AUTHOR'S NOTE: ok so grantaire is the only one who remembers 1832 and the events after (when they all woke up as different people) and he's always remembered all throughout time
courf is a trans boy, combeferre is agender and uses xe/xir/xem pronouns, and jehan is genderfluid and uses ae/aer/aers pronouns (technically ae uses like fifty pronoun sets, but ae/aer/aers are the ones used in this fic)
the parts that are all lowercase are from grantaire's pov, and the ones that use proper capitalisation are from enjolras' pov. sorry i know its sort of confusing lmao
also jehan is secretly naleye dolmans shh dont tell anyone
also, this talks about abortion near the end, so if for some reason that might upset you, please be careful when reading!
he isn't sure how it always ends up being them. they're like someone's sick idea of a constellation, stars threaded throughout time, always finding each other in some profound way. the first time had been, he thinks (he's probably wrong. he's usually wrong), 1832. that goddamn revolution. it had seemed, at the time, to be prominent. memorable. bloody sacrifices their way of painting themselves onto the pages of history books.
it lasted two days. they all died, shot down by boys they had gone to school with. nothing changed. the cycle continued-and it never stopped. the government was always going to be corrupt, but it was no use telling enjolras that he couldn't fix it, because he would always try. no matter what form he took, no matter what name he signed, no matter what language he spoke, he was always the same. just as hardheaded and stubborn and blind.
he's been a rainbow of nationalities since france: german, russian, italian, polish, english english english.
he never lasted long in any of them.
he never lasted long enough to see grantaire in any of them.
it had been two years so far since they met. two years. he forced himself not to get his hopes up, not to think about it. he was afraid that the second he did, everything would fall apart. a freak accident.
17 car pileup. bombing. shooting. a bad driver on a bad road in bad weather.
this time, this life, was strange. different than the others. for the first time since 1832 he was grantaire again, enjolras was enjolras again, they were themselves again. grantaire had been so many people, had been called so many different names, but in his head he was always just him. just grantaire.
drunk. cynical. realist. tired. useless. useless. useless.
he's yelling about something again. he's always yelling about something. grantaire is pretty sure that tonight's topic is the education system. his american accent doesn't match his french name and french past.
grantaire has a headache and it's the result of the shouting and the alcohol and it hurts but he downs another glassfull of whiskey anyway, swallowing hard against the burn it left going down his already raw throat.
enjolras glares at him. he smiles and takes another swig. maybe, he thinks, maybe this time it'll help him forget that face.
predictably, it doesn't.
"what are you staring at?" he asks, hateful, a sneer twisting his perfect mouth (grantaire has dreams about that mouth, about kissing it and about hearing words come from it that weren't marred by hatred).
"nothing." grantaire tries to smile (he's pretty sure it doesn't work).
enjolras looks at him like he's some pitiable creature and that probably hurts more than anything else. he, of course, remembers nothing. in this world of repeat, grantaire is the only one (none of the amis remember anything, either) who ever remembers who he used to be. who they all used to be.
he's tried so many times. told them every fact he can about 1832. they smile because he's just drunk again, he's such a history nut, listen, r, it's cool but i have to write this essay.
courfeyrac and jean prouvaire listen more than the others. jehan humours him, and ae might even believe him if he ever says the truth. enjolras has yet to listen to his tangents about france. grantaire is still scared of him. grantaire is pretty sure he will always be scared of him.
enjolras narrows his eyes briefly. "well, nothing is better than constantly arguing with me." grantaire's eyes widen and he opens his mouth before thinking better of it.
his loose tongue will end him one day, he thinks. he avoids making eye contact with enjolras, focusing on the empty glass settled between his frozen fingertips. "i'm glad you think so," he says and his voice is hoarse, probably from lack of use and the alcohol and maybe how beautiful enjolras is.
enjolras spares him a last look before turning back to the group. he begins to shout again, but it's like something isn't there. he looks over at grantaire occasionally, as if waiting for him to start arguing.
after a while grantaire pulls out a pen and starts drawing absentmindedly on his arm, wishing that his glass would refill itself, lacking the strength to ask for a refill, hating how blurry his eyesight gets when he's this drunk. hating how everything is fuzzy around the edges but not soft. softness is not something associated with drunkenness; at least, not in grantaire's experience.
at the end of the meeting enjolras corners him. the rest know better than to stay, and slowly slip away in pairs. "what's wrong?" asks enjolras.
