and cheering and asking about the pretty young lady who has captured their friend’s attention. It’s nothing new; a couple of weeks ago Marius had been in love with the girl behind the bar until he found out she was a lesbian.
For his part, Enjolras does not take part in the prying, just remains sitting at his table in the Musain, dissertation notes open in front of him.
“Who’s he on about now?” Combeferre asks as he slides into the chair opposite, adjusting his long legs so the don’t tangle with Enjolras’ under the table. This time, Enjolras does roll his eyes.
“Some girl he saw across campus today. He believes his world has been change with ‘just one burst of light’. It’s a load of rubbish if you ask me.”
Combeferre chuckles, adjusting his glasses and removing a thick philosophy text book from his bag.
“Don’t be cruel to him Enjolras.”
“I’m not being cruel, I’m being realistic.”
Combeferre pins Enjolras with a look over his glasses, ones that tells Enjolras to keep his mouth shut unless he wants to deal with a distraught Marius.
There is a simple pattern to Enjolras, one that is hidden beneath complex ideals and mind, one made intricate by those who do not walk his footsteps. He studies at the university, politics and international relations, learning how the leading bodies of the world tick and govern and how they may or may not be taken down. Studying is the main drive, like how an athlete dedicates their life to running fast, Enjolras dedicates his life to learning more and wielding said leaning with a tongue of silver.
Then there’s the Amis.
Enjolras takes great pride in the fact he organized his own society, one focusing on human liberty and social justice, ranging from the accessibility of education to raising aid for foreign war torn countries. So the society was mostly made up of his friends, there were still a few new faces, more and more students turning up as the year went on. It’s hell load more then a lot of other students achieved in their spare time.
However, the recent endeavor of the group hadn’t been Enjolras’ idea, it had been Courfeyrac’s. For some reason, everyone seemed so much more eager to deface public property then they had been to engage in protests (protests that often got out of end and ended up with a handful of them in a cell overnight). He did have to admit, the spray paint slogans had a certain impact and were already getting noticed.
But there was just one thing bugging Enjolras, bugging him so much that it diverted his focus from his studies.
Freedom Is Yours To Take
What if I don’t want to take it?
When Joly had told him about it, Enjolras was convinced he was lying, that is until he saw it for himself. The sharpie scratch, sloping slightly downwards to the right underneath their spray paint. It troubled Enjolras deeply. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to have freedom? Surely there wasn’t anyone so cynical and stubborn and…foolish to believe that. Enjolras was no stranger to people who thought them mad or naive, but nothing quite like this.
Enjolras would pity the poor soul if he weren’t so annoyed about it.
“Her hair was more golden than Enjolras’.” Marius is still going on about the girl and the sound of his name in comparison makes his hand tighten around the pen. Knowing Marius, it’ll all blow over soon.
*
Except, it doesn’t blow over.
“Where’s Marius?” Enjolras asks before the meeting can start.
“With Cosette. He finally got the balls to ask her out.” Someone replies.
It’s enough to make his jaw twitch and the urge to throw himself against a wall is surfacing. It’s not that Enjolras hates love; he has love for the people, his friends (and admittedly there are some days when he has love for himself, vanity is the curse of most dashing young men and even he can afford himself the occasional luxury.) But being attracted to anyone is foreign to him, and the one sexual encounter he had had was uneventful and frankly rather boring. Affection was not his strong hold.
At least his friends make up where their metaphorical leader is lacking.
*
As if it couldn’t get any better, Courfeyrac decides to get stricken like a lovesick puppy the following weekend.
It had been open microphone night at the university bar and Courfeyrac reluctantly takes to the stage with guitar in hand as forfeit after loosing a game of pool against Bahorel. Courfeyrac hadn’t performed live in months, mainly because he is too preoccupied with partying to do anything else. The bar is buzzing, with its cheap drinks and easy social life, the hive of the main student body gravitating towards it. The bar was more a shell to be filled with drunken students than an actual bar.
They snapped up seats near the bar, pulling over chairs from the other side of the room and sprawling out as Courfeyrac took the stage.
“I think this is only time I’ve seen him looking nervous.” Joly says, making Bahorel chuckle.
Nervous or not, the set goes wonderfully, with Courfeyrac covering pretty much every song that would be found on an indie classic CD, making all the hipsters go wild. The group sing along, joyful in their support and for the night they are being the students they were born to be, all studying and talk of reform forgotten.
When the set finishes, Courfeyrac is grinning, bright eyed with cheeks lightly flushed. Then he disappears on the way to get drinks and doesn’t come back. The only indication of his location is a text Combeferre receives saying
Courfeyrac: Met someone interesting, see you loser later.
