A/N: This is my first dive into writing Les Miz, so feel free to point out characterization flaws, canon discrepancies, and the like, in addition to the usual grammar and spelling errors. I welcome constructive criticism as I would a beloved friend.
Disclaimer: Unless I am Victor Hugo reincarnated (unlikely) I don't see how I could possibly have written Les Misérables. Nor do I see why anyone else would think I had.
To Amend
It was slightly past two in the morning, and the moon was making a half-hearted, languid attempt at brightness. Summer fog curled off the river and meandered lazily through the streets. Wind was scarce to the point of being nonexistent.
Paris was, if not entirely silent, a good deal more so than usual. Sleep was the city's principle concern. Even those men who prefer to perform their work in the anonymous night were urged to sleepby the fog.
In his sequestered house in the Rue Plumet Jean Valjean slumbered uneasily. He dreamt that he was walking through darkness, towards a distant light, and being followed by a shadowy form. He turned frequently to look behind him, but never saw anyone.
In this manner he was chased into a slow awakening, and an old restlessness made itself known. Prompted by this, and by a desire to assure himself of safety, he decided to venture into the steaming streets and walk for awhile.
Before departing Valjean donned a coat with deep, hidden pockets. Given the distinct lack of a chill the coat may have attracted some minor attention as he walked, had the streets been more heavily populated. As it was, Jean Valjean only met one other person, and that man was hardly inclined to notice or to care about the peculiarity of a coat.
This stranger was not a naturally attractive man, and an intimate proximity to the gutter had rather failed to improve matters. He seemed at home in the filth and decay, his posture almost giving the impression of a king on his throne, despite the fact that he was reclining in a gutter rather than upon comfort and extravagance. His gaze bypassed the earth entirely, and was instead fixed upon the stars. His smile, directed upwards, was two parts bright and one part bitter.
Valjean halted, and surveyed the man for a moment. His thoughts were not displayed on his face. After a couple seconds had elapsed he withdrew some money from one of the hidden pockets. He approached the stranger, knelt so that they were approximately at eye-level, and held out his hand.
"Take this, and buy yourself some food."
The man, who had previously been so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not notice Valjean, started slightly, and his gaze was abruptly dragged downward. A slight movement drew Valjean's eyes to a bottle, nearly empty, which was clasped in one of the stranger's hands; the effect of the alcohol could be read in his eyes.
"Food, he says." The words meandered their way through the air, vague, directionless. "What need have I for food? All of the substance I require can be found in my wine and in the bright words of Apollo. He never speaks of anything remotely possible, of course, but what does that matter to me?" He ignored the money and continued on in this vein for awhile under his breath, but Valjean didn't catch what was said.
So, the man was drunk. Probably was on a regular basis. Valjean extracted some additional coins from his pocket and pressed the money into the grimy hand not occupied with a bottle. He straightened. "Spend this money on shelter and food. Find yourself a job, if you do not have one."
The man stared down at the coins. "Monsieur, that is a lot of money." He looked back up. "I do not want it. Take it back." He held out the money. Valjean did not reach for.
"Monsieur, my name is Alexandre Grantaire. I am, among other things, a drunkard. I have no desire to stop being one, as I have found alcohol to be one of the most reliable and attractive pleasures in the world. If you asked any who knew me, they would instruct you to give your money to a more deserving individual. You have no way of knowing that I shall not spend this money on wine, or absinthe. You seem like a good man; I doubt that you wish to waste your charity on one who will exchange it for the bottle."
"If you promise me that you will not spend this money on drink then I shall believe you."
"But you should not accept a promise from me! They are meaningless. I have a most atrocious habit of breaking them," Grantaire said glibly. "My intentions are true enough. It is the act of following through that I find difficult."
Valjean was quiet for a moment, pensive. "You are a young man yet. You can change, if you make an effort."
"Ah! And now you sound like him. I can be a benefit to society, if I make an effort to change myself..." Here he laughed, derisively. "Some things can't be changed through force of will. The depravity of man, the weather. Certain people. I shall remain as I am."
"Humans are always capable of change. It is, perhaps, our greatest blessing," Valjean objected lightly. His expression did not indicate blame or derision, which made for a pleasant (if somewhat mystifying) change.
"Clearly you have never lived in the gutter as I have. Then, you would know."
This did invoke some irritation in Valjean. "As it happens, I know something of suffering and of personal change." He didn't speak of specifics, but his expression was such that Grantaire, somewhat unwillingly, believed him.
"Well, then, you are a better man than I."
"I'm not. No man is better than another. That's the entire point." Valjean hesitated for a moment, then withdrew paper and a pencil from one of the enormous pockets of his coat. He scribbled down the address of one of his lesser-used houses.
"If you decide to try, come to this address tomorrow. I shall assist you in procuring a job."
The memory of the bishop was prominent in Valjean's thoughts. What an effect our actions can have! M. Myriel saved Jean Valjean from a return to prison; moreover, saved his soul. So many lives were altered for the better because of that distant catalyst; could not Grantaire be one of those souls?
Valjean left quickly, and was quickly swallowed, silently, into the fog and the night. If not for the money and the paper, Grantaire would have been inclined to write away the incident as the product of a drunken dream. People are, generally speaking, much too worried about their own lives to try to help strangers on the street. Although – and here he thought of (his friends?) the revolutionaries – the world is not without its would-be saviors.
He checked his pockets for holes; upon finding one that is intact, he stowed the money away. Lingered for a moment over the paper.
"Well, should I go?" Grantaire mused aloud, as he had a habit of doing when alone.
"But, then, to change – could I?" He lapsed into silence. Two questions occupied his mind – firstly, was it possible for him to change himself? And secondly, did he want to enough to try? It might cause Enjolras to regard him kindly. He pictured them together, for a moment, Enjolras clasping his shoulder and smiling, as if they were friends...
But then reality, that irritating, persistent thing, reminded him that the alcohol was only half of the reason for why Enjolras disliked him. There was also his cynicism – and that, he knew, he could not alter. It was too deeply ingrained into his mind and soul, and there was no purge for that – a soul may easily be tainted and made dark, but to then introduce light? That was next to impossible.
And then, to have Enjolras reject him anyway, having gone to such lengths for his approval... To be considered worthless still, because he did not believe in the republic, or any of the ideals that Enjolras treasured to the exclusion of mortal pleasures... That would be unbearable.
Still. If there was the slightest chance that it could change things, maybe...
He rose unsteadily to his feet, glanced a final time at the paper before tucking it away. His mind was all in turmoil.
A few moments of heavy, weighed silence filled the street. It was broken by Grantaire's uneven, directionless footsteps as he followed the same route Jean Valjean had taken earlier, and, with less smoothness, faded into the night.