"it would be easier for both of us if you asked, 'what isn't wrong'. that's a much shorter list," grantaire jokes, slurring a bit. neither of them laughs.
"It would be easier for both of us if you asked, 'what isn't wrong'. That's a much shorter list," Grantaire jokes, slurring a bit. He doesn't laugh, and neither does Enjolras.
"Um, you normally jump at the chance to argue with me. I was wondering if you're okay, that's all," Enjolras elaborates, fidgeting and trying not to look at Grantaire's pale arms. They're both covered in drawings, right up to the edge of his t-shirt (it's baggy and not just because it's three sizes too big).
"Are you actually complaining because I didn't argue with you?"
Enjolras bites his lip. "Maybe?"
Grantaire sighs, and Enjolras tries not to notice the bags under his eyes or how bloodshot his eyes are or how he's standing with his back slightly hunched, like this is his way of shielding himself. "Nothing. It doesn't matter."
(Enjolras thinks he hears Grantaire whisper something about remembering things, but he's probably imagining it.)
"Can I just go? I'm tired and I should probably sleep the alcohol off. Besides, it's not like you want me around," Grantaire say, smiling humourlessly. He turns to go, but Enjolras reaches out and grabs his wrist and
(why is he on fire what is happening why is Grantaire looking at him like that why is Grantaire dressed like that why are there gunshots sounding all around them where are the others where are Joly and Bahorel and Jehan and Courfeyrac why is there blood that doesn't belong to him drying on his waistcoat)
he gasps and pulls back and Grantaire makes a break for it. "Wait, Grantaire-"
But it's too late. He's gone. Enjolras falls back into one of the many chairs littered around to empty room, trying to make some sense of the turmoil of thoughts running through his head.
grantaire is angry at himself. he can't believe he thought he could make them see (make enjolras see) the truth. he stumbles along in the dark, shivering as the rain drives down and makes his t-shirt, thin as it is, plaster against his skin like it's a part of him.
he doesn't know where he's going, what direction he's walking in, what time it is-only that he needs to get away, away from the building, away from enjolras, away from everything. he's pretty sure he hears someone shouting his name at some point, but he ignores it and keeps going.
he somehow ends up at combeferre's flat and somehow his friend is awake and somehow xe gets him onto a bed and tells him it's going to be okay and doesn't even yell at him when he lean over the side of the bed and vomits. grantaire is reminded for the billionth time how wonderful his friends are.
when he wakes up the next morning he is curled up in a warm ball underneath a soft duvet that isn't his, wearing pyjamas that definitely aren't his. he manages to roll out of bed despite his pounding headache and stumbles into the living room of combeferre's flat. it isn't until he sees the graceful arm draped over the side of the couch and the long blonde hair that he remembers who combeferre shares his flat with.
"shit," he whispers, trying to tiptoe to the kitchen as quietly as possible. he quickly and quietly makes himself a cup of tea and is just turning to leave when a voice sounds from behind him.
"are you okay?" enjolras asks, voice soft from sleep and something else. he tries to smile.
"i'm-yeah. sorry for, um, taking your bed last night."
"it's okay. you needed it more than i did," enjolras says, fidgeting slightly.
"i, um, i'm sorry for running out on you, too. i guess i'm just kind of a mess, aren't i?" he knows it's a terrible attempt at a joke, but he can't help it. self-deprecation bleeds from his tongue like it's habit. "sorry-"
he's cut off because enjolras is surging forward and kissing him and it's soft and sweet and he thinks he'll never forget the taste of enjolras' mouth or the way their teeth scrape together slightly.
he realises what is happening and jumps away, eyes wide as saucers, heartbeat thumping wildly in his ears. he opens his mouth to say something and he's not entirely sure if it's to apologise or scream, but enjolras doesn't let him. there's something in his eyes that he's pretty sure wasn't there before.
