Over the next few weeks, Grantaire continued to go to the meetings, allowing himself the small luxury of a few hours in the same room as Enjolras and these people who somehow managed to believe things that he had always seen as impossible. If they had seen half the things he had, they wouldn't be so quick to rush to the aid of the People. After all, the People were the ones that had cast Grantaire out, forcing him to take to the cruelest ways of earning a living just to survive. Slowly, however, Grantaire grew used to the amount of optimism that colored the room and familiarized himself with the other members of the Amis.
Grantaire first learned the names of the two men that followed Enjolras' shadow, caught between Enjolras' ideals and each other's gaze. The word that first came to Grantaire's mind when he saw Courfeyrac was bubbly. It was slightly unnerving how such a short frame could contain so much energy, but Courfeyrac pulled it off with an easy charm that put a smile on anyone's face, and most often on Combeferre's. He always had the skinniest jeans of the most vibrant colors and a charismatic grin dimpling his cheeks. His dark hair curled around his face and his arched eyebrows were always giving the impression of mischief to his liquid brown eyes. Courfeyrac enjoyed making others laugh and was an immensely open character that made it hard for him to keep his hands to himself, and it seemed in fact that his hands were always moving, gesticulating as he articulated his thoughts with a passion that vibrated throughout his entire body. He had an enthusiasm for the cause that was contagious and enjoyed poking fun at Enjolras almost as much as Grantaire did, which made Grantaire consider him an ally, especially when he learned that Courfeyrac went out partying often and found immense pleasure in dragging Enjolras along.
Combeferre was quieter than Courfeyrac, but no less charismatic. Where Courfeyrac was boisterous and flirty, Combeferre was reserved. However, he was quick to care for his friends and offer a kind word of advice in such a manner that you hardly realized that he had done so. He was intelligent, speaking in measured tones and lugging around large tomes with him in his worn satchel. His auburn hair was on the longer side, and his bangs hung over his glasses when he was too busy to go to the hairdressers. He dressed in a collection of neat sweaters that tended to be pushed up his forearms when he was deeply absorbed in work. Combeferre smiled often, but his softest smiles were directed towards Courfeyrac when he thought no one was looking. Grantaire understood those looks, just as he understood the panic in Courfeyrac's eyes when Combeferre pointedly ignored Courfeyrac's occasional flirtatious antics. Grantaire watched them quietly, with a bittersweet tinge in his chest. They were painfully in love, and he knew in his heart that they would make it together. Grantaire wished he could say the same when it came to his love life.
The next name he learned was Feuilly's. He remembered that Enjolras had mentioned him to Bahorel, and he was coming to realize that Enjolras did that a lot. Feuilly was not exactly a quiet person, but he tended to fade into the background because his crazy work schedule usually meant he didn't linger after the meeting, and he tended to refrain from the ludicrous adventures the rest of the Amis seemed to get themselves into. He had ginger curls that he tended to pull back into a ponytail and seemingly permanent circles under his eyes, yet he displayed an excellent wit from what Grantaire had seen of him, and he seemed to be one of the only people that could effectively shut Bahorel down. He was perhaps the most focused of the Amis outside of the Big Three, as Grantaire liked to call Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. He was always well informed on the issues that Enjolras was speaking about, and Grantaire could immediately see why Feuilly would have such respect in Enjolras' eyes. That didn't stop the cold twist of jealousy from rearing its head every time Enjolras casually mentioned Feuilly's name yet again as an icon of perfection. Grantaire did however have a grudging admiration towards this man who had survived the foster system and lived off of the minimum wage, trying his best to make ends meet. Grantaire knew how difficult it was to just barely scrape by. The fact that Feuilly had artistic tendencies and made intricate origami for everyone during the meeting did not affect this whatsoever.
Feuilly's freckles where only outnumbered by those of Jehan Prouvaire, the resident poet. Grantaire first noticed his slight figure because of his completely flawless ability to pull off a flower crown entwined in his French braid, while wearing hot pink skinny jeans and a Christmas sweater. Grantaire soon learned that these bizarre ensembles were commonplace in Jehan's life and he soon began to love them in their own special way. Jehan spent a lot of time with Courfeyrac, the two getting along like revolution and a barricade, that is to say extremely well. Jehan had the special talent of not only enduring Courfeyrac's bracing personality, but to continue finding it amusing even after he had gotten kicked out of several cafes and singed his hair one time burning pamphlets with Courfeyrac. Most people assumed that because of his wiry frame, Jehan didn't like confrontation. While this was partly true, Jehan hated being forced to fight, Jehan was just as likely as Bahorel to start a fight, and he was twice as deadly with a black belt in three types of martial arts. Grantaire had heard him arguing for aromantic asexual rights, claiming that people could be content with their plants, just like he was. And Jehan did love his plants. From what Grantaire gathered, he had named them all after poets and often would make mundane conversation with them. Jehan was a most curious character that Grantaire felt an immediate connection with. It was clear that he had an artistic soul, and that he had recognized the artistic tendency pulsing in Grantaire's veins. They hadn't spoken much, but Grantaire knew he had found an immediate friend.
