Grantaire, Grow Up

A few opening comments: the usual disclaimer, I own the clothes on my back, and not much else (definitely not Les Mis).

I've been engrossing myself in Les Mis stories here lately, and decided to try my hand at writing my own. I have a general idea of where this is going, but its still somewhat open, so if you have comments or suggestions I'd be happy to hear them. I won't spoil too much of the plotline here though. The story will mainly center on Grantaire once it gets passed the opening chapters - how he grew up, a little of why he is the way he is, and so on. I'm indebted to a number of the stories I've read here for several of the ideas I am borrowing and incorporating here, so if something seems a little familiar, you probably have read it before somewhere ;)

Lastly, reviews, comments, thoughts, etc. are all welcomed. This is my first stab at a Les Mis fic, so I'm curious what others think about it. Happy reading!

Chapter 1: A Bad Day for Enjolras

Enjolras was not having a good day. Actually, that would be putting it very mildly. He had accidentally fallen asleep sometime late in the night (early in the morning?) while working on one of his trademark speeches. This was not altogether uncommon for him, but he'd also left the window open next to his desk. When he awoke, he discovered the cool morning air had left him with a very sore, scratchy throat, and that sleeping hunched over his desk had left his back and neck in a fair amount of pain. Things seemed to just go downhill from there. Before the morning was over he had added a sore foot (from accidentally kicking his desk) and a sore hand (from scalding it while trying to heat up some water to wash with). As he finally ventured out of his home and into the open streets of Paris, coughing, limping slightly to favor his injured foot, cradling his stinging hand while using the one he hadn't hurt to try to rub out the kinks in his neck, he began to wonder to himself if Bossuet's inevitable misfortune was beginning to spread.

As the day wore on, he began to give up hope that it might improve. On his way to class the bright clear skies became cloudy; and before he was halfway there it had begun to rain. Now he was sick, injured, wet, and worried the rain might damage his books and papers. He hurried through the rain as quickly as he could, arriving at the school with enough time to shake some of the water from his drenched clothing and dry off by the fire a bit before classes. Small victories, he told himself; some days you have to be grateful for the small victories.

Class began, and Enjolras took his customary seat hoping the day would go by quickly and that whatever ill-luck he was having would run out. It was not to be.

The professor walked in with a grave expression upon his face. "Class," he began, "I'm afraid I have some distressing news. It seems our friend General Lamarque may be coming down with some sort of illness. I'm told he collapsed during a session of Parliament yesterday afternoon and had to be taken to the hospital. He has been treated and was able to return home, but the doctors are unsure whether this might permanently affect his health. Only time will tell if he will fully recover and how long it will be before he is able to return to his work in the Parliament. In the meantime, some of the monarchists appear to already be planning to use his absence as a way to push through some laws and ideas that he would oppose on behalf of the people."

This is terrible, Enjolras thought to himself, can this day get any worse? He managed to muddle through class, somewhat lost in thought. As the class drew to a close he contemplated whether he should just go home and back to bed; maybe he would wake up tomorrow and realize it had all just been a dream. No, he said to himself, I can't go home yet. We have a meeting of Les Amis this evening, and if nothing else they need to be told about General Lamarque. Maybe Combeferre can give a speech tonight instead of me. It will be short, and then as soon as we're done I can go home and be done with this terrible day.

Satisfied that he had come up with a reasonable course of action, Enjolras trudged out of the schoolyard into the muck and still falling rain, and forced himself to make his way towards the Café Musain on the other side of the city. On the bright side, it can't get much worse than this, can it? Things are bound to improve once I'm with the others. Small victories. With that a smile, the first he'd worn that day, began to take over the scowl on his face.

Meanwhile, Grantaire had locked himself in his small rooms, hard at work on his most recent project. Actually, he hadn't left the small apartment he called home for several days, he was too intent and absorbed by the painting he was working on. Grantaire's short life had not been an easy one, and the years of pain and misery had left him incredibly jaded and cynical, his only solace being the wine bottles he desperately drained day in and day out. But recently things had started to change for him. He was away from the things and people who had hurt him in the past, living on his own and attending art classes when he could sell enough of his work to pay for the privilege. He even had a group of people (friends?) whom he spent time with and whose company he enjoyed. As he continued to work on his art he let his mind wander back.

