Today Gavroche did not walk with a spring in his step: his gait was the steady march of a soldier going off to war. He led his group of five, none of them younger than eight or older than twelve, down the Rue M_ with barely a sound.
When Turnip had stumbled towards them down at the docks, face black and blue and coughing up blood, there had been plenty of words from the others. It took nearly half an hour to get the full story out of the bloody boy: trying to take food off of the plate from the wrong man at Corinthe had resulted in a beating. The younger boys had spat and cursed the man, talking about what they would do to him if they ever caught him, but Gavroche was more than talk. It didn't take long to whip them into a frenzy to go find the man himself. He'd had to expressly forbid the youngest ones from following him.
The time for talk was over, and each step Gavroche took was in time with the furious pounding of his heart. Not my boys, he said silently. Not them. This ain't right, this shouldn't be happening, it can't be right that a starving kid gets beat half to death for a mouthful of bread. Not them.
His friends at the Café Musain wanted to start a revolution for France? Gavroche was about to start one right now. "No one messes with us, boys," he said aloud. "We're going to find the man that beat Turnip and kill him."
No one argued with him.
About that time, in Corinthe, three amis were settling down to a well-deserved meal and a bottle of wine. Two, in fact–one for Bossuet and Joly to share, and one that Grantaire kept to himself.
"After all, my friends, one must have some surety in life, and a full glass is one that I don't intend to squander," he said, taking a swig straight from the bottle. "And how I needed a drink today!"
"After all of your hard work, hmm, mon ami?" Joly teased. "Surely standing and commenting on our work has tired you to the point that bed rest is in order! Maybe you should retire to the country for a few days, fresh air, no wine, no stress–"
"Careful, Joly, I think your complexion is off. Aren't you a bit pale today?" Grantaire shot back, not missing a beat.
Joly went wide-eyed, and Bossuet sighed. "Shut up, Grantaire!" he said. "Jolllly, there is nothing wrong with your complexion. You're no paler than yesterday."
"I was pale yesterday? Weak blood, I knew it, the signs have been there for weeks–"
"Calm down, drink this." Bossuet passed a glass of the white wine over to his friend. "If you are pale, it is only from the work you did today. We must have talked to half the population of the lower end of Paris. If the common people had enough to eat, I should like to be one of them; it seems to be the kind of life of hardship I would adapt to quite easily."
Grantaire snorted. "You in a life of hardship. Laigle, do you see the workers feasting around us?" All three took a moment to look at the people around them; granted, there weren't many, for the Corinthe had gone downhill recently, but the ones that were there were loud and gruff men who did not seem to know or care what they spoke about. One was making a terrible racket in the furthest corner, and it was on him that Grantaire focused. "See that brute in the corner? He backs himself against the wall like a wolf in its den and waits to pounce on whatever approaches it first. As I came in today, I heard him talking about some boy, a gamin, who he had beaten bloody in return for stealing his food. I ask you, what is the point of talking to these people about any of your high-minded ideals? They don't comprehend them, I assure you."
"And you are always so understanding of our ideals, Grantaire," said Bossuet calmly. "Ye of little faith."
"But beating a gamin? That's uncalled for." Joly's face wrinkled at the thought.
"Here comes one now," Laigle commented. "More than one, in fact…isn't that Gavroche?"
The small boy was indeed at the front of a ragged group of five that walked in like the miniature harbingers of doom. Each one carried a rock in his hand, and Gavroche clutched a decent-sized stick. He walked over to the wolf in the corner after only a moment's hesitation.
"Are you the one who hit Turnip?" he asked.
Bossuet cursed as the man answered in the affirmative. "He'll get killed," he said quietly.
Gavroche spat at the floor at the man's feet. He seemed not to notice that the four boys behind him had barely made a move forward, and several other unsavory characters in the Corinthe were watching him with interest. "He might have died, all for a mouthful of hard bread. You know what it's like to starve, mister?"
Joly leaned in towards the other two. "We have to do something."
Grantaire downed the last of his bottle very quickly. "Go get the others, then. I'll wait here for your return."
The man in the corner had risen, and four others with him. It was as uneven a five-on-five as any of the boys had ever seen. Gavroche did not back down even a little, but his companions were paler than Joly, and shaking.
"Grantaire, be serious, you can't fight all five of them!" Joly hissed.
"Who said I was going to fight? Perhaps I'll talk to them. Persuade them with rational arguments," Grantaire said, holding his bottle out straight and sighting down it like a gun. "Anyway, Bossuet will get lost on his own, and this is no place for a man with weak blood."