"i remember," enjolras whispers. "oh, my god, i remember."
and grantaire, shaky and uncertain, is the one who kisses him this time, two hundred years of goodbyes whispered into a hello. enjolras' hand is knotting itself in his curly hair and he's pushing him back against the counter and the edge of it is digging into his back but he doesn't care, he doesn't care because enjolras is kissing him back and he remembers he remembers he remembers francegermanyrussiaitalypolandenglandenglandengland-
combeferre clears xir throat and they jump apart as though electrocuted, grantaire hitting his head on the cabinets behind him in the process. "didn't mean to interrupt," says combeferre, an amused smile playing about xir mouth, "but you're in the way of the kettle."
grantaire gasps out an apology, eyes flitting from enjolras (who is brushing his long hair back from his face and glaring unabashedly at combeferre) to combeferre and back again. he shuffles out of the way, cheeks a deep red, refusing to meet either person's eyes.
enjolras, however, refuses to be embarrassed. "combeferre," he ventures, "do you, by any chance, remember something?"
"yes, actually," is combeferre's reply. "i remember how glad i am that at least you aren't courfeyrac, who has a tendency to have sex against the counter, rather than make out."
grantaire goes, if possible, redder. "i'm sorry-"
"don't be. i've been waiting for the pair of you to come to your senses for thirteen months. that reminds me, bahorel owes me twenty quid. why did you want to know if i remembered anything, enjolras?"
"no reason. come on, grantaire, let's go. combeferre obviously needs some coffee." enjolras begins to lead grantaire from the kitchen by his hand (grantaire is pretty sure he will never forget the warmth of enjolras' hand, calloused but still soft). halfway to the living room he pauses and looks back. "and don't even try to lie to me, 'ferre, literally everyone knows about you and courfeyrac already."
grantaire stuffs his knuckles in his mouth to keep himself from laughing and enjolras smiles slightly, looking pleased with himself.
"fuck you," combeferre calls from the kitchen.
"see you later," enjolras replies blithely. "i'm going over to grantaire's flat. i'll see you later."
grantaire turns, slightly confused, to look at him. "you are?"
enjolras nods. "yes, i am."
"So you're telling me that you, um, remember? Everything?"
Enjolras nods, biting his lip. He's nervous and he's not sure if it's because of the way his heartbeat speeds up when he meets Grantaire's eyes, or because Grantaire has never forgotten and he has forgotten every time. "Everything."
"How?"
"Um, I guess that. Um. Kissing you, it jogged my memory. Oh, my God, that sounds ridiculous. But it's, um, true, I guess."
Grantaire's cheeks go pink and he ducks his head, suddenly shy. "You know about 1832? And, um, Russia, and Poland, and everywhere else?"
"It's….it's sort of fuzzy? Like, I remember, but not in detail. I never-I never knew you, did I? Not once, aside from 1832?"
"No. You….you were always the same, somehow, though. Different names, different languages, but you were always the same. Always Enjolras. At least, um, at least to me," said Grantaire, speaking mainly to his hands.
"I'm sorry," Enjolras blurts, and he doesn't normally feel like this, gawky and awkward and wrong, especially not around Grantaire.
Grantaire laughs suddenly, and it's half real, but the other half is scared and bitter and the same way he laughs at all of the meetings, sarcastic and almost angry. "Why? You have nothing to be sorry for."
"Grantaire-"
"It wasn't your fault. Any of it. You didn't remember. I did. Soon, we'll die again, and you'll forget again and you'll keep dying and I'll keep living and it'll never fucking stop," Grantaire says, voice growing panicky. Enjolras wishes he knew what to do, how to calm him.
"I'm s-"
"Don't. Please. Don't tell me you're sorry. I should be sorry. I made it hard for you, as hard as I possibly could, because I felt like it. Because I'd given up. Because I'm tired of waiting and waiting and waiting for you to find me." Grantaire's voice is shaky but determined and it's a shock for Enjolras to realise that there are tears tracing their way down his pale cheeks.
"But what if we won't die again?" Enjolras asks desperately.
"What?"
"This is the first time since 1832 that we've been us. That we've had our names, that I've remembered. Shouldn't that mean something?"
