Cecidit
Chapter 3: Confrontation
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
It happened after Éponine and Grantaire had gone to exactly seven meetings. Seven weeks of being around the Amis. First, allow the author to mention their companionships formed in those seven weeks of being around Les Amis de l'ABC.
Grantaire formed almost immediate friendships with Cosette, Feuilly, and Bahorel. Bahorel and Feuilly found Grantaire to be very amusing company when drunk and very intelligent company when sober. They sought him out three times outside of official Amis business so far, and the three soon became very good friends.
Cosette enjoyed Grantaire immensely. She wanted to help him, because she very publicly claimed she could see that little spark of darkness forming and wanted to best it before it could catch fire. Grantaire had laughed at her when she said that, but the brunette only pursed her lips and set herself to her cause with a vehemence. She simply wanted to help him.
Éponine had a more difficult time making friends. She pined over a man with copper hair and freckles for the first four weeks, but quickly got over him when she realized how naïve he was. His name was Marius Pontmercy, and he was completely enamored with Cosette, his longtime girlfriend.
She had an easy friendship with Jehan, which took a few meetings to build. Other than Jehan, and on occasion Courfeyrac, Éponine tended to stay with Grantaire silently during the meetings. She was terrified of saying the wrong thing and then having Combeferre spring on her with a blade or cross.
Combeferre hadn't said a word to the cambion. His eyes, when he wasn't looking at Enjolras, were usually trained on her. His gaze wasn't always cold, sometimes is was merely curious, but on a rough day, he would look at her with sheer hatred in his eyes.
It really bothered Éponine in the confines of her and Grantaire's home. He saw her with fire in her eyes one night because of him, and then sometimes she would be on the brink of tears the next. He had never seen her cry, because she usually slams her bedroom door and refuses to come out for a day or two, but he could hear the violent sobs through the walls.
Enjolras was a different case altogether. He paid Éponine no mind really, but he couldn't ignore the drunken arguments to his words that Grantaire would shout during a meeting. Grantaire thought he absolutely loathed him. He would snap at him every meeting, send him looks of pure hatred, and Bahorel even told Grantaire that Enjolras said it was better when he wasn't at meetings.
Grantaire thought he was giving Enjolras a different perspective. He thought that Enjolras would appreciate the thought and offer him a smile. He had seen him smile once, and longed to have it directed at him. Grantaire wouldn't admit it, but he was absolutely entranced by Enjolras. The way he had passion radiating out of him made Grantaire want to follow him anywhere.
In the short span of seven weeks, Grantaire and Éponine also established their respective places in the Musain as the drunk and the shadow. Grantaire hardly drank outside of the weekly meetings, but when he was there he was always intoxicated. Bahorel and Feuilly found his antics hysterical, so they were the ones to keep slipping him alcohol. (Combeferre and Courfeyrac had tried to tell them to stop, but they merely flashed their two friends innocent grins.)
They also quickly picked up on everyone else's position in the Musain.
Enjolras was the obvious leader who was slightly oblivious. He was very feminine in appearance, but extremely dominant in personality. He would snap at people if they didn't share his opinion on things, but he was kind to his friends in Les Amis.
Combeferre was their beacon of light–a guide of sorts. He advised people on what path to take. He was very cool and calculating, and always saw each side of the argument before passing judgement. He was also a mystery. It was a well-known fact that he was a ruthless Hunter in Paris. He had obviously killed many, many deamons in his short lifetime, but no one knew exactly how many. His status as Hunter truly contradicted his gentle nature during meetings.
Courfeyrac and Jehan had something going on. Grantaire could discern this much. They worked a bit like magnets. Jehan would shift, and Courfeyrac would then move to fit himself around the curve of Jehan's body. Éponine couldn't see it, but Grantaire thought their relationship was sickeningly sweet.
Jehan was a self-proclaimed poet. (Grantaire had yet to see his work.) He would often compose a poem at random. He wrote sonnets about the magnificence Enjolras' blond hair almost every meeting. His romanticism was complimented by Courfeyrac's flirtatious personality. They worked better together than alone.
