AN: Oh, lord, how do I warn for this fic? It contains loads of anime references. From Baccano to Gundam to Monster, if we were to rattle off all the references, we'd be here awhile. Obviously, these are NOT the Amis you were looking for. While the fic is finished and is still being beta'ed, I'm taking a chance in posting it here. If it goes well and all, we'll start working on our second big fic. And by it 'going well', I mean that we won't be run out of the fandom with metaphysical pitchforks and mobs.
As mentioned before, this is co-written with TCRegan, who is a supremely talented writer.
There will be multiple pairings presented throughout. Off-hand, I know there will be Joly/Bossuet, Eponine/Montparnasse, Marius/Cosette. If there are any questions about the fic, feel free to ask them in reviews. If they're spoilers-based, I will answer said questions with dissertations about either ponies or jello.
Chapter One
Normally filled with light and laughter, conversation and companionship, the darkened room of the Café Musain held only the sounds of its lone occupant, who snored quietly. Drunk on absinthe among other things, head down on his table, he dreamt quietly, unaware of his surroundings. The silent stillness was broken suddenly by the sound of the back door opening and footsteps approaching. Grantaire jerked and sat up, wiping away the bit of drool at the corner of his mouth. Blinking blearily, he willed the room into focus, trying to see through the blackness.
Muscles aching, crick in his neck, he leaned back in his chair, stretching. He picked up the bottle he'd been cradling and drained it, sighing with contentedness as the sweet anise-flavored spirit tickled his taste buds, and turned to see who was joining him first this evening.
The ruins of the decrepit Musain was not the place Joly was expecting to find Grantaire. He supposed his old comrade still had some degree of sentimentality affixed to the place but history belonged in the past and the future was what they made of it.
Jehan had spoken eloquently on this fact. "Push forward. Never look back," had been the gist of the flowery speech.
Words were carved in the walls of the Musain to emphasize this fact.
'Here is where it starts.' Jehan could be the master of understatement. Joly looked upon the words for a few seconds before turning to face his beleaguered old friend. "You look a sight. It's not often you're away from your post. I have not been sent to fetch you so you need not worry about that." He was dressed in perfect white from his shoes to cravat. The only blot on him was the dark bag he carried about from job to job.
"I am making a house call. Perhaps you can accompany me since this particular patient can be a little troublesome."
Grantaire set the bottle on the table and scrubbed his face with both hands, scratching at two days' worth of stubble on his chin. He glanced at Joly, who looked like a beacon in the dark room. Yawning, he stood intent on traveling back to the main room of the café to inquire about another bottle when he stopped short.
The room looked different. Different things hung on the walls, different books strewn about. The chairs and tables seemed the same, but almost disused, as if no one had occupied them for some time. Perhaps his friends were simply playing a joke on him? With a frown, he registered Joly's words slowly. Post, he'd said. Not often he was away from... what post? If there was a joke to be made there, the joke would be referring to his usual table. That technically was his post as he occupied it regularly. It was his.
"House call?" he asked, trying to make sense of it. "If you need help, of course I'll come."
Though Grantaire was unsure of what he could possibly do. With no medical training, inebriated as he was, he was likely to be more of a hindrance than a help. But if Joly needed him, he would follow.
"Not with the patient, exactly. I know you lack medical training. The aid I would require would normally come from Bossuet, but he has his own agenda today. No, this particular patient has a habit of keeping guests, shall we say? It's best that I have back-up in case things get dicey."
As Joly spoke, the corner of his mouth turned up with a smirk. "Your reputation ought to come in handy." He wouldn't ask why Grantaire chose to place himself in the Musain. It was none of his business, and he was hardly concerned about his old friend. If there was a problem, it would have been handled long ago.
"It isn't that far. We can walk." He held the cafe door open for Grantaire with a surgical glove-clad hand. He had taken to wearing them long ago, having been through the years of the Purple Death and the fevered plague that gripped Paris only a few months ago. Nasty little viruses, those, causing people to choke on their own tongue.
Terrible months but profitable ones.