"They're at Rue V_, it's not too far away," said Laigle. He reached out to touch Grantaire's shoulder. "We'll be back as soon as we can manage. Come, Joly!"
The two amis quickly exited Corinthe, and Grantaire stood and stretched leisurely as Gavroche shouted insults at the man. The other gruff men laughed, and Gavroche's adversary stepped forward. "Come on, boy," he said, "it shouldn't take too long to do you like I did your friend."
With that, Gavroche's face twisted and he threw the stone in his hand with surprising accuracy, catching the man square in the forehead. Within a moment he was on the man, stabbing at him with as much force as he could muster, as though he were trying to drive the stick through his body. But the man recovered quickly and backhanded the gamin hard enough to send him back against the table behind him.
The other boys rushed forward, either to save their leader or to challenge the man, but Grantaire got there first and placed himself squarely between Gavroche and the cornered wolf. "Easy, man, what is all this fighting about? Let him go, sit down, have a drink, though the wine's piss-poor."
Gavroche jumped up and tried to rush past Grantaire. "Grantaire! He tried to kill Turnip, so get out my way! I'm gonna kill him!"
Grantaire caught him with the arm not holding the bottle and yanked him back. "Killing at your age? Really, murderers start young nowadays."
"Gutter rat stole my bread, so I gave him what-for!" the wolf spat.
"Let go! I don't need your help, Grantaire!" Gavroche yelled.
The student barked out a laugh. "Of course not. No one needs my help. Who said I'm helping you?" Gavroche thrashed, but his grip held firm.
Their adversary stepped forward. "You're in my way," he said with a low growl. Grantaire was strongly reminded of a mangy dog and had to stop the comment from escaping his mouth. Blood was welling up on the man's forehead now. "Got to teach this one a lesson too. Get out of my way."
The man's four friends now took a step forward. Obviously, it will take five of them to kill me and five boys, Grantaire thought. I have increased danger of this encounter so much that four more men are required, and I am armed with only a bottle. This will be a marvelous thing to put on my tombstone.
Grantaire took a step back, and Gavroche had the great good sense to step back with him. It did not stop the gamin from yelling, "To hell with you! You'd be full of holes if I hadn't been pulled off of you!"
"Shut up, you're making me be the sensible one here," Grantaire hissed, but the damage was done. The man stepped forward and grabbed at Gavroche.
Grantaire pushed Gavroche out of the way, sidestepped the grab, and rapped his bottle on top of the man's head. "I should warn you, I am a decent kickboxer and a passable singlestick fighter," he said, raising the bottle with an elegant flourish. "I can fight with the best of them on the Rue A_, and I'd hate to waste a good empty bottle that may one day be refilled."
The man shook his head slowly, like a dog shaking the water out of its ears. "All right, boy," he said. "Your lesson first."
Grantaire passed the bottle to Gavroche and took the stick from him quickly.
He'd lied, actually: Grantaire was a natural at singlestick. It was one of the few things that he'd actually enjoyed learning in school. He sometimes won money during boxing matches on the street, when he wasn't drunk. So when the first three men came at him, he dodged around two and hit the wolf squarely across the face. From somewhere behind him, glass broke, and he turned to see Gavroche threatening a man with the broken bottle in his hand.
He was going to be in a lot of trouble if the others didn't get back soon.
Because as much as Grantaire hit and parried, he couldn't seem to keep a table between himself and the men or even keep himself between them and Gavroche and his gang. And when one of them grabbed his arms from behind, he was not able to stop the wolf from hitting him across the face hard enough that he saw stars.
"Grantaire!" Gavroche yelled, and drove the jagged end of the bottle into the leg of a man threatening one of his boys. Blood welled up immediately, and a sort of fierce pride and terror entered Gavroche's heart.
Grantaire, meanwhile, was pinned down onto a table with two of them holding his arms. Luckily, he'd never been a weak man (not physically, not ever) and he bucked and struggled. Some blows that were meant for him fell onto the table, but two or three hit his midsection with a pop. Just a pop, Grantaire told himself. That was definitely not a crack. No. It wasn't a crack.
One more blow fell, and Grantaire stopped struggling. He huffed out a laugh that had far too much blood in it for his liking. "It would be fitting, to end in a bar. I'd had a much grander death in mind."
"Gavroche!" one of the boys cried out. "Here they come!"
"They could at least have hurried and saved me this beating," Grantaire mumbled.