It had happened quite by accident really. He had been wandering through the streets of Paris, looking for a suitable place to spend the evening getting drunk, when he wandered into the Café Musain feeling it was probably as good as any other. Or at least, since he hadn't darkened its doors yet, they wouldn't immediately kick him out, so he should be able to get enough of his beloved drink into his system to drown out the memories this evening. He had been steadily working his way through a bottle of wine when he heard an angel speak up from a table in the corner. When he turned around to glimpse the heavenly creature, he was stunned. It wasn't an angel who stood before a group of students seated around him; it was a god in human form.

Grantaire was smitten instantly. As he gazed upon the blond beauty, he found himself becoming more intoxicated by the presence of this young man than he had ever been by the fruit of the vine. He got up and wandered over to their corner of the café, anxious to listen to the message this god had for mere mortals like himself. As he sat down to listen, he eventually overcame the initial shock of seeing this revolutionary creature, and instead found himself focusing on the revolution this creature was talking about and planning. The others gathered around him hung on his every word, enamored by the speech. Grantaire, though extremely enamored with the speaker, found the speech itself to be a little less than satisfactory, full of promises of an impossible future that placed far too much trust in the people of Paris. This will never work, he thought to himself.

"What do you mean it will never work?" Grantaire looked up sheepishly to see that all eyes, including the fiercely striking ice blue ones of the fascinating creature who'd spoken, were upon him. Grantaire gulped, then stammered out, "Sorry, I didn't actually mean to say that out loud." I must be drunker than I thought, what is this man doing to me?

"Nevertheless, you did say it. And I want to know why you think my plan will never work," the blond god retorted, eyes narrowing slightly. Grantaire tried valiantly to tell himself to shut up; but the combination of intoxications (from drink and the man in front of him) overwhelmed his sense of self-preservation, and so he continued on knowing he should stop with every word he spoke.

"You seem to mean well, and I do not doubt your passion for your cause. But I do doubt the people of Paris. They will be enraptured by your speeches, impressed as I am and your friends are. They will agree with you, they will say the system needs fixed and that the monarchy is to blame. And when the day comes, when you call the people of Paris to arms, when your barricade rises, you will find yourself standing in your graves on a lonely barricade at dawn, abandoned by the people you have placed too much trust in, whose fear of death will be stronger than their desire to fight alongside you. Your plan will never work because, at the end of the day, the people of France will choose to live their lives, meager and painful as they may be, over dying for the possibility of a better future."

Anyone who knows Enjolras knows he would never back down from a challenge, so as soon as Grantaire finished speaking all eyes turned to the revolutionary for his rebuttal. Enjolras stood stunned for just a moment before gathering himself back together and challenging the newcomer's statements. The argument lasted well into the night, as Enjolras refused to give up without first swaying the man to his side and Grantaire found himself unable to resist responding to the blond god every time he was asked to. No one else spoke, instead they simply sat listening in awe as the two went back and forth. As the night wore on, the argument didn't actually end. After a particularly devastating retort from Grantaire, Enjolras went off on a horrendously long tangent. As he spoke, Grantaire, tired from the day, semi-drunk from wine, completely intoxicated by the man in front of him, drifted off to sleep and, much to Enjolras' embarrassment, could not be roused awake when the blond had finally finished speaking.

"Well, I guess that's it then," Combeferre said after trying to wake up the snoring man sitting next to him.

"Aww, I don't want it to be over. This is fun!" Courfeyrac exclaimed from across the table, disappointment clear across his face.

"It most certainly is not over. I'm not finished yet. Courf, find out who he is and make sure he comes back to our next meeting, but without the wine bottle in hand if possible," Enjolras said, gathering his papers and things, "but for now, meeting adjourned. Until next time my friends."

Grantaire had been quite surprised when he woke up in an unfamiliar bed the next morning. He had been even more surprised to find himself being greeted warmly by one of the blond's friends, Courfeyrac, and being invited to return to the meetings of the little revolutionary group. At first he wanted to decline, but the idea of seeing the leader was a little too appealing, and when the time came he found himself returning to the café, but with wine in tow. That was almost a year ago now, he thought with a smile. Enjolras had looked pleased to see him, displeased to see what he was drinking, but eager to continue where they had left off. And the routine began, one both men secretly enjoyed immensely. Enjolras still held hope he'd bring Grantaire around to his side, Grantaire still questioned and critiqued everything the god, whom he had decided to nickname Apollo during their second encounter, said and planned. And slowly, though he would admit it to no one, not even himself, Grantaire found himself believing in something for the first time in years. Not the cause, of course; he still believed the cause to be a lost one. But when he heard the passion in his Apollo's voice, when he saw the intensity radiating from the man/god during a speech or a debate, he couldn't help but wonder if Enjolras just might be able to do the impossible.