Grantaire frowned but crossed the room. Joly seemed... off to him. Normally jovial, if a little subdued at times due to another cold or impending bout of influenza, he rarely spoke so abruptly. Of course, Grantaire had been two bottles deep before he put his head down, so his head wasn't quite straight. Unable to shake this lethargy, he merely followed.
Another odd thing was that he hardly saw Joly outside the company of Bossuet. Wondering what could possibly have the eagle's attention, he opened his mouth to ask, and closed it just as quickly. He'd caught Joly's eye and something he saw unsettled him. Shivering a bit, he thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and put his head down, walking through the open door without another question.
Paris was a beehive of activity. Summer reigned the seasons at this point so the majority of people were outside enjoying the fresh air and sun. A few groups stood around on corners, talking quietly to one another. Street vendors were on the sidewalks, peddling their wares. A few bolder shopkeepers called out to their customers, inviting them in to sample a few of their delicacies and to pass the word along.
Joly sidestepped people with his usual grace, his long white coat swishing around his legs as he walked. He narrowly avoided a boy on a scooter who took one look at Joly and quickly crossed the street.
"Kids these days," he said mostly to himself. "They're going to get themselves killed. Wherever are the parents in all of this? The current trend of homelessness is surely to blame, is it not? Jehan ought to be a bit more careful about that. Still, I cannot blame him. He does try to take in as many children as he can. No, the problem surely rests with the parents. Having far too many offspring than they can afford, or sending them off to beg for them. Suffer the little children, Grantaire. In every corrupt society, it is always the children that end up the worst."
He smiled a strange, airy smile even as he shifted to avoid a few bicycles headed in the opposite direction.
The people on the streets gave Grantaire a wide berth, deliberately stepping out of his way, even if that meant going into oncoming traffic. One of them was nearly run down by a fiacre. Joly didn't pause in his movements. "It's almost a shame to see so many being so very careless with their lives. Don't they know how precious a gift life can be and how easily it can be snatched away? No, I suppose they don't. Why should they need to think of such things when they have us to think of it for them?"
A bit of smog covered the air from nearby factories, and through it one could see the grandiose buildings, overshadowing the Musain and the shops down below, casting looming shadows over the streets. They were fine works of art in it of themselves, built of thick glass and heavy metals; they glimmered against the sun, taking on an almost crystalline appearance against the decay of the old buildings against them.
Grantaire blinked in the sun, one hand up to block the offensive light. A light breeze ruffled his hair, offering a soothing caress, but something was wrong. The sounds were different, the smells were different. In addition to the laughter of kids, the bustle of crowds, the clopping of hooves, there was a buzzing sound. He turned around, trying to pinpoint what it was, never having heard anything quite like that before. A child on a bicycle - but it wasn't a bicycle. It was a contraption that not even Leonardo da Vinci himself could have imagined. Silver and painted, it was a hunk of metal twisted to look like a bicycle - something Grantaire had only ever seen drawings of - with some sort of spout at the back of it, spewing a foul black smoke.
Well. That explained the stench in the air. No. Not entirely. In the distance, he could see tall cylindrical stacks belching out more of the same black smoke. The normally clear day had a bit of a foggy overtone to it and he coughed into his elbow, lungs unused to it. He'd picked up the unfortunate habit of smoking in his youth and just as quickly dropped it when he realized the detriment to his physical activity. Just like that time, his lungs burned a bit now.
Oddest of all was that people seemed to know him. Or at least they recognized him on sight, taking one look at the pair of them and hurrying away with their heads down. Frowning, he looked at Joly as he hurried to catch up with him.
"Joly, what's going on? Some sort of expo? What was that thing that boy was riding and what are those?" he asked, pointing at the smoke stacks.
Joly eyed him sidelong. "Are you drunk, Grantaire? I do hope that means you're off the clock entirely. You know how you can get when you're drunk." He couldn't resist a shudder at the remembrance. Normally he didn't mind his friend's wild mood swings, but sometimes Grantaire just couldn't be stopped, save for with a look from him.
