Grantaire had never been one to get involved in politics. Too much debating over useless things, if you asked him. The only thing politics were good for was to create rivalries between men who already had too much power to begin with. They spent their entire lives and finances on trying to become bigger and greater than their peers, trying to take over everything and everyone. They spent little time on the very entity they had been sworn into office for, the people.
A true Nihilist, he didn't care much for anything, really. The only thing that could give him happiness was a bottle of wine and an attractive conquest. He strayed far away from situations that would cause him - or others - to hurt in any way, keeping his distance from people and covering his indifferent nature behind a facade of alcohol. The one time he had let someone past that barricade, they had smashed him to pieces and left him a wreck, one bound to turn back to the bottle for comfort.
It was after that fallout with his best friend that he became even more dependent on alcohol to solve every problem. Before, he only used it for entertainment or as an ice-breaker when in new groups. Everyone loved his good-will and charm which only seemed to come out when the bottle touched his lips. Other times, he was cynical and uninterested with anything and everything going on in the world. It mattered little to him who as in office or who had the power. So long as it didn't affect his capability to get a drink, he couldn't care less.
But there were many people who did. Those people who cared about what happened to their city, those people who would fight for the greater good and campaign for true change.
Lately, he had felt the winds of revolt stirring in his own city. He knew of the discontent of the majority of the population; their loathing of being put down, forgotten about. They were the pillars of society. The wealthiest people continued to hoard wealth whilst the poor were forced to pay larger taxes with no reward, and so the uprising had begun. At the forefront of this revolution, the group which had gathered the most support was Les Amis, a radical activist group.
Les Amis were known for their perseverance, their pride in what they did and above all, their fearlessness. They were not afraid to be beaten and battered by police brutality; they were not scared of the people who didn't agree with their cause. They worked for change each and every day because they knew that any day might be their last.
While Grantaire couldn't care less about what they stood for, he admired the fact that they were willing to die for a cause. When you believe in nothing, you truly have nothing. He himself had a hard time finding a reason to get out of bed in the morning. To put your life on the line for whatever it is you believe in was a kind of courage he admired.
Grantaire made his way towards the edge of the park, deciding that it was high time for his first drink of the day. As he walked closer to the exit, he heard the angry honking of horns and some irritated yelling. He turned toward the commotion, intrigued.
Beyond the gates, the traffic was backed up and angry commuters and cab drivers stared at him from their windows. Shrugging, he looked down the street, trying to see what was causing all the commotion. People blocked the sidewalks, obviously entranced by whatever was happening. Weaving throughout them and occasionally offering a quiet 'sorry' and 'pardon me' to anyone who gave him a dirty look. As he approached the intersection, he straightened out and was able to see what was going on.
A group of people, arm in arm and brandishing signs, sat in the middle of the road. They were spread from sidewalk to sidewalk, sitting quietly and staring straight ahead. Peeking through heads, he caught a glimpse of a man with golden hair who stood above the rest, covered by two others who appeared to be acting as bodyguards.
'Are you all so content as to live in the shadows of men who do not care?' As soon as the man spoke, Grantaire's eyes shot forward, immediately recognising the voice. 'Do you care so little about your children, your children's children that you will just stand there and watch, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed while the men who are supposed to be protecting you sit there and eat up riches that could be ours? Will you let them deny you one of your most basic rights - the right to education - under the false pretences that you need to pay to learn?'
His voice, clear and concise, brought back childhood memories from deep within Grantaire. He remembered the times when that voice would laugh along with him as he made some sarcastic remark about one of their truly awful teachers. They would stay up late, Grantaire nodding and smiling encouragingly whenever the owner of the voice went on and on about his passions, politics and the state of the people. He was the only one who could ever make Grantaire care about politics, about anything. Then again, Enjolras had always had a special talent for speaking.
Pushing his way to the front of the crowd, Grantaire looked forward at the man who was once his best friend. Enjolras' eyes were alight, making eye contact with each and every person in the crowd. He made every person feel as if they mattered, if only for a short while. When his eyes met Grantaire's, it was no different. A variety of emotions flickered in their gaze; Confusion, recognition, and finally joy. A wide grin broke out on his face and Enjolras nodded his head; storm-blue eyes calling Grantaire over.
Enjolras never understood those who stood in the shadows, those who sat back as friends or even strangers fought for their right to justice. It seemed selfish, almost sinful to simply wait for a change that others had to work, had to die for. So he reached out to those on the side-lines, matching every intrigued gaze with a silent question. Will you stand with me? Will you fight for your children, your family, and a future to believe in? His eyes sought out the shades, the heartless and the powerful – every man and woman an equal in his fiery gaze. They were never just numbers to Enjolras, they were individuals.
The faces of the people seemed to meld together, but one in particular caught his attention. Raven-black curls messy under a red knit cap. Pale features and flushed cheeks; sliver-blue eyes bright and yet sorrowful in the blinding afternoon light.
Grantaire.
He looked tired, worn – somehow different from the man he used to know. He stumbled under his regard, and for a moment Enjolras wondered if he'd perhaps forgotten. His smile faltered, but still he silently called him over. There had been a time when Grantaire would have been here with him, on the front-line. But that was before the alcohol. Allowing himself one last look, Enjolras saw him carelessly pushing through the crowd; a lofty grin firmly planted on his lips. He almost looked like himself.
