Author's Note: This was written for Barricade Day, for the prompt of "Grantaire is inspired by one of Enjolras' speeches and attempts to do something for the cause".
A Long Day's Work
The fiacre comes to a jarring, unexpected halt, and Grantaire finds himself clutching at the seat with his bound hands to try to keep himself from falling, the other eight men crammed in next to him doing the same. Grantaire only half-succeeds in holding on, jarring his shoulder something fierce, and he's cursing morosely and rather hopelessly to himself when the door opens. "Damn men can't even transport prisoners properly, really, how hard is it to get a horse to go in a straight line, if it wouldn't make my own sentence more miserable I'd give the fucker a black—"
Familiar blue eyes peer at Grantaire quizzically over a length of dingy gray cloth tied so as to obscure the lower half of the face of the man holding the door. The man's blond hair seems to glow even in the darkness, and Grantaire trails off as he realizes that rather than being abused he is, in fact, being rescued.
The other men in the fiacre are rather faster on the uptake than him, and are busy spilling out of the doors that Bahorel and Enjolras hold open, other members of the Amis herding them quickly off the boulevard. Within seconds Grantaire is the last one left in the vehicle, and he stares in dumbfounded astonishment as Enjolras holds out a hand to him.
"Come now. Quickly." It's hard to tell if Enjolras' voice is more amused or bemused, though both emotions seem to be present.
Grantaire doesn't really care. Taking Enjolras' hand awkwardly in his, he clambers down and allows himself to be pulled into a run as the Amis make a hasty retreat.
It isn't until they're all safely ensconced for a few minutes in Bahorel's quarters, the bindings removed from Grantaire's wrists, Joly fussing at the bruises and scrapes left behind, that Enjolras asks him what happened. "If you don't mind explaining. I must say, we didn't expect to be pulling one of our own out of that little debacle."
"Well…" Grantaire hesitates, trying to sort the events of the day into a coherent narrative. "I suppose it all started this morning…"
XXX
Enjolras is radiant.
Enjolras is afire, his every word perfect, his every gesture drawing and holding the eye, his—
"Look, could you just listen to the man talk instead of narrating it for us?" The man beside Grantaire gives him a meaningful look. "We're here to listen to him, not to some drunken idiot ramble."
Grantaire hadn't intended to actually speak any of his thoughts. He doesn't think he said anything too loudly, anyway. If he had Courfeyrac or Bossuet would almost certainly have been over to hush him. Starting a fistfight would not earn him favor with anyone, though, and there's a part of him that is genuinely sorry to have been distracting anyone from Enjolras.
No one should be distracted from Enjolras, not when he's soaring so beautifully.
Enjolras hasn't noticed the disturbance, continuing to talk, and Grantaire keeps his tongue and his pencil still for the duration of the speech, watching and listening, memorizing, allowing the words and the emotion and the belief to envelop him and carry him away for just a little bit.
He doesn't understand it. He doesn't understand how Enjolras can see the world around them, the misery and despair, the absolute waste that is human nature, and still talk so happily about the future. So encouragingly, so hopefully, but without making himself seem naïve or out of touch. He knows that people turn on each other with more ferocity and rabidness than dogs. He knows that sloth and apathy are the enemies that are hardest to kill, the ones that linger in even the kindest heart. He knows that their enemy is strong, that change is frightening, that the world he envisions will cost blood and tears.
He knows, and he accepts, and he still sees beauty in the effort, glory in the potential success, hope in every man and child who will turn their eye toward his imagined future with him.
"These are not changes that we can make alone. These are not battles that we can fight alone." Enjolras' eyes scan the crowd, meet and hold and invite each man before moving on to the next. "Talk with your friends. Talk with your families. And talk with us—I will happily engage any man in discourse, and so will my companions."
Enjolras takes a step back, his posture changing just slightly, relaxing, making it obvious that he's done speaking. A buzz grows among the gathered listeners, and then some are pressing forward to talk with Enjolras or Combeferre or Courfeyrac or Feuilly while others slip away.