"That was a scooter. One of the newer models just released at the beginning of the year. Combeferre presented you with one a few months ago. Far as I know, you never had need to use it. As for the stacks, they're factories. Merchants of death, if you ask me. Too much smoke makes for lack of breathing, but who are we to slow the tide of progress? Combeferre speaks of survival of the fittest and Jehan just embraces it as another crowning jewel in the crown he calls humanity's plight. Rest assured, Grantaire, that when we take charge, such contraptions won't matter at all."
Was Grantaire drunk? Yes. He most definitely indeed was drunk. He had to be. How could he not possibly remember something like that? A scooter. Odd name for it. And apparently Combeferre gave him one. That in itself was confusing. As far as he knew, Combeferre didn't particularly like him. He certainly chose not to engage in conversation with him like the others, though he remained amicable enough if Grantaire ever needed a word. A present from Combeferre.
He followed slowly through his haze, staying quiet as they walked. The scenery shortly changed to a much more serene neighborhood. A wrought-iron gate separated the gravel road leading up to the large house atop the hill, definitely owned by some rich bourgeois. Joly pressed one of the buttons to the contraption located right by the gate.
"I'm here. Do tell Monsieur Gillenormand that his doctor has arrived."
It unsettled Grantaire that he couldn't recall when Joly had started taking on patients either, and he tried to think of when his friend might have finally gained his license to start practicing medicine full time.
A voice soon crackled back at them. "Opening up the gates. Please hurry." With that, the iron gates swung open, pushed by an invisible hand to allow the two guests passage.
Lost in thought, Grantaire startled at that voice, heart racing. The gates opened and he gaped, open-mouthed. Some kind of mechanism? Like a drawbridge perhaps, only with different engineering to let the gate open sideways rather than at a ninety-degree angle? Stunned, he followed Joly inside and up the front walk, wondering exactly how drunk he was.
Reaching the door, they were let inside by a young maid who blushed at the sight of them and took their coats with nary a word.
Another woman came down the stairs, this one very much the maid's senior and with none of the previous woman's blushes or smiles. "He is in a bad way, doctor," she started as she led them up the stairs. "He has been up all night expunging his dinner, and when none remained, his sickness turned green."
"Green?" Joly inquired. "Bright or dark?"
"Dark, doctor."
Grantaire followed, still in quite a haze. The conversation seemed off to him. The man, whomever they were discussing, apparently had dark green sickness. Did that mean his vomit was green? He tried not to think too much on it, his uneasiness passing as they were lead upstairs.
"How unfortunate." Joly sounded genuine but he gave Grantaire a private smile as the woman opened the door to the M. Gillenormand's bedroom. The old man was sitting up in bed, his skin pale, and hair stuck to his head with sweat.
The ambiance inside the house was normal. Stuffy, rich, bourgeoisie, but normal. There were no weird scooters or odd out of place devices here. Wooden tables, oil paintings, plush carpets. It wasn't the sort of place in which he'd normally be found, but it most certainly was a Parisian dwelling in the manner of which he felt comfortable.
"About time you showed," Gillenormand growled. "Leave us," he gestured to the woman who shut the door behind herself.
Joly placed his bag upon his patient's nightstand. "You look like you're having a bad time of it. Aside from nausea, have you any other symptoms?" Opening up the bag, he gingerly took off his gloves and let them fall into a nearby waste bin. Another pair of gloves awaited him in the bag and he slipped these on as M. Gillenormand spoke.
"Dizziness. Can't keep anything down. Can barely even move my legs! They feel numb from the knees down." Gillenormand slipped a disdainful look at Grantaire before continuing to talk at Joly. "It was a disease given to me by one of the friends your blasted accomplice Courfeyrac picked up for me! Don't try to tell me otherwise!"
Here, he rose himself up and grabbed hold of Joly's arm in his sweaty grip. "Damn him to all nine hells and damn yourself for not getting here faster!"