Courfeyrac: Tell Marius to leave the door unlocked.
The next day, it’s their bouncy friend who comes into the Musain with a declaration of love for a classics literature student with a passion for poetry.
“It’s not even spring.” Enjolras says back at the apartment he shares with Combeferre. Combeferre smiles and says
“I’ll be worried when it’s you making a speeches about love instead of equality.”
Enjolras laughs.
*
There are multiple problems with spray paint. One being the lung killing smell of overpowering fumes, the second being the constant rattling of cans in his bag, and the third being the difficulty of finding a site that isn’t facing downwind. They had practiced before taking to the walls, hours spent cutting out stencils and applying them to cardboard before the final product wasn’t a blurred mess of shapes and letters.
None of them are art students, or had any experience with art, this much was obvious. But where they lacked in artist flare, they made up with ideas.
“How long did you spend trying to find these stencils?” Enjolras asks as Courfeyrac sticks a stencil of a fish onto the side of an office building. It’s passed three in the morning and the lamplights illuminate the empty street. The odd passersby pay no notice to the two figures dressed in black, hoods and scarves obscuring their features.
“You’ll be surprised when I say it wasn’t the stencils that took the time, rather the organization of the shapes.” Courfeyrac replied, tacking the lower corner of the massive stencil and standing back. In all honesty, Enjolras would have bought Combeferre along if he hadn’t been so uneasy about defacing public property.
The piece consists of a fish wearing a crown with a bigger fish made up of lots of smaller fish swimming up behind it and going in for the kill. Beneath the scene the word ‘organize’ is sprayed. A visual representation of how the people can rise up to overthrow their oppressive and selfish rulers. The design certainly appealed to Enjolras’ hatred for the monarchy, as well as the countries conservative government.
Adjusting the red scarf covering the lower half of his face, Enjolras crouches to unzip the bag and the spray paint cans come tumbling out.
*
It’s as if everything Enjolras has encountered today has been designed to piss him off. His lecture has been moved to three in the afternoon instead of its usual spot at ten in the morning. The kitchen cabinets are empty and his student income is yet to come into his bank account, meaning they’re living off air for the time being. The one on one appointment with his politics teacher has been cancelled due to an increase of flu and to top it all off, someone has yet again defaced the street art.
Enjolras is convinced it’s the same person who wrote ‘What if I don’t want to take it?’
The news was delivered by Bahorel via a link in his facebook messaging inbox. Scowling, Enjolras clicked the link to see a picture of the spray paint fish they had worked so hard on a couple of days ago. Except now, swimming up behind the two fish was an even bigger shark like creature with the word ‘reality’ painted through the middle. A small ‘R’ had been scrawled near the fin (admittedly he had missed it the first few times, but now saw it like a beacon).
Enjolras can feel it getting under his skin, like thorny rose stems.
*
By the time the fourth defacing occurs, Enjolras is so enraged he wants to throttle someone.
‘R’ is quickly becoming his least favourite letter
*
Saturday is poetry-reading night at the university’s library and normally it would be Combeferre who drags them out, but this time Courfeyrac has joined in with the pestering. There was still an hour remaining until Joly and Bossuet were meant to arrive, but there was no chance of catching peace today it seemed.
“Do you think this shirt looks okay?”
“It looks fine, stop worrying.” Combeferre says, as Courfeyrac flops down onto the sofa. He’s wearing grey jeans and a dark denim shirt over a bright yellow t-shirt, short curls falling over his forehead.
Enjolras runs fingers through his curls, teasing the ends to curl around the nape of his neck. It was amusing, to see Courfeyrac so hung up about some guy, given Courfeyrac’s general aversion to relationships. He was a flirt and being monogamous wasn’t something he succeeded with. Of course there was a likeness that this was just a fleeting obsession that would amount to nothing, but Combeferre said that Enjolras needed to stop secretly doubting his friends.
The tables in the library had been pushed aside and chairs had been scattered around the now empty space, the lighting was dim and a makeshift stage has been assembled out of low set blocks stolen from the drama department. Art and literature students were gathered in small groups, drinking take away coffee and reveling in their eccentric appearance. Courfeyrac disappears instantly, gravitating towards a skinny longhaired guy in brightly coloured jeans and a bold floral shirt, hair loosely tied back with string.
“It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who’s dragging everyone out against their will.” Combeferre says to Enjolras, grinning and looking perfectly at home as the rest of them pull chairs into a small hub near a bookshelf of ancient history books. Marius helps, looking a little dejected because Cosette couldn’t make it; it was like watching a small puppy sulk in the corner after being left outside for too long.