Some members who Grantaire had yet to befriend, but had already briefly met, were Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta. He had had a short conversation with Musichetta about Joly and Bossuet's hands (which he never wants to repeat for as long as he'll be in this realm), but he had yet to have an interaction with either Joly or Bossuet.
Feuilly and Bahorel were a bit like the partners in crime. They worked a bit like Courfeyrac and Jehan, better together than apart, but they weren't lovers. Grantaire could tell that Feuilly pined over Bahorel, but the fighter had yet to notice.
The aforementioned incident happened after seven meetings, as stated. In retrospect, Grantaire should've known that the one they were avoiding would know first. Éponine had gone back inside, and Grantaire wanted some fresh air before going into the Musain to their eighth assemblage with the members of Les Amis de l'ABC. He was very suddenly, and roughly, pulled around the corner of the alley and slammed into the brick wall. He convulsed in pain for a moment because his back was being pushed to the wall and it hurt so bad and oh.
Combeferre had him roughly pressed against the wall, and there was a blade on his throat. He could feel the poison on it, but he knew it wouldn't kill him no matter where he slit his throat.
Grantaire smirked in an attempt to hide his pain, but tears were in his eyes."Yes?"
"What is she?"
"She? Please be more specific, dear Combeferre!"
He pressed it closer, and Grantaire felt the poison burning him. "Éponine," he hissed.
"Last I checked, I'm not Éponine, unless something very strange happened to us last night. So I suggest if you want her secrets, you ask her." He let out a small whimper at the pain as Combeferre pressed against him harder. "Let me go right now," he said through gritted teeth.
Combeferre studied his expression and asked, "Is the poison bothering you? Are you also a deamon? Do you work for Hell?"
"Fucking let me go right now," he pleaded.
Combeferre released him and Grantaire fell to his knees. He took shaky breaths before Combeferre finally spoke. "It wasn't the knife."
"No. It wasn't."
"Where did you live before Paris, Grantaire?"
He looked up at Combeferre and had to squint a bit. "Where did I live?" he repeated slowly. He didn't know any places in the Mortal World except for Paris. He knew nothing of this realm.
"You show up one day in a city where I know everyone, creature or not, with no background at all. You come with a deamon-"
"She isn't a deamon," Grantaire interrupted.
"A cambion then. Child of a powerful deamon, most likely. What are you?"
He looked up at Combeferre. "I don't think that's any of your business. Besides, I thought you were more interested in Éponine. Why the sudden change?"
Combeferre ignored his question. "But you are something." The man bent down to help Grantaire up and when he clapped him on the back when Grantaire was standing, the man let out a yelp of pain. Combeferre recoiled and understanding came to his eyes. "You're joking."
"I didn't say anything," he snapped.
"You're the fallen angel."
He chuckled uncomfortably. "That's ridiculous."
"What country do you live in?"
"France," he said automatically.
"Who's the president?"
Grantaire opened his mouth to answer, but he honestly had no idea. He ended up opening and closing his mouth a few times before saying, "That means nothing."
"Which one were you? Were you an archangel? I mean, are regular angels even up there? Do regular people become angels?" His voice was full of wonder.
Grantaire rubbed his temples in annoyance and replied, "How should I know? I'm clearly Mortal."
"You claim to live in France, yet you have no idea who the president is." Combeferre smirked in victory.
Grantaire threw up his hands in exasperation. "So what? Maybe I'm just that apathetic!"
"Doubtful. Wait until Les Amis finds out about you!" Combeferre's eyes lit with excitement.
"No. No way. This stays between us, Hunter," Grantaire insisted coldly. "I don't even want you to know, let alone Enjolras. I'll become a puppet for him to use in demonstrations. No thank you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Want one? I only carry them to look scary. Do they hurt?" Combeferre didn't notice the innocent look in his eyes.
"What? I don't know, I don't smoke. Don't change the subject! Enjolras is a smart person! He wouldn't use you only for the cause like that, Grantaire."
The ever-evolving cynic rolled his eyes. "Why wouldn't he? If I can propel the people to see through his eyes, to his cause, then why would he be virtuous? A man who needs mountains moved is a man that will use anything to cut completely through them."
Combeferre shrugged. "I have known him my entire life. He isn't that sort of gentleman.