Joly froze, his body tensing up as his gaze slowly fixed itself on Gillenormand's face. At the sight of that gaze, at its coldness and almost reptilian maliciousness, Gillenormand went a bit whiter and dropped Joly's arm. Grantaire had stepped forward as Gillenormand grabbed Joly, relaxing only when his friend was released.
"My apologies," he muttered. "I am ill, you see."
Joly abruptly smiled, the fury behind his eyes dissipating immediately. "Do not worry so! That's why I'm here." He took out a stethoscope and for a few minutes, listened to the sound of Gillenormand's ragged breathing through it. After which, he checked underneath the man's eyelids and then drew back the covers to inspect his patient's legs.
He tapped the skin below Gillenormand's knees with a small metal object. "Can you feel that?"
"Yes."
"A good sign."
Grantaire stood awkwardly in the room, wondering how he was supposed to be helping Joly. The man was feverish but seemed to be in control of his faculties. The danger passed, he glanced around here and there. The bedroom was irritatingly cheerful, bouquets of flowers on the nightstands, the boudoir, paintings of fields and meadows adorning the walls. The wallpaper itself was a nauseatingly bright pink with yellow trim.
In his inspection of the walls, his eyes caught something in the very top corner. A small black box with a sort of circular ring and piece of glass, like a miniature telescope. Though it was nothing like any telescope he'd ever seen, and it was in such an odd spot. There was a pinprick of bright red light on the box. It moved, turning that dead eye on him, and he startled.
"Joly. Joly," he said, tugging his friend's sleeve. "What is that?"
"Hm?" Joly was rummaging about in his black bag when Grantaire tugged at his sleeve. He tried not to flinch away from the contact. Really, Grantaire could be so careless about these matters. Sometimes he wondered if Grantaire merely did it to antagonize him.
He took out a syringe and a bottle of medicine before looking up at the camera. "It's a surveillance monitor, Grantaire. Granted, it's an older model, but you should still be used to it. Feel free to wave."
Surveillance monitor. Grantaire knew both these words, but had never heard them put together in such a way before. They meant the same thing, didn't they? To survey meant to monitor, to monitor meant to be looking over... He shook his head, turning away from the weird box thing and back to the conversation.
Joly turned his attention back to M. Gillenormand. "Now then, what you have is known affectionately in peasant terms as 'The Rot'. I'm afraid that the first to go would be the more fatty muscles in your body. It starts working in your legs then builds up to the groin. This particular strain devours muscle tissue, but leaves the bone intact. I've seen it before in a few others. Fortunately, it doesn't have to be fatal, but it will leave you without use of your legs, and I'm afraid you'll have to say good bye to your nether regions. In a week's time, it will simply fall right off. Granted, by that point, you'll be quite thankful when it does since your nerves will be screaming at that point. You'll likely wish for death throughout the entire week, and maybe even for a time afterwards. What's the use of being a man if you haven't such bits?"
Joly spoke quietly but with no less conviction. It had taken him years to learn to keep the amusement out of his voice, a playful tone being unnecessary here.
"Fortunately, you called me in time. The medication used to treat such an ailment is right here. I can supply it for you and stave off the disease. Your bits and legs will be spared from any autopsies. I'm one of the only doctors in this country that can grant you this relief, I'm sorry to say. This sort of medication just isn't known for making the rounds."
Largely due to a few laws set against it. Joly was all for experimental medication, especially when he developed it himself. A few guinea pigs had been required, of course, but men were always swimming in one vice or another.
"I'll be happy to inject you with this and go on my merry way. For the right price."
Grantaire had listened to Joly speak before about illness, forgetting the finer points of this new disease or that new plague. Being a friend of Joly's meant sympathizing with him, but at the same time humoring him. He was rarely as sick as he ever thought he was, and a declaration of some new malady that gripped him was hardly cause for alarm. However, as he described 'The Rot' Grantaire felt his stomach twist in anxiety. Was it catching? Surely Joly wouldn't have put him at risk if it was contagious through the air. Nevertheless he stepped back.
Gillenormand listened to Joly's words, his face growing more drawn by the second. "Price?"