He was surprised to see Joly and Bossuet at the next few meetings. They hadn't been at the first one Grantaire attended, on account of Bossuet's latest incident that somehow involved a spatula, but Grantaire wasn't quite sure what happened because Joly was babbling excitedly while keeping a very close eye on Bossuet. Joly had a big heart, which in Grantaire's mind was what kept him with Bossuet. Which led him to Joly's second best trait: patience. No matter how many times Bossuet had an incident, or one the Amis (mostly Enjolras) ignored his medical advice and got sick, Joly still had a cheery smile as he helped them clean up their mess and didn't ever need to say I told you so. Joly tended to worry and fuss over his friends, especially when it came to their health, but it seemed all of the Amis knew that it was Joly's way of expressing affection. Joly had brown hair that was always a bit unkempt, which seemed to fit the fact that his glasses were also often askew. Joly always carried around a few extra handkerchiefs and hand sanitizer for his friends, as well as lotions, Chap Stick and various types of Band-Aids that he switched according to the time of year or by request. It was most often Disney themed, but there was the occasional Marvel character, and there had been Angry Birds at some point. Bossuet was an enchantingly clumsy man that seemed to have the worst of luck. Grantaire was willing to bet that Bossuet had been arrested more times than Enjolras. But since he was such a sincere and heartfelt person, Bossuet had not only befriended the entire police force, he had also become familiar with a lot of the worn faces behind the bars. Bossuet was also on affectionate terms with the nursing staff at the nearby hospital because of the amount of time he spent there. Between the two of them, they were a perfectly matched pair, so embedded in each other's lives that they were practically in sync. Both of them were extremely excited that Grantaire had finally started coming to the meetings and teased him about it without prodding too much at the core reason Grantaire was coming, though he felt like sometimes his emotions were so raw that it was evident to everyone why he continued to occupy his chair towards the back of the rom, flanked by Joly and Bossuet and occasionally Bahorel, when Feuilly didn't show up to a meeting.
However the weeks passed, and although Grantaire became more habituated the ideas that floated through the room, Enjolras continued to dig into his skin, a continuous itch that caused him to fidget and a restlessness of spirit that translated into nervous energy. Grantaire got more tips than ever at work as he threw himself into with a desperation born of the need to expel this feeling of agitation that held the pit of his belly on the verge of nausea. His manager had complimented his work ethic and even hinted at a raise if he kept it up, but that only made Grantaire feel more miserable. He wandered the streets in the afternoon, choosing different routes and finding his feet carried him to the most hauntingly beautiful parts of Paris; the ones that sent a shiver down his spine and goose bumps up his arms and the curling of his fingers around charcoal that he did not have. His eyes roamed over these scenes- the haunting loneliness of the Parc Monceau, with its abandoned arches and weeping willows, and the busy swirl of businessmen and tourists mingling at the tourist areas, watching humanity in it's simplest nature, surrounded by others, but in their own little world. He spent time in the gym, ruthlessly pounding punching back after punching bag, before trying to go through the graceful swoops of fencing to calm his mind. When that failed, he fell back on dance and running, trying to loose his body to the flow of music, but the feeling of mindlessness always faded, leaving the leeching anxiety unappeased and an unending scream crawling up his throat no matter how many times he brutally pushed it down, forcing his throat to close around the unvoiced despair rising from the very pit of his hopelessness.
It all came to a head about a month after Enjolras had walked him home. There were meetings two or three times a week, but Grantaire only dared go to about half of them, not wanting to raise Pierre's suspicions and usually going when Pierre had something that called him out of the house in the evening-an event that happened to be increasing in frequency. Sometimes Grantaire wondered if he should be worried about that, but it allowed him more time with the Amis, where he increasingly felt more comfortable, so he couldn't complain. He realized that what Pierre did anymore was or hardly any more concern to him. This realization led to a breakdown in the bathroom as he shaved one morning, realizing that Pierre hadn't come home the night before and that he didn't even care. What had happened? He had been content with Pierre and now he could hardly stand looking at him, couldn't be worried about him when he disappeared, only worried about what this new twitchy feeling was that danced across his skin. It had been a particularly bad day that day, his concentration practically nonexistent and repeatedly counting out the wrong change to customers.
Grantaire was already nervous about when Pierre was going to get back that night and when Enjolras began talking about the foster system, he knew that nothing good would come of it. Enjolras' general solution was that foster care families should be given stricter regulations so that they don't abuse the children, which prompted Grantaire to start mumbling under his breath, unable to sit there and hear Enjolras without some form of venting. He needed a distraction, so much so that he hardly heard Enjolras address him. "Do you have something to say, Grantaire?"
The entire room seemed to still, and everyone turned to look at him as Joly and Bossuet immediately became interested in their bottle and their hands respectively. Grantaire looked around the rooming, seeing the expressions on all of the Amis faces as if in a blur. He felt his pulse escalate; yet he forced himself to swallow and project his voice. "I-It's just that, I think that's the wrong way to go about it. It's already hard enough to find a foster family, if you make it harder to be a foster family then there will more children forced to stay with one foster family and a lot of kids could end up in the streets." Grantaire's voice was surprisingly strong, and he gained confidence as it seemed that some of the Amis saw his point, nodding. Feuilly seemed to understand Grantaire's view the best, and turned expectantly towards Enjolras.