Enjolras hums, shrugging off his jacket. They are a cultured bunch of students, eager to discuss philosophy and classics and political history, but sometimes the poetry readings leave much to be desired. The last they were here Joly fell asleep on Bossuet’s shoulder during a five minutes long poem about the nearest tesco metro.
Courfeyrac is walking towards them, his brightly clad companion trailing at his side. There are sheets of paper clutched in ink stained fingers and he’s glancing around the room.
“Hey guys, this is Jehan.” Courfeyrac announces with a grin, one hand positioning itself at Jehan’s back. Jehan’s smile is soft but wonderful and he shakes the hand of everyone he meets with equal enthusiasm.
“I’m so glad you all came, Courfeyrac has told me so much about you. I think what you guys do is amazing” That’s it; he’s won Enjolras over and pretty much everyone else as well.
“You’re welcome to join us anytime you want.” Enjolras says and Jehan looks positively delighted. They pull up another chair and Jehan sits at Courfeyrac’s side whilst the microphone is being set up on the stage.
For once, Enjolras is content to listen instead of speaking, relaxing into the chair and stretching out so the toe of his boot touches the leg of the opposite chair. They’re half way through a conversation about Shakespeare when Jehan excuses himself, rising from the chair and making a b-line towards a curly haired man stood a few paces away, cheeks lightly flushed and looking a little out of sorts.
“I’m sorry I’m late Jehan, really I am.” Enjolras hears him say “Some fucking tourists refused to leave and someone spilt water in the lobby and I pretty much ran all the way here-”
“Grantaire” Jehan interrupts with a hand on the shoulder “It’s fine, you’re here aren’t you? Now come, let me introduce you to everyone.”
“Grantaire, this is Courfeyrac and his friends, you already know Marius.” Jehan steers Grantaire over to them and introduces him. He’s wearing jeans with a small tear on the knee and a parka coat over a black button down shirt, which has a nametag, pinned over his heart and the name of an art gallery typed in purple across the back. His black curls are wild and his fingers are shaking.
“Hey Grantaire, I didn’t realize you were coming tonight, did Eponine not want to come?” Marius asks, gesturing to the empty seat next to him, the one opposite Enjolras.
“You know Eponine, poetry isn’t really her thing. Whereas I enjoy a good rhyme.” Grantaire says, sinking down into the chair as Marius laughs, clapping a hand to Grantaire’s back. Enjolras notes the small tick in Grantaire’s jaw and how uncomfortable he looks perched on the edge of the chair.
Like Jehan, the group takes instantly to Grantaire. He’s humorous and easy to smile, laughing along with Courfeyrac and telling storied when Jehan prompts him to. But Enjolras can’t help but notice the tension in his limps and the small twitches and the constantly moving about as if his bones refuse to settle.
“Do you think I have time for a cigarette before you go on stage?” Grantaire leans to mumble in Jehan’s ear as the first poet of the night starts reading a long-winded passage about waves. Jehan shoots him a look but nods, allowing Grantaire to slip off silently through the double doors.
Enjolras frowns, because seriously, that’s just rude.
Nevertheless, true to his word Grantaire returns just as Jehan is walking up to the stage. He looks more relaxed, the shaking of his fingers has lessened but he still shifts his weight every couple of minutes. The smell of smoke reaches Enjolras and he recoils slightly. Noticing this, Grantaire smirks, stretching out so his shoe presses against the leg of Enjolras’ chair. Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras can see Combeferre glancing between the two of them.
In short, Jehan’s poetry is beautiful. It flows like tidal waves and spins a world that is vivid in colour, where birds sing loudly and flowers bloom under foot. Courfeyrac looks awe struck, Marius has gone all gooey eyed and will probably ask Jehan to write him a poem so he can give to Cosette. For the first time, Grantaire has stopped fidgeting, eyes closed with a peaceful expression and Enjolras can’t stop staring.
Why can’t he stop staring?
*
At the end of the night, Joly and Bossuet are going for coffee and Bahorel has been roped in to joining them. Courfeyrac, Jehan, Marius and Combeferre are talking to Grantaire about going out clubbing for the rest of the night, with Grantaire deciding to unbutton his work shirt to revealing a surprisingly tight white t-shirt underneath. Enjolras certainly isn’t looking as he peels it off, certainly doesn’t notice the dull outline of tattoos lurking beneath the fabric, or roll of his shoulder muscles as he shrugs the shirt off his arms. Why would anyone just take off their shirt right there and then, it’s impractical, even if he is only doing it to save his uniform from being spoiled.