"Yes. Price. These sorts of medications don't come cheap. How much are your legs worth to you? Not as much as your bits, I'd wager. You mentioned Courfeyrac before, didn't you? Smears against my friend only make the price go higher. Considering your ostentatious wealth, I'd say, perhaps, two thousand francs. I'm being very generous here, monsieur. I should ask for three, but I do know that tax season is coming around, and we all know what happens when people can't pay that."
Grantaire's jaw dropped as he heard the price. Two thousand francs. That was an insanely large amount of money, and certainly more than he'd ever had in his hand at one time. He even lost track of his allowance, knowing it was enough to sustain his apartment and his habit and little more. Yes, this man was rich, but was that really a reason to extort that amount from him? Perhaps Joly was going to use it to help the less fortunate? Maybe to set up a hospital for underprivileged children. That would explain his price, though not the slight glee in his voice as he talked about losing bits.
M. Gillenormand was thinking along nearly the same lines of reason. "That much? Are you insane?"
"I haven't been officially diagnosed yet."
"I can get another doctor! I can inform the police of your practices!"
"You can," Joly nodded in agreement. "I'd probably be ushered out of your estate. I would pay off the gendarmes, and I would go about my business. You would call upon another doctor who would be waylaid at the borders of our fair city, and while you waited and screamed your agony for all the world to hear, he would be twiddling his thumbs, awed by the amount of red tape, and I would be out on the bench in the park feeding the pigeons."
He tapped the bottle of medication. "Or you can pay the amount and we part on amiable terms."
"This is extortion!"
"Not at all. This is a financial business matter between two businessmen. I have what you want. You have what I want. A proper trade-off. A gentleman's agreement."
"You are no gentleman!"
"I do not dabble with strumpets if that's what you're getting at, monsieur. I know what sort of diseases one could catch out there." There was no mistaking the joy in Joly's voice now. He smiled while he talked and his fingers twirled the syringe, being mindful of the needle. "So what shall it be? I dislike bantering about my terms."
In the end, Gillenormand paid. No sooner had the check slipped into Joly's black bag did the syringe plunge down into Gillenormand's left leg. Joly's aim was always true. He admired the tint of the vein in the old man's white leg for a few seconds longer than necessary before extracting the syringe. A band-aid covered in happy faces was summarily plunked down upon the small pinprick.
"There now. That wasn't so bad, was it? I'd offer you a lollipop but those are for the children."
Gillenormand shuddered at the thought.
Grantaire's head was spinning, and he was fairly sure it wasn't due to the consumption of absinthe. In fact, he felt more sober now than he'd had in quite some time. Despite Joly's protests, this was indeed extortion. However, he knew it wasn't his place to say anything. Who was he to question his friend's actions? Joly had always been good to him, always willing to lend him money or let him pass out on his floor when Grantaire didn't feel like trudging back to an empty apartment. He did his utmost to keep Grantaire in good cheer, and Grantaire counted him an irreplaceable friend.
He had kept quiet, wincing a bit as the needle disappeared into Gillenormand's leg. An odd bit of... something went over the small pinprick. Grantaire shook his head but didn't ask. It seemed there was a lot more to Joly's eccentricities than he would have ever guessed. He waited for Joly to pack up his bag and followed him from the room, highly unnerved by everything that had just passed.
"What did you need me for?" he asked, as that seemed like the safest question for now.
"To watch my back, my friend," Joly replied. "The old man can be a bit loud. He can be a bit obnoxious. But he is rich and the rich are not without their lackeys. I once had to dispose of an old patient because I went unaccompanied. I did try to warn his guards that if they came closer, that little pocket of air in my syringe would be the end of their employer. I do wish people had more faith in doctors these days."
He didn't sound remorseful.
An accomplished fighter, Grantaire could at least appreciate Joly's reasoning, though not the entire answer. He was referencing something Grantaire had no knowledge of. And from the sound of it, Joly had killed someone. That wasn't right. He simply must have heard incorrectly. There was no way Joly would ever be talking about murdering someone. And with something bordering glee in his voice.