Turning to the man standing at his side, Grantaire offers him a tentative smile. "Sorry again if I was a bit of a distraction. I didn't mean to be. He just… impresses me."
"He's certainly good with words. Born with a tongue to match his locks." The man smiles back at Grantaire, though it's a strained, uncertain expression. "And you weren't being loud. You were just muttering to yourself, and I'm… rather nervous. I'm still not used to… all this."
"All this?" Grantaire raises one eyebrow.
"Politics. Dangerous politics. Illegal politics." The man glances around, as though admitting what everyone in this room has been discussing will summon danger to them.
There are many things that rise to the tip of Grantaire's tongue immediately, but he bites back any words that could be considered too harsh or teasing. It's clear that the man at his side is frightened, and Enjolras had invited the crowd to engage with his lieutenants. Though he might be the least of them, Grantaire does still consider himself one of the Amis, and with Enjolras' words still echoing in his ears he feels almost like a convert himself. "Would you like to grab a drink and discuss things?"
The man hesitates, glancing toward the door once more. "Away from here?"
"Away from here." Grantaire smiles. "You will find me very well versed in the procurement of alcoholic refreshments, at least as proficient in that as I am in politics. Perhaps more so."
XXX
"And you're one of Enjolras' lieutenants? Really?" Marcel shakes his head and takes a drink. "You're not really what I think of when I think of his people."
"I feel I should be rather insulted by that." Grantaire finishes his own drink. "I shall endeavor not to be."
"Well, it's just… he's very… intense. Very serious. And you're…" Marcel gestures broadly. "You're not. It's a bit reassuring, actually. Maybe I can actually do this."
"I feel like I'm being insulted again." Grantaire frowns. "Is this going to become a theme? No, no, it's fine. Enjolras can be quite intense, but it's the intensity of belief and vision, the intensity of divine devotion, of unearthly dedication. It's beautiful to see and inspiring to hear and, yes, intimidating on occasion, if you're still not certain what you're about, but don't worry. There's room in his revolution for men of all persuasions, provided their hearts are true. You said you and some friends of yours have been starting a group of your own?"
"Attempting to." Marcel shrugs. "I've mainly been following some of my more zealous friends, pitching in where I can. They're the ones who suggested I go to the meeting this morning, see if I could pick up any more useful rhetoric and perhaps make us some contacts. Which I suppose I have."
"You have." Grantaire raises his refilled glass. "To new friends and accomplices."
"To new accomplices." Marcel's glass clinks against Grantaire's. "Do you think you could come meet them?"
"Your friends?" Grantaire hesitates.
"Yes. I think they'd be impressed to see you, and you seem to be very familiar with Enjolras' politics." Marcel stares up at Grantaire with pleading eyes. "They're good people, very dedicated to equality and freedom, but we're really floundering about at the moment. Just a bit of guidance…?"
Usually it's one of the others who makes first contact with any new cell in the area—frequently Bahorel, sometimes Courfeyrac, sometimes Lesgles or Joly or any of the rest. It's always dangerous, reaching out to others, letting others know about exactly how serious they are in their talk of change and revolution.
Grantaire likes this boy, though. He seems eager, nervous but cheerful, somewhat of a cross between Joly and Bossuet, and Enjolras had instructed them to talk with people.
Smiling at the younger man, draining his glance once more, Grantaire inclines his head. "I would be delighted to come."
XXX
"He was the spy who gave them away, wasn't he?" Courfeyrac sighs, burying his head in his hands.
"No." Grantaire attempts to glower at the other man, but he's afraid it turns into more of a pout. "Marcel was one of the men you rescued along with me. He wasn't a spy, though after this experience that might change."
"So you actually weren't responsible for any of this?" Bossuet sounds far too surprised at that possibility.
"Well…" Grantaire hesitates. "I may have been responsible for the spy deciding now was a good time to turn the group in. And he may have been Marcel's best friend."