Grantaire stares at him, eyes bloodshot, for several minutes before replying. "I don't know. That's what scares me."
Enjolras reaches over, uncertainty clouding his electric blue eyes, and pulls Grantaire into his arms and it feels good and real and he can't help but notice how well his arms fit around Grantaire, how natural their intimacy is.
"It's okay," he murmurs, breath ruffling the short hairs at the nape of Grantaire's neck, and he sees the tattoo but it doesn't quite register in his brain for a second; a small, intricate letter e, black ink stark against Grantaire's pale skin. He hates himself for not realising sooner, for the arguments, for refusing to acknowledge Grantaire.
A few minutes pass, Grantaire gradually calming enough to pull back. Enjolras immediately misses his warmth. "Sorry," Grantaire mutters, trying to smile. "Oh, fuck, your shirt's ruined. I swear to God, that wasn't on purpose."
"Are you sure? It sounds exactly like the sort of thing you would do, start crying all over me so you can ruin my t-shirt. What a nefarious plan," Enjolras says, deadpan.
"Oh, well," Grantaire says, grinning for real. "I guess you have no choice but to take it off. What a shame."
Enjolras rolls his eyes. "I hate you so much."
"If it makes you feel better, I will also take off my t-shirt," Grantaire says, and does so immediately. Enjolras is rendered embarrassingly speechless by Grantaire's tattoos, colourful and beautiful, spilling over his collarbones and chest and down his arms in a kind of beautiful discordance. "Try not to be self-conscious," Grantaire says. "I know, I'm fucking ripped."
"You're a dick," Enjolras complains, but Grantaire just smiles wickedly and he lets out a deep, world-weary sigh and pulls his shirt over his head (even though it's totally unnecessary).
Grantaire whistles and Enjolras hits him. "How dare you be so fantastically fit," Grantaire cries, in mock despair, jumping up from the couch to avoid Enjolras' strike. Enjolras gets up too and Grantaire runs for it, letting out a wild laugh. Enjolras catches him by the wrist and they fall against the wall opposite the couch, both laughing breathlessly.
"Be serious," Enjolras manages, even though he's smiling widely.
"Serious? I am wild," Grantaire retorts, and he pulls Enjolras down for a kiss. It's meant to be soft but Enjolras' fingers are tight around his hips and he lets out a noise that should be made illegal, goddammit, and suddenly Enjolras' hands are in Grantaire's hair and they somehow manage to stumble into Grantaire's bedroom even though the door is closed and their hands are otherwise occupied.
two weeks later
grantaire strolls into the meeting room casually, wearing his customary soft green hoodie and toting a beat up messenger bag. he sits down in one corner of the room after shedding both his maroon beanie and the hoodie, and pulls out a sketchpad. he's not the first one there; combeferre, courfeyrac, and jehan all arrived before him.
jehan is bent over a notepad, frantically scribbling down a new poem, aer lime green t-shirt and dark hair (braided intricately, which is how ae usually wears it) all that are visible from where grantaire sits, and combeferre and courfeyrac are pointedly not looking at each other or speaking. grantaire's pretty sure it's because if one of them looked at the other they would just start having sex right then and there (the sexual tension has been particularly intense of late).
courfeyrac turns to greet grantaire and snorts loudly. "nice t-shirt, r," he says.
grantaire winks at him and turns his gaze back to his sketchpad. he is particularly proud of his shirt; he made it himself. he can't wait for enjolras to arrive and scold him for being so ridiculous, partially because enjolras is even more beautiful when he's mad and partially because he knows enjolras will secretly love it, deep down. deep, deep, deep down. (and partially because after the meeting is over he's dragging enjolras to see captain america 2 and they will hold hands and enjolras might cry and grantaire will definitely cry and he is so irrevocably, impossibly, ridiculously in love with enjolras that he can't even think straight.)
slowly the rest of the members of the amis arrive; first eponine, giving a piggyback ride to gavroche, who salutes the room, and then bahorel and feuilly, the latter laughing about a joke bahorel had just told, and then joly and bossuet, the former saying something about musichetta having a shift she can't get out of.
last of all is enjolras, which would be surprising if grantaire didn't know that he has come from his polisci class. he rushes in, hair mussed from where he's run his fingers through it distractedly, toting a backpack that probably weighs more than he does. "sorry i'm late," he says, and his eyes drift to grantaire almost unconsciously. he squints a little, trying to read grantaire's t-shirt, which says, in large black letters: i woke up in time to hold the hand of my one true love while we were shot down by the national guard and all i got was this lousy t-shirt.