"One becomes a different man when they have a goal in mind." Grantaire shook his head and said, "I'm going inside." He did just that.
For two meetings after the revelation confrontation, as Grantaire had taken to calling it, Combeferre's eyes weren't trained on the fair cambion sitting beside Grantaire. They were trained on the former archangel himself. His expression was usually unreadable, but sometimes a cynical remark would pass through Grantaire's red lips and the lines on his face would harden. (Combeferre had some kind of wild thought that Grantaire should be optimistic.) Grantaire, ever the one to accept a challenge, would stare at Combeferre coolly. He never let an emotion–save amusement and an occasional smirk–pass over his features.
If Enjolras noticed, he paid their staring no mind.
Éponine, however, confronted Grantaire. It was during their ninth meeting that Éponine finally questioned Grantaire on his and Combeferre's odd behavior.
"Grantaire," she hissed during one of Enjolras' monologues. "What's going on? Why are you and Combeferre undressing each other with your eyes?"
The man reeled back and yelped, "Éponine! No! It isn't like that!" In a lower tone, Grantaire confessed, "He knows."
Her eyes widened to an almost cartoonish size. "About you?"
"He confronted me about your status, which he knows by the way, and upset the twins." He rolled his shoulders for emphasis. (At this point, Grantaire could achieve small movements and a brush to his back without wincing. Éponine wasn't sure if he was healing or becoming used to the pain, but she didn't vocalize her concerns.)
She gasped, "No! Why didn't you say something?"
"Frankly, I find him a bit scary."
He heard someone clear their throat. Grantaire and Éponine leaned away from one another and looked towards the noise. Enjolras stood, arms crossed and eyes blazing, and said, "Care to share?"
"No," Éponine said, voice small.
Grantaire, however, let out a chuckle, "Why are you so interested in our conversation, Aether?"
The blond man stared at him a moment before timidly asking, "Aether?"
"The god of holy air and light. No, that doesn't suit you, though! You seem like someone who would be a symbol of Nike, but she was a female and you are far from it in demeanor. Well, Hermes of the god of diplomacy and language. Judging by your eloquence, I could see you as a symbol of Hermes. Then again, he is the god of thievery, which I cannot see you embodying at all. So-"
"Stop," Enjolras instructed.
"Apollo. I fancy Apollo. All in favor?" Grantaire made a swooping motion with his arms around the cafe and several people actually raised their hands, Courfeyrac included. Grantaire turned back to Enjolras with a smirk. "Apollo, as it is deemed!"
"You're impossible," he scowled. "Do you even come here to help make a difference? Or do you sit in the back and drink just to annoy me? Is that all you're good for?"
Grantaire shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure what I'm good for yet."
The first time Éponine actually spoke to Combeferre, she was genuinely concerned about Grantaire. The two of them had been skirting around one another for four meetings, and it was time for her to understand why. Whenever she tried to ask Grantaire, he would simply change the subject of their conversation. She had never spoken to the Hunter she was so afraid of, but Éponine was willing to talk to him with others around. He most likely wouldn't become violent with Enjolras and Courfeyrac around. Right?
She sat beside him at a small corner table. She chose her moment carefully. He had already consumed one drink, so he was likely to be a bit more social that the normally tight-laced Combeferre she observed from across the room. Courfeyrac had left the table, presumably to order more drinks, and that's when she sat.
"Éponine?" he asked.
"What's going on with Grantaire?"
Combeferre was slow to respond. (She catalogued that for later. Alcohol slows him.) "Nothing. He's the angel that fell to Earth four months ago."
She made her expression one of shock. "Really?"
"You didn't know," he said. He didn't ask her. She had the feeling that he was one to state observations instead of outright asking them. "I didn't mean to tell you. He doesn't want anyone to know."
"Oh, Combeferre! I'll speak with him at once!" She stood to dash away, but he grabbed her wrist. His grip wasn't constrictive; it was gentler that she thought him capable of. He merely wanted to hold her back for a moment.
"Don't tell anyone," he requested.
Éponine nodded. "I promise."
"You know, I don't want to hunt you." The slight pressure around her wrist was gone, but she felt glued in the place she stood.
Éponine nodded after a second. "I believe you."
wow. Hi guys. Long time no see!