"Clearly the boy is a master strategist and a stellar analyst of people." Bahorel smiles to take any sting out of the words.
"Well." Shrugging once more, Grantaire studies the abrasions on his wrists. "He did decide that I was a good choice to help him learn how to be a rebel."
XXX
Grantaire finds himself studying the young students and workers around him with dismay. The Amis are hardly old themselves, but none of these lads look like they should even be shaving yet. "These are your friends, Marcel?"
"Yes." Marcel is much more at ease in this setting, though the talk is no less illegal and far less discerning than what he heard this evening. "That's LeClair there, he's our leader, I'll introduce you to him shortly. And that's Poulin, with the two girls hanging off of him—LeClair's told him we should keep girls out of these meetings, but he hasn't listened yet—and that's Royer, drinking in the corner, and this…" Marcel breaks off as a slightly older man comes over to them. "This is Charron. He's been a very good friend since I started university six months ago, and an invaluable resource as we attempt this endeavor of ours. Charron, I did what you said, I went to the blond's meeting, it wasn't any trouble getting in, and I did one better. I brought Grantaire here, one of his lieutenants, to meet and speak with us."
"Grantaire." Charron holds out a hand, and shakes Grantaire's hand firmly. "It's an honor to meet one of Enjolras' men. The Friends of the ABC have been developing a bit of a reputation for themselves."
"We get things done." Grantaire smiles. "And I'll be happy to share what I can with your group to help you do the same."
"I've been waiting to talk with someone like you for a while." Charron's smile is honest and wide. "It should certainly be an interesting evening."
XXX
"Did you notice he was suspicious then, or is it only in retrospect that knowledge comes to you?" Combeferre's voice is dry, though there's a flicker of amusement around his eyes.
"I thought it was a bit odd that he seemed more… mature than those he surrounded himself with, but I didn't think ill of him until later." Grantaire sighs. "When he was nowhere to be found fifteen minutes later, I did try to ask about him and even to warn them, but I didn't have much luck."
XXX
"Are you certain?" Grantaire presses Marcel back into a corner. "You've known the man for six months. Are you certain he wouldn't betray you? Because if he has, if he's gone to report you and you're found with these half-finished pamphlets and clearly inflammatory material, every man here will pay."
"He's not a spy! He's a friend." Marcel looks absolutely miserable, his eyes flicking between Grantaire and the door. "I don't know where he's gone. Perhaps he had another engagement. I'm not his keeper, nor is he mine, but he's been nothing but kind to me since we met."
"And how did you meet?" Grantaire presses the man back. "How certain are you of his loyalties?"
"As certain as I am of yours." Marcel raises his chin. "More certain, I'd say."
"I hope you're right about that." Grantaire sighs. "Because you're betting others' lives on it."
XXX
"His name isn't Charron." Feuilly doesn't even attempt to hide his anger or disgust. "Or at least, not the only one he's gone by. He was Masson when he turned in a group of young workers, including a friend of mine. He was calling himself Roche last year when another group of young students found themselves charged with insurrection and sentenced quite harshly."
Grantaire frowns. "He's not a very good spy, if he's that easy to recognize and place blame with."
"He doesn't need to be." Bossuet's expression is dour. "He preys on the naive, on those who don't have the proper training or mentality to guard and protect themselves. It's despicable."
"It's something that's going to stop." Bahorel makes the declaration, but no one contradicts him, though Enjolras' blue eyes catch and hold Bahorel's for a few seconds.
Enjolras doesn't actually say anything to Bahorel, though, turning back to Grantaire. "Some of Feuilly's friends were aware of the group, and when Feuilly heard Charron's description he became suspicious. It's why Bossuet was watching, waiting for something to go wrong."
"Ah." Grantaire smiles across at Bossuet. "So your luck would be the reason that I ended up arrested and in a fiacre."
XXX
The raid is quick, precise, and though some of the young would-be rebels get away, mainly because Grantaire's suspicions had put everyone on high alert, there are still nine men who don't escape, including Grantaire.
He probably could have escaped. He probably could have run at the first sign of trouble, and made it out, guns or not, trusting the bodies of the other runners as well as the darkness of night to cover him.
He couldn't leave Marcel there, though, and the boy was too stunned and horrified by what was happening to respond properly when Grantaire tried to pull him into a run.
Better to be arrested alive and relatively uninjured than shot and potentially killed.
Apparently having made a better catch than they expected, the three gendarmes had bound their captives and then left two with pistols trained on their prisoners while the third fetched transportation.
It wasn't Grantaire's first arrest. It probably won't be his last.
But it was his shortest and most exciting.
XXX
"What possibly possessed the lot of you to assault the fiacre?" Grantaire stares around the room.
"Two of the men arrested with you are sole providers for their families." Feuilly glances away.
"And another would quite probably be disowned if accused of involvement in seditious politics." Joly smiles bitterly. "He's a good student, and will be a good doctor."
Courfeyrac scowls. "And I'm very sick of that bastard Charron getting paid for disenchanting young idealists."
"I saw an opportunity to punch things." Bahorel grins.
"We saw an opportunity to step in and assist." Enjolras shrugs. "We did so."
"Well, I must say that I appreciated it." Grantaire stands. "A great deal. As I have appreciated your hospitality, Bahorel. If it's all the same to everyone, though—and if no one has any objections due to pressing safety matters such as the possibility of being arrested again—then I think I shall be on my way. It has been a very long day."
Enjolras shares a long look with Combeferre, who eventually nods.
Then Enjolras stands, reaching for his coat. "Allow me to walk you home."
"I…" Grantaire hesitates, then forces a smile. "I would appreciate the company."
They walk in silence for several minutes, long enough for Grantaire to relax, to settle into a pace that matches Enjolras' deceptively ground-eating steps.
It's Enjolras who finally breaks the silence. "What made you decide to go with Marcel in the first place?"
"He asked for me to." Grantaire shrugs.
"Many men ask for your company and your assistance. You are not always so eager to grant either." Enjolras studies the ground, the shadows that grow and shrink and change direction as they pass beneath street lamps. "Even for the Amis, you are not always so eager to be of assistance."
It's not said as an admonition, but it stings anyway. "I do what I can. I do enough to earn my place. I am one of the Amis."
"You…" Enjolras sighs, raising his eyes to meet Grantaire's. "I do not wish to discuss what you have done other times. I wish to know why this time."
Grantaire can't meet Enjolras' eyes, not as the answer slips out unbidden on a wave of exhaustion and disappointment. "You said that your companions were there to speak with and help any of those gathered. I do listen to what you say, you know."
"I don't know. Not always." Enjolras' words come slowly. "But I am happy to know that my words were heard today."
"Even though it turned out like this?" Grantaire doesn't know if he wants to laugh or cry as he thinks back on the debacle of a day.
"There was no one injured. There was no one even arrested, in the end, though the Amis in general and Bahorel and I in particular will have to be quiet and circumspect for the next little bit. We have shown young Republicans both the dangers of our course and the possibilities that arise when we have a united front. We have proven that trust and camaraderie can overcome even betrayal." Enjolras smiles. "Yes. I am happy with how the day turned out."
Grantaire remembers the moment the door to the fiacre opened, the sight of blue eyes and blond hair beckoning him forward to freedom, and a smile touches his mouth. "I… may also be happy with how the day has ended."
Enjolras doesn't seem to change his stride, but his fingers are suddenly touching gently at the palm of Grantaire's hand, and Grantaire closes his hand slowly, carefully, around Enjolras', marveling at the way Enjolras doesn't pull away from his touch.
"Perhaps we can have more nights such as this." Enjolras' voice is contemplative, relaxed, his fingers still and cool where they touch Grantaire's hand.
Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Grantaire nods. "I very much hope we can."
They don't say anything else for the remainder of the walk.
There is nothing else that needs to be said.