“You joining us Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks once they’ve decided what nightclub they’re going to. Enjolras shakes his head, quite content to go back to his apartment and watching a film into the early hours.
Courfeyrac shrugs and says something along the lines of ‘suit yourself’ as he slings an arm around Jehan’s waist, Combeferre and Marius chatting as they follow out behind them. Grantaire bends to grab his bag, not noticing when his lighter slips out of his pocket and clatters to the floor.
Enjolras grabs it as the other leaves, scooping up the small dark green rectangle with a capital ‘R’ engraved into the side.
“Grantaire wait.” Enjolras calls and the other stops, curls falling in front of his eyes as he looks over his shoulder “Don’t forget this.”
Grantaire smiles, taking the lighter from Enjolras’ hand.
“Thanks, you have no idea how lost I would have been with out this.” He shakes it, lighter fluid swilling inside. He looks like he’s going to say something else for a moment, but stops, opting instead to thank Enjolras again before leaving.
*
So maybe he lied about going home for the rest of the night, Enjolras is no saint and to be fair, he hadn’t planned on coming here. He stayed in the library to read up on his notes and write more of his dissertation, loosing all track of time and before he knows it, the clock has struck midnight and there’s a text from Combeferre asking for his location.
Enjolras: Stayed at the library, I’ll be home soon.
The walk home isn’t long seeing as their apartment is only just outside of the university campus, but Enjolras finds himself taking a detour and standing in front of one of the spray painted slogans applied to the sidewall of a printing shop.
Truth Is The Right Of All Humanity
‘There are no truths in this world, only the ideal of truth- R’
He’s staring at the loopy R, offended by its mocking presence. Never has he wanted to white wash something so much, but that would be counter productive and somewhat hypocritical, yet it angers him to no end.
“It doesn’t surprise that that bullshit has captured your interest. Marius said something about your club for freedom fighters.”
Startled, Enjolras whips round to see Grantaire stood behind him, looking overly amused with a cigarette sticking out the corner of his mouth. There’s something different about him, limbs more relaxed, eyes brighter than before, swaying slightly on his feet.
“Tell me” Grantaire steps a little closer, grinning like the cat whose go the cream. “Do you like my contribution, someone of them are pretty creative if you ask me.”
Enjolras splutters and he can feel angered heat creeping up his neck.
“You…you did this?” He jabs a finger at Grantaire, then at the ‘R’ on the wall. Grantaire is laughing again; a sound that would normal be so lovely but now is just really fucking irritating.
“Considering your outrage, I take it that it was you and your buddies who wrote all that shit in the first place.”
“It’s not shit, it’s principle and why would you write such narrow minded statements beneath something aimed to inspire the people?” Enjolras can feel his temper slipping, his eyes are burning and he’s on the verge of shouting at a man he had only just met.
He hates him already, hates him so much.
Grantaire shrugs.
“ The freedom of expression is something you stand for right? Well consider this me expressing myself. Does the fact that my beliefs counter your own make them any less valid, or do you get so easily riled when other’s think you are a naive and stupid schoolboy who has shielded himself from reality?”
Enjolras is about to say something when Grantaire starting speaking again, waving a hand flippantly.
“But hey, what do I know. I do not concern myself with politics or social justice and right now I am drunk. I was drunk when I wrote all that stuff, in fact, I’m drunk ninety percent of the time.”
The dismissive tone has Enjolras itching to hit him. Freedom fighter and campaigner for equality yes, but Enjolras is no absolute pacifist But there is a portion of him, so small it is almost missed, that feels pity for Grantaire and his sorry existence.
“You are just a cynic.” Enjolras says, still glaring as Grantaire rocks back on his heels, blowing a smoke ring into the sky.
“However did you guess?” The smile is almost charming…almost. “You should give me your number so that we might continue this debate further.”
Enjolras gapes for a moment.
“Don’t be stupid, I’m not giving you my number.”
Grantaire shrugs again, exhales a grey plume of smoke before dropping the stub to the ground.
“I’ll find my own way of getting it, see you around Enjolras.” Grantaire calls over his shoulder as he walks away.
*
Unknown Number: Here’s an idea, we should get some stupidly expensive coffee some time, you know, in protest of starbucks and their tax avoiding ways – R
Enjolras: How did you get my number?
Grantaire: Marius gave it to me
Grantaire: So coffee?
Enjolras: No
Enjolras: Stop texting me