30/4/13
Thanks for your support again guys and around 5/6 Chapters left to go in this fic now :)
Juliet116 – Thanks, I love writing those two as best friends and it warms my heart writing things like that
ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo– This chapter I promise babes
Sarahbob – Here you are and hope you enjoy
Again same content as WMAL due to the necessary emotional turmoil, enjoy!
Chapter 10
Enjolras sat back on the bed again and the bag was back on his knee. Enjolras just stared at it as his mind rolled with turmoil; he needed to know what was in the bag but opening it meant accepting that he may not see the cynