Grantaire gazed absentmindedly across the room, a half-emptied bottle of wine in hand. His eyes fell onto Enjolras, who was standing amongst the other Amis, hands flying animatedly as he spoke passionately to the group. His eyes were alight, and his blond curls bounced in enthusiasm.
He was as intriguing a man as Grantaire had ever encountered – youthful and god-like, he seemed as though he had been chiseled from marble. But more than his appearance, his manner was captivating. He had a fierce focus about him, seeming to take no notice of any distractions (himself included, Grantaire noted sulkily). He was ferocious and intimidating, and completely intriguing – and this man, this symbol of the revolution, happened to also be the single reason why Grantaire joined the Amis.
Grantaire smiled slightly as he recalled in vivid the first meeting he had ever attended, entirely against his will.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~{###}~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Must we?" Grantaire had moaned, tracing Combeferre's footsteps along the sidewalk.
"Yes, we must." he replied without stopping, dodging a bicycle as he crossed the street.
"Why?"
"Why?" Combeferre repeated incredulously. "Dear lord, R, would it kill you to show some political enthusiasm? In this day and age, nothing more defines a man!"
"Then let me be indefinite." Grantaire grumbled.
Combeferre laughed, and clapped him on the back. "I'll buy you a drink, eh? They'll have plenty enough to sustain you for a while."
"Where is it?" Grantaire chimed, interest piqued by the promise of wine.
"Café Musain." Combeferre answered, beginning to walk again.
"Musain?" Grantaire repeated, hurrying to catch up. "That old dive, down near the Jardin de Luxembourg?"
"The very same." Combeferre confirmed.
"Why in the world are they gathering there?" Grantaire asked.
"I should think because Musain is quite out of the way, and this group is not something that needs a police official breathing down their necks." Combeferre replied bluntly. "Come, enough questions – we're nearly there."
Grantaire hastily matched Combeferre's eager strides, rolling his eyes as his friend bounded up the street like an excited puppy.
They rounded the corner, and the Café Musain came into view at the dead-end of the boulevard. The wooden sign out the front was so faded that the original paint was barely legible, and several windows on higher levels were boarded shut, giving the entire place a distinctly dilapidated appearance. Combeferre took no notice of this, striding eagerly towards the entrance and pushing open the door.
The little tables scattered around the space were deserted, as was the bar. A collection of wine bottles gathered dust on the shelf behind the counter, and a single, aged bartender stood behind it, cleaning glasses unenthusiastically with a tattered rag.
"We must have the wrong date, let's go." Grantaire whispered eagerly, reaching for the door again. Combeferre batted his hand aside with an impatient noise. He cleared his throat nervously.
"Am I in the right place for the student meeting?" he asked slowly.
The bartender grunted affirmatively and nodded his head towards a side door.
"They're out the back." he said gruffly, looking up for only a moment before returning his focus to the glass he had been cleaning.
Combeferre turned to Grantaire with an I-told-you-so smile, and led the way across the empty bar towards the side door. He pushed it open with a noisy creak and stepped inside, followed closely by Grantaire.
The room was hazed by cigarette smoke, and rang with quiet chatter. Roughly two dozen young men were positioned around the small room, many of whom Grantaire recognized vaguely as students from the around campus. In the center of the room was a large, wooden table, at the head of which stood a blond-haired and astoundingly striking man. His very figure – straight posture, firm stance – exhibited authority and conviction. He was engaged in what appeared to be fierce debate with a tall, slender man no older than himself (that being, Grantaire hazarded a guess, no more than 25).
"'Ferre," Grantaire hissed softly in his direction. "Combeferre!"
"Mm?" he replied vaguely, still examining the room.
"Who is he?" Grantaire asked, nodding in the man's direction and trying to hide his keenness.
"Him? Oh, he must be Enjolras. He's the one who organized the meeting." Combeferre explained. "And if he's done interrogating Marius, we should go over and introduce ourselves."
"What?!" Grantaire exclaimed in panic, but Combeferre had already seized his arm tightly and dragged him through the crowded mass towards the purported leader.
Up close, Grantaire could see the man's face, and noted, as only an artist would, that his features were perfectly symmetrical, from his straight nose to his elegant brow. His eyes were the blue of the sea in winter, and they glinted with a steely, unwavering fierceness and alertness that Grantaire found simultaneously mesmerizing and terrifying.
"I do not support a king, but Napoleon is not that-" Marius was protesting.
"You are a fool, Pontmercy, if you think that Bonaparte would be any better than a king." Enjolras returned fiercely. "The words emperor and king are interchangeable – practically synonymous! You think that he will know what the people need? Nay, you think he will care to help at all?! We must fight so that the people may decide their own ruler, one that can be trusted to act on their behalf, and not that of their bankbooks."
"Here, here!" Combeferre agreed heartily, startling both of the men. "My apologies, gentlemen, to break up such a worthy argument – I merely wished to introduce myself before the meeting."
He clasped Enjolras' hand and shook it firmly.
"Combeferre." he introduced himself shortly.
"Ah, of course! I have heard much about you from Courfeyrac." Enjolras returned with a smile. "I hear that your passion is unrivalled."
"Ah, Courf is prone to exaggeration." Courfeyrac replied modestly.
"Yet you study medicine, do you not?" Enjolras queried.
"Ah, yes, I do." Combeferre answered, nodding.
"Most impressive." Enjolras said indulgently, smiling.
"Hardly, but thank you." Combeferre replied a little bashfully.
"And may I ask who your friend is?" Enjolras added, eyes darting across suddenly to a startled R.
"Oh, this is Grantaire." Combeferre added, stepping aside to allow Grantaire to shake the man's hand. His skin was as hard and smooth as marble.
"Grantaire." Enjolras said, head tilting slightly. "Your name is not familiar to me."
"I'm a student at the university, like many of the others." he answered hurriedly.
"Ah, I see." Enjolras said, nodding. "What are you studying? You in Combeferre's class, I suppose?"
"Er, no, actually. I study art." Grantaire answered, cursing himself as a blush crept onto his cheeks.
Grantaire was used to the smirks and sniggering people normally gave when he told them he was studying to be an artist, but it was becoming increasingly evident that Enjolras was not an ordinary person. He didn't smirk, but frowned very slightly, as though trying to come to a decision. He surveyed Grantaire with those steel-blue eyes, before opening his pursed lips to speak.
"You stink of liquor." he stated bluntly, wrinkling up his nose slightly. "We have no use for drunkards here – next time, sleep off your wine before you arrive."
Grantaire felt his face burn red with embarrassment as Enjolras turned to Combeferre and nodded respectfully.
"Welcome to Les Amis de l'ABC." he said warmly, clapping Ferre on the shoulder fondly as he passed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~{###}~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Grantaire shook his head to rid himself of his daydreaming, and took a long swig from the wine bottle. Months had passed since that first meeting, yet his situation had hardly changed. He had done as Enjolras had said and arrived sober to his meetings, yet that seemed to earn little more gratuity from the man than he had received before. Besides, it soon proved that drunk was the only way to spend the meetings with Les Amis – they were, in Grantaire's opinion, unbelievably dull, and impossible to endure unaided by at least half a bottle of wine.
Yet he continued, attending every single meeting. He cursed himself for it, but he craved Enjolras' adoration in a way he had never before experienced. He implored and desired his presence. He admired his aggression, his fierceness, his passion, even for a cause that he himself did not believe in. He found that, as time passed, the need only increased, until he yearned for Enjolras' attention in the way a needy child seeks his father's approval.
That said, Enjolras was a hostile force. Quick to anger and slow to forgive, he paid little attention to Grantaire, but for casting him disgusted looks whenever he could smell the alcohol on his breath. His words were cold and cruel, and barely extended past barked orders and demands that made Grantaire feel ill.
Grantaire loved and hated Enjolras in equal measure.
He glanced absentmindedly across the room, where Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras were standing by the table, examining a large sheet of paper that he assumed was a map. Enjolras looked up briefly, eyes meeting Grantaire's from across the room.
Boldly, Grantaire lifted up his wine bottle in a toasting gesture directed at the blond man, before taking a long, deep swig. To his surprise, Enjolras' shoulders shook slightly as though from laughter, and he smirked visibly as he rolled his eyes, the sight of his amusement making R's stomach flutter happily.
Grantaire couldn't hear him speak from so far away, not above the babble and chatter of the other Amis – yet he could read Enjolras' lips perfectly as he directed a quick quip towards him before turning back to the map.
"Grantaire, put the bottle down."
R chuckled lowly and took a pensive sip of wine, thinking that perhaps these meetings weren't so bad as he had thought.