And then his friends were through the door in a rush of color and sound. Courfeyrac first, bodily tackling the man fighting Gavroche, and Joly and Combeferre right behind him. The men holding Grantaire down released his arms and stepped back to get out of the way of Bahorel, grinning like a devil, and Bossuet with a brick in his hand, and then Enjolras, face a mask of fury and radiating enough wild energy that Grantaire could feel his rage from where he lay.
For about a half-minute, everything was chaos while Grantaire just lay on the table and breathed.
Then, "Stop!" Combeferre shouted. "Stop everybody!"
Grantaire opened his eyes again to see that the room was divided, the amis and Gavroche's crew on the far side of the Corinthe, and the men, a little worse for wear, on his side. "Stop this," Combeferre repeated. "You cannot win; we outnumber you. We are six to five."
"Seven!" Gavroche cried.
"Eight," Grantaire croaked, raising himself onto an elbow.
Courfeyrac, meanwhile, had a hold on Gavroche and was murmuring to him, "Now's not the time, Gav. You can't go killing people on the streets, the police will try to catch you for the rest of your days."
"He tried to kill Turnip!" Gavroche said.
"We are eight to five, and the police will be here soon," Combeferre continued. "We will be more than glad to explain to them how five men tried to beat a child."
Enjolras put a hand on Gavroche's shoulder. "Not like this, citizen," he said. "Unplanned retaliation will end in failure, always. Let them go; their day of reckoning will come soon."
The five men looked at the determined faces of the students, looked at each other, and made a break for the door. As soon as they were gone, Enjolras said, "Bahorel! Find out what their names are and where they live."
Bahorel left as Combeferre knelt in front of Gavroche. "Let me see that bruise," he said. "It looks painful."
Meanwhile, Joly and Laigle approached Grantaire. "You complete idiot," Joly said. "Now I really do prescribe bed rest!"
Bossuet and Joly's bottle of wine was still unbroken on their table, and Laigle fetched it for Grantaire. "Here, you deserve a drink after that."
Grantaire coughed and waved off Joly as he tried to examine his bruises. "Leave off, Jolllly! A bottle is all I need to feel right as rain again. Fortunately, my features are such that a few good knocks will not lessen them."
After a couple more swallows, the pain had already started to lessen. Grantaire felt a tooth wiggle and pushed it back down into his gum. "Stay there, tooth, I'll have need of you come dinner."
As Combeferre and Courfeyrac approached his table with Gavroche and the boys in tow, Joly tried to appeal to them. "Combeferre, Grantaire obviously needs a doctor, but he will let me do nothing."
"You're being ridiculous, Grantaire," said Combeferre immediately. "You fought hard, and there is no shame in being treated."
Grantaire kept shaking his head. "Let him be," said Enjolras suddenly. "The other boys need to be looked at, especially the one beaten earlier. Go treat them."
Before Combeferre and Joly escorted the boys out, Gavroche ran up to Grantaire and looked him squarely in the eye. "…thank you. You saved my life," he said. "That fighting you did, with the stick, can you teach me that? No cop in the city would touch me if I could fight like that."
"I'm a bad teacher," said Grantaire, "but I could try."
After they had left, Enjolras asked Joly and Bossuet to find madame Hucheloup and pay for the mess. Grantaire had still not moved from his spot on the table. It wasn't too hard to breathe, but he didn't feel like moving. The second bottle was emptied with ease.
When he looked up, Enjolras was standing over him. His leader extended a hand towards him. "Come on, Grantaire, you should return to the Musain."
Grantaire tried to lever himself up under his own power, but as Enjolras started to withdraw his hand, he reached out and grabbed it like a life support. "That second half of the ascent is always the hardest, Apollo, I thank you." He dropped the hand as soon as he was on his feet, almost scared to touch Enjolras. He had calmed down, but there was still a ferocity about him that gave Grantaire mixed feelings. He absolutely refused to examine those feelings.
"You did well, Grantaire," said Enjolras. "But refusing to let Joly or Combeferre look at you is exceptionally foolish. They'll be waiting at the Musain for you later today. Come on."
Grantaire stretched again, and moved to Enjolras's right side. He wasn't shooed away; Courfeyrac took his left side as they exited.
"I have to hand it to Gavroche," Courfeyrac commented, "his loyalty is second to none. He'll be great one day."
"He is great now," Enjolras countered. "Once the revolution is over, he will have the chance to be greater still."
"Loyalty?" Grantaire said. "He might get himself killed for that. Loyalty. Never had much use for that."
He walked with his back straight on his leader's right side and proudly displayed his bruises to Paris, the world, and God above.
Author's note: More Grantaire. I cannot stop writing him. Thank you for reading!