"i'm going to kill you," enjolras says, before setting down his backpack. "right, let's get started. combeferre, do you have those notes i asked you for?"
combeferre nods, pulling a few sheets of paper out of xir bag and passing them to enjolras. grantaire turns back to his sketchpad, smiling slightly. he's drawing jehan, lying in a field, aer head surrounded by a halo of wildflowers, a faint smile playing about aer lips. the smile looks happy at first until you examine it more closely, revealing the melancholy undertones.
grantaire vaguely hears enjolras shouting passionately about something or other (he's pretty sure it's about abortion, the speech on which he heard last night while fixing dinner for enjolras and himself). eponine is fixedly glaring at enjolras as he speaks, arms crossed over her chest. she stands up abruptly in the middle of a sentence, holding out a hand to stop enjolras' speech.
"look, enjolras," she says, addressing both him and the general vicinity, "i know that you're being nice and standing up for womens' rights and everything, and that's great, don't get me wrong, but you're a white cisdude. you have never, nor will you ever, need an abortion for an unwanted pregnancy. while you're allowed to speak your mind and have your own opinion, you shouldn't be able to speak over, say, me, and have that be an okay thing, you know?
"like, if we were both speakers at an event, and both our speeches were about abortion and they were the exact same speech, people would listen to you because you are a white cismale, and they would completely ignore me, even though i belong to the minority being oppressed by white cismales who think they know my business. even if you're advocating for my rights, which you are, you honestly don't even know what you're talking about because you will never be given the choice to have an abortion.
"you're part of a majority group and your voice will always be heard before mine will and honestly, i don't think that's okay, even if your intentions are good."
enjolras is staring at her, mouth open slightly. then he smiles. "you take over, then," he says.
eponine looks rather taken aback. "wait, what? for real?"
"yes. you're right, i shouldn't be heard over you, not when you're part of the minority being oppressed by people exactly like me taking away your rights. so i want you to speak instead, here and at the rally next week."
eponine grins. "i think that would be pretty, um, pretty cool, yeah."
courfeyrac smiles broadly at what they're saying, and applauds loudly when eponine takes enjolras' place at the front of the room. she fidgets, uncharacteristically nervous about speaking in front of her friends.
"the thing about pro-life," she begins, slightly uncertainly, "is that it's not actually pro-life. it's considering the life of an unborn fetus over the life of a parent who might be incapable of taking care of a child, too young and undeveloped to have a safe pregnancy, or who has been impregnated by means of rape or incest.
"being pro-choice means that i support the decision to let the pregnant parent choose what to do. they can keep the child and go through with the pregnancy, or they can get an abortion if they so choose. pro-choice is not pro-abortion. pro-life, however, is not actually what it says. there is no pro-choice and pro-life. there is pro-choice and anti-choice. the pro-life stance forces potential parents to go through with the pregnancy, even if it will cause lifelong deformities, even if it will kill them, in some cases even in cases of rape or incest.
"this seriously needs to stop. valuing the life of an unborn child over its potential parent is disgusting and it's not okay. um, yeah, that's basically it," eponine says, and sits down. courfeyrac immediately jumps to his feet, clapping loudly, and enjolras and the rest of the amis follow suit.
"good job," bahorel says, grinning. eponine rolls her eyes, but smiles back.
enjolras goes back to the front of the room, still clapping, and announces, "so i think we're all in agreement that eponine should take over at next week's rally."
"well, i mean, i am both charming and beautiful," eponine remarks dryly, "so of course i accept."
grantaire, from his place on the floor, cheers the loudest.
later, at the movie, his hand in enjolras', he thinks that maybe, despite the fights and arguments over petty things and past lives, maybe this time he can get it right.