Hello again, my lovelies! If you have come here from More Broken, I welcome you and am glad to have you back. If you haven't, I still welcome you! This is a prequel to More Broken, and I would recommend that you read that one first, if you like. (It's in my Stories list.) You don't have to, of course, this can be a stand-alone.
I welcome you all, and I hope you enjoy!
-CM
It was a windy day in late August, and cold enough to warrant light jackets and scarves. The dark haired boy noticed many people in such attire as he sauntered down the street. Then again, he was no different. He was wearing an oversized black jumper with a dark green scarf that whipped around him when he walked. The mass of dark curls on his head were just barely tamed by the faded green beanie he was wearing. He was holding a coffee cup, and the top of something that looked suspiciously like a flask was poking out of the top of his brown bag. His brown eyes were trained down, watching the white tips of his gray Chuck Taylors flash in and out of his vision.
He took a sip of coffee.
Finally, as first bell rang, James Grantaire realized that he could parade about no longer and he finally made the final few steps that took him to the imposing columns of Musain High. It was the first day of freshman year, and Grantaire, a new student from Limoges, wasn't truly afraid. He just really wasn't the school type.
Luckily, he had gone to freshman orientation, and had since learned the layout of the huge school. Making his way down the upper hallway, he stashed his things in his locker, taking a long drink from his flask. The burn of 50 proof whiskey traveled down his throat. He shook his head and closed his locker with a crash.
First period was easy. It was Algebra 2, Grantaire had always been an intelligent one, and math came as easily to him as anything else. The teacher was a dour old man with a stain on his creased tie and a balding head. Grantaire's table partner was a girl called Musicfettucini or some weird name like that. He hadn't bothered to learn it. He wasn't a people person. All in all, it wasn't a bad class, but he did have to groan when the teacher passed out a homework packet and expected them to have it done by Friday.
Then it was back to the locker and to the flask. Grantaire was sad when he realized that his whiskey was nearly half gone already. He would have to bring a bottle in or something.
"You know," said a voice from behind him, "you really shouldn't be drinking at your age." Grantaire was so startled that he whipped about, knocking into a very skinny boy. The ball jar of whatever he had been drinking spilled all over the papers in his hand and fell to the floor with a crash. The boy cursed loudly, kneeling to pick up the shattered jar and mop up the liquid with his sweater. That was when Grantaire got a good look at him. In all honesty, if not for the voice, Grantaire would have been sure that the boy kneeling was a girl. He had long, ginger hair, braided and a flower crown was atop his head. He was wearing an atrocious pink sweater with… god were those kittens?
They were indeed. The boy was wearing a pink sweater with kittens on it. He was also wearing floral skinny jeans and a pair of lace-up brown boots. He was freckled all over.
"Well, don't just stand there, clot, help me clean this mess up!" complained the boy. Grantaire obliged, finishing picking up the jar. They both stood up. "There, now that you've finished spilling my raspberry iced tea all over my new poetry, we can get acquainted. I'm Jean Prouvaire, but my friends just call me Jehan. Well," he said, looking down, "they would if I had any friends."
Grantaire could only blink for half a moment, and then he remembered himself. "Nice to meet you, Jehan. I'm James Grantaire, but you can just call me Grantaire." He extended a hand to shake, and Jehan took it, shaking with a surprisingly firm grip, despite the small hand covered in freckles and something that looked like henna. "Jimmy Grantaire," he said, a glint of mirth in his blue eyes. "I'll remember that. See you for lunch."
With no further ado, the boy who called himself Jehan was gone, vanishing into the menagerie of people in the hall. Grantaire blinked, smiling despite himself. It seemed Paris was full of wonderful people.
Two more classes passed in a haze before it was time for lunch. Grantaire let himself be swept into the tide of people heading for the lunchroom. Lunch was a chicken-and-beet salad, and Grantaire found a secluded corner to eat in. A moment later, Jean plopped down beside him, with a paper bag decorated with flowers and another boy. "This is Feuilly, he's also new," he said by way of greeting. "Now how did you know that I was new?" asked Grantaire. Jehan shrugged. "You practically stink of it. And besides, if you'd been here for middle school, I'd remember you."
"I'm Grantaire," he said to Feuilly.
"Go Poland," replied Feuilly. Grantaire cocked an eyebrow. "My favorite country. They're playing a football match today."
"Go Poland," Grantaire laughed.
The three sat down to eat lunch and soon found that conversation came easily to them. They talked of many things, Grantaire about his paintings, Jehan about his poetry, and Feuilly about the fans that he painted. "It seems we're all lonely artists," commented Jehan.
"Les Artistes Solitaires," said Grantaire. "Sounds about right. But we're not lonely anymore, are we? So that can't be the name of our group."
"Who said we were to have a name?" asked Feuilly. Grantaire shrugged. "Every good group's got to have a name."
"What about Les Artistes Amicales?" suggested Jehan.
"The Friendly Artists?" said Grantaire. "It doesn't work."
They tossed around a few more names, before Grantaire thought of one.
"Les Amis," he said. "Just The Friends. That would do, wouldn't it?"
And it did do.
At nearly the end of lunch, Grantaire was staring about the atrium when he spied them. There were three of them, moving throughout the cafeteria. One of them was tall, lanky, with a blue sweatshirt and thick glasses. He had a mop of chestnut hair. One of them was shorter, wearing purple with a pink bowtie. He seemed to know everyone, and was talking to everyone with a cheeky grin.
And the last one, well, he was hard to explain. He had disheveled curls, like gold, and the bluest eyes that Grantaire had ever seen, even from across the room. He was wearing a red jacket, and carrying a mass of papers. A pen was stuck behind his ear. Despite the haughty expression on his face and the way he carried himself, like some sort of pompous ass, Grantaire had to suck in a sharp breath.
He was… beautiful.
"Who are they?" he asked Jehan, pointing to the three. Jehan sighed. "Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras. Enjolras's the blonde one. Not really as perfect as they look. Nice, really, but very righteous. Courfeyrac's kind, Combeferre's a genius, and Enjolras is the leader. He's a queer fellow, as cold as ice but as bold as fire."
"We should get them to join our group," said Grantaire, entranced.
Jehan laughed.
That night, in the comfort of his own green painted room, Grantaire was sprawled on the bed. He did some homework, as much as was necessary, and then began to draw, without even knowing what he was drawing. In an hour, he had something, and what it was surprised him. He wasn't even sure if it was him that had drawn it, but it must have been, for there was his signature in the corner, a swooping R.
Enjolras was on the paper, in a red jacket, and him as well. They were both dead, Grantaire collapsed on the ground, and Enjolras leaning against a wall. Eight bullet holes pockmarked his red jacket and even in death was he beautiful. His hand clutched a tattered red banner. Great gray wings protruded from his back, the wings of an angel.
One word had he written beneath it, in scrawling script.
Apollo.
He tacked it in the middle of his blank green wall.
Question of the Chapter: If you had to use one word to describe Enjolras, what would it be?