But Enjolras couldn't afford to dwell on his lost friend, not now and certainly nothere.
Cries of surprise and growls of anger brought him back to the present. He turned, seeing a wall of polycarbonate shields moving closer as the police advanced on his group. He stepped down from his place, merging into one of the crowd to face the oncoming storm.
The police pushed against the growing swarm, plastic shields forming a wall against their bodies. They barked commands, violently urging the protestors to give way. Enjolras felt the anger and fear of the people wrap around him, the driving force for every word he spoke. They wanted change, longed for it, and Enjolras was the face of that change; terrible in his passion.
Flanked by Courfeyrac and Jehan, Enjolras stood his ground. He glanced around, looking fruitlessly for the rest of Les Amis. He was suddenly glad they were out of sight, lost among the mass of people who had joined their cause at the last second. The thought of anyone getting hurt – or worse – was unbearable to Enjolras. But riots had a habit of turning nasty, no matter how much Les Amis tried to be peaceful. If Enjolras felt guilty, he couldn't let it affect him here. He motioned for Bahorel and Feuilly to move forward, urging them to help and prevent anyone who wasn't a expenced member from being hurt. Enjolras spared a thought for Grantaire, no doubt lost in the confusion. If the man was wounded, it was undoubtedly his fault.
However, he reminded himself that merely wishing for transformation didn't make it so. If this was the price then so be it.
By now the officers were growing restless, shouting profanity at the crowd, trying to create the violence required for an arrest. It was unfair, unjust. He could only watch as rage took over the people one by one. In that moment, Enjolras loathed the authority more so than ever – the fire inside him grew from a spark to a flame, the embers alight in his eyes and face.
He wanted to say something – anything – to calm the current storm of people writhing against the barriers, but it was too loud. He couldn't shout above the noise. The traffic had come to a standstill as people bolted from the streets; the catalyst for control by force. Men clad protective armour filtered through the chaos, taking down anyone and anything that dared put up a decent fight. Enjolras momentarily froze, mourning the loss of the supposedly peaceful protest. This was all wrong.
But human beings are destructive by nature; both sides were causing equal damage but the police had weapons, armour and the law. The people had nothing but each other. The hope they had shared was clearly dwindling by the second. Regarding the spectacle before him, Enjolras surged into action. He stopped to help up a man lying injured on the street, passing him to Joly for medical attention before quickly moving on. Jehan and Courf followed close behind, Bahorel and Feuilly leading as they formed a protective circle around him. Enjolras always hated this part. He was tired of the hiding, and the running away. He wanted to stay and fight with those he'd inspired into action but he also knew that without him, there would be nobody to take the reins in quite the same fashion. And so he ran, repeating the same phrase again and again inside his brain 'for the greater good'.
However, Enjolras wasn't even sure he believed himself anymore.
Stumbling through the lingering horde of people, they made their move; their signs and banners long abandoned into the confusion.
They came to a sickening stand-still as a barrier of police formed at the end of the boulevard in an attempt to catch the few remaining members of Les Amis. It wasn't their first protest and it certainly wouldn't be their last. Enjolras mentally cursed the Perspex screens in front of them, wishing for a redemption that ultimately never seemed to come. Giving in was never an option. He pushed forward, out of the protection of his friends.
'Freedom of expression is a human right.' Enjolras called out, raising his head in defiance as the police moved closer. He spat out his words to the shield in front of him, the man behind faceless and unfeeling. 'Are you really so uncivilised as to deny something so primitive?'
The guard was pushed forward, the shield connecting with his face with a sickening crack. He hardly had time to register the blow before he was flung backwards, an arm on his shoulder pushing him behind. Vision blurred, he could all but make out a flash of red – although he couldn't tell whether this was his own blood or something else entirely. Jehan was supporting him as Courf and Bahorel pulled back another man; the personification rage as he threw himself toward the officers. He was screaming curses, thrashing against the men holding him back. He was wild, animalistic in his movements. It took Enjolras all of three seconds to place the voice. It seemed Grantaire had been here all along, waiting for just the right moment to strike.
Rage blurred his vision further. How could Grantaire be so irresponsible, so thoughtless in his actions? He should have stepped back. He should have left it alone. He shouldn't even be here.
With a mouth filled with blood, Enjolras felt truly nauseous. The pain in his lip was nothing but an irritation compared with the current state of his head. Unable to speak, Enjolras growled in frustration, motioning the group to fall back. He glanced at Grantaire, holding up a hand to let the other man know he was okay. It was a small gesture, but it seemed to calm him to a certain degree as he then followed the rest of the group willingly.
Yes, humans were destructive, reckless and downright infuriating at times. But Enjolras was nothing if not idealistic, and he truly believed they were worth fighting for. He didn't quite understand Grantaire's sudden interest in their cause, but he was unwillingly impressed by his foolish dedication. It was something to work on. Enjolras mentally scoffed as he realised he was getting ahead of himself; after all they had to get 'home' first.