And he found friendship, comradery in the other members of Les Amis. He was still the cynic, but he had a reason to live that had been lacking from his days before that first chance encounter. He was enjoying himself, and working himself away from the drink that had held so much power in his life (though this was something else he didn't want to let anyone know just yet). When he stopped to think about it, he was happy; happier then he could ever remember being. He had found new inspiration, for both art and life, in this rugged band of misfits he now secretly called his family. And that inspiration, coupled with something Enjolras had said during their last meeting, was why he had been cooped up in his apartment, painting away for several days. It was time he let them all know how he felt about them, how much they meant to him.

Enjolras' mood had not improved much on the trip to the Café, his faint smile quickly faded when a passing carriage trundled through a giant puddle and covered him in mud. I just want this day to end, he screamed inwardly as he stumbled into the Musain and looked around to see who was there. The place was all but deserted, just a few waterlogged customers huddled around the bar or the fireplace trying to warm up and dry off.

"You, my friend, are an absolute mess," a voice to his left said. As he turned he saw his closest ally, Combeferre, huddled in a corner with schoolbooks already strewn across a table. Unlike Enjolras, Combeferre had somehow managed to arrive at the café rather dry and mud free, the puddles around his feet being the only indication he had been outside.

"It has not been the best of days; this weather does not agree with me," Enjolras rasped, a slight cough coming out after he'd spoken.

"You sound like a mess as well. Come on, Musichetta is working this evening, I'm sure we can convince her to give you some hot water, soap, and a towel to get yourself cleaned up a bit," Combeferre continued as he marked the page he was reading and stood up, "and maybe some soup as well, I'm going to go out on a limb and say you probably haven't eaten yet today."

Enjolras simply shrugged in response. "I'll take that to mean, 'yes Combeferre, you are right as always. I really should learn to take better care of myself.'" To that Enjolras gave a small grin, and Combeferre let out a chuckle before dragging his friend over to the counter to get him the things he needed.

"And, since I know you won't ask me, I'll volunteer now to give this evening's speech. I actually have something in mind, so don't argue," Combeferre said sternly, glancing over at his friend as he opened his mouth, obviously about to protest.

"Alright, fine. Just this once I'll concede," was the response Enjolras gave instead, another small grin just barely visible under the mud on his face.

"Good. Now that that's settled, Musichetta!" Combeferre called to the back room, "we are in need of your assistance."

A moment later she stepped out of the backroom and began to make her way to the counter, but stopped and did a double take when she caught sight of the mud covered man next to Combeferre. "My, my! Is that you, Enjolras? If it wasn't for the few blond curls sticking out underneath all of that muck I wouldn't have recognized you. I'm guessing my summons is because you'd like some help returning to looking like a human rather than a child's mud pie."

"Yes please," was all the now thoroughly embarrassed man could say.

"And a bowl of your delicious soup too, Musichetta, if you can. Add it to my bill," Combeferre finished. "No objections, Enjolras," he added as his friend opened his mouth to protest once more, "even if you have money with you, 'Chetta isn't going to want to be paid with mud. You can pay me back later, when you are clean and dry."

With Enjolras effectively silenced, Musichetta led him to the back room she had stepped out of to help get Enjolras fed and looking presentable once more. Combeferre laughed a little at the predicament his best friend had gotten himself in, then returned to his table, setting his schoolbooks aside and pulling out instead some of their books for the revolution they were planning so he could prepare a speech to give when the rest arrive. He really did in fact have something in mind, though he knew it would not be anywhere close to what his friend could achieve. But it would do, it would get them thinking and planning; and, as long as Grantaire showed up, it would be sufficient to start a lively discussion. And Grantaire had better show up, because tonight was also supposed to be a bit of a surprise. Courfeyrac had somehow managed to discover that it was the cynic's birthday, and several of the Amis had taken it upon themselves to put together a party for their friend after the meeting this evening. Jehan was even baking a cake just for the occasion.

As Combeferre settled back down to work, he heard a crash from the backroom and Enjolras spluttering. I guess he is still having trouble, he thought to himself. Better get this finished while he is back there, I'll probably have to calm him down when he's done before the rest of the group get here. Poor Enjolras, he grinned ever so slightly at the thought before returning to his books and papers.