4. A New Beginning
He's not born with the name Grantaire but he knows that he once was. The alcohol taste floods his mouth like a memory and he realizes it's been far too long since that hot June night. There are days when he wanders the streets of France looking for a tuft of blond curly locks or a flash of crimson red. He looks for five years to no avail.
But not all is lost, along the way he meets several of the past barricade boys for even in death there is no escape from the bonds of brotherhood. Even without Apollo they're able to find the path to righteousness; striking up rebellion wherever they go. But this being the 21st century rebellion is something different, what were known as traitors are liberals. It's a fresher newer age and he loves it. Everything would be more enjoyable if only he could find his Apollo. Another thing about this new age, he finally has the right to call Apollo his in every sense of the way. What was hidden and shamed before is now common.
Bouset and Lesgle are quick at work on new banners, there names are different too but he can't help keep it all straight in his head. He always refers to himself as Grantaire anyways so what's the point? Can he not be two men at once? All the bravery and charisma of who he is now coupled with the knowledge and love, passion, of his past. It's a combination that works wonderfully without his alcoholic tendencies. He thinks, with a certain fondness, that this life is much better. If he could only find his missing piece.
He's twenty-three now and the crowd of people are making his job increasingly difficult. He's almost close to shoving the goddamn flyers in everyone's faces because no one seems to be paying attention. The swarm is keeping him off balance and then the inevitable happens, someone turns around too fast knocking into him. He's five seconds from hitting the floor when someone else catches his upper arm and that grip is firm but gentle at the same time. A warmth in the coldness of the park where he -and the rest of the alliance- is trying in vain to spread the word on the next protest in Musain square.
He gets his two feet firmly planted on the ground, "Thanks mate," he says to the stranger, looking to meet liquid hazel eyes and blond hair, no more curls but he's wearing a red hoodie and that's fucking close enough. The stranger introduces himself, but Grantaire is already so far gone. All he hears is Enjolras.
It isn't the smell of strong alcohol that floods his nostrils and it isn't a hazy film that glosses his vision this time. Instead it's the smell of gunpowder and smoke, of sweat slicked bodies and fear. The golden film is back framing the man in front of him. The flyers end up scattered on the floor and for once Grantaires clumsiness is not to blame! Not that anyone will believe him when he re-tells the story, but he knows the truth. It's the blond haired man from his past that slips into place in Grantaires arms.
Where he's always belonged.