"Are you saying that it is better that they are abused in these homes, Grantaire?" Enjolras' voice had risen slightly, and his voice seemed to convey some frustration.
Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair shakily, unnerved by Enjolras' penetrative stare, but exhilarated at the most amount of attention he had received from Enjolras since the night he had been escorted home. "Of course not, Enjolras. But we have to think about the greater good for all the children. There is always going to be abuse, but the children who are abused usually end up on the streets. However, percentage wise, it would be fewer than the amount who would be on the streets if the restrictions on foster parents were more stringent."
"So you would rather do nothing?" Enjolras' voice had risen slightly, and Grantaire could sense Joly and Bossuet fidgeting beside him, uncomfortable. He forced himself to remain silent, his stony glare challenging Enjolras. He held his gaze for a few tense moments, before nodding slightly and turning to Feuilly, who started talking about his experience with foster care. Grantaire let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He looked around the room, feeling hairline fractures erupt across the tenuous relationship that he had with Enjolras, and all the other Amis. Grantaire knew he was different, knew he couldn't believe in what these idealists thought, but he thought that he had been okay with that. In this moment, he realized with a stunning clarity that he would never be able to come to peace with that, something would always be there, lurking, grating against the pit of his stomach.
Grantaire didn't wait until the meeting was over. He knew when to throw in the towel, when it was time to cut ties, to desert the sinking ship. It was what had kept him alive thus far. He didn't look back once. He left before the topic of foster care was even settled, his seat conspicuously empty.
Enjolras was distracted. Every time he had a meeting, he felt a chipping in his chest as his eyes scanned the room, a certain empty chair standing out to him, each day making his heart heavier and heavier. His gaze skittered away from the gaping hole every time he caught his eyes wandering in that direction of their own accord. What had he done wrong?
It was obvious that it was something that Enjolras had done, that it was connected somehow to the fact that their views didn't exactly match, in fact they happened to collide and clash and that was another headache altogether. For now, he just wanted to know that Grantaire was okay, and that it wasn't entirely Enjolras' fault that Grantaire had left. He wasn't an idiot; he sensed the strained tension that eddied through the meetings, the worried glances shot his way by Combeferre and towards the empty chair by Joly and Bahorel. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Grantaire was supposed to make pamphlets for the group, he was supposed to bring laughter, not leave.
Something about Grantaire's hopeless eyes wouldn't let him go; they held him fast and kept him up at night. What was Grantaire hiding? Enjolras felt that he had only gotten a facet of Grantaire, that there were layers upon layers of Grantaire, each more intricate than the last, and something about that revelation reeled him in. He wanted to discover Grantaire and the secrets behind the swirling blue-green of his eyes and the white scars he remembered from the gym. He was curiously hooked on Grantaire, and he wanted Grantaire back.
So he did what he always did when he wanted advice. He approached Combeferre one morning, an offertory coffee in his right hand, and some for himself in the left. "What did I do wrong?" he asked, before Combeferre had even accepted the coffee, a knowing glint in his eye as he saw him approach.
Combeferre took the time to take a sip of coffee, his eyes scanning him deliberately. Enjolras tried not to fidget, and quickly sat down. "I am correct in assuming this is about Grantaire?" Enjolras nodded, but it wasn't needed, since Combeferre had already moved on. "Well, I assume he got somewhat bothered by the talk of foster care, especially from you, a white guy who hasn't even been through the system. Not everyone can have the faith that you do, Enjolras. You need to understand that this is a lot harder on his side, ok?"
"Wait, are you saying that Grantaire was in foster care?" Enjolras wouldn't be surprised, but his curiosity was piqued.
"I think that Grantaire's life story would be best heard from him, but I am under the impression that he was not in foster care. Bahorel has mentioned Grantaire's parents in a context that suggests that they are still alive but that Grantaire no longer has contact with them because of some strain in the relationship when he was young."
"Oh." Enjolras was studying his cup of coffee intently, trying to get the seeping warmth to heat him up; he was suddenly cold at the change in conversation. A comfortable silence stretched between them, but Combeferre didn't return to his book, he knew that the conversation wasn't finished.
"Talk to him. Ask him if you made him uncomfortable, and what you can do to avoid repeat the same mistake later. You're never going to be friends with him if you make him feel uncomfortable." Combeferre said it casually, while stirring his coffee slowly, his spoon making the occasional tinkling noise in his mug.
Enjolras considered it, chewing his bottom lip as he played with the handle of his mug. "You're probably right. Do you really think I make him uncomfortable?" Combeferre gave no answer, just took off his glasses and began polishing them in his sweater. Enjolras got up and left the table deep in thought, leaving Combeferre at the table, just as equally lost in thought, his glasses forgotten as he watched Enjolras' blurry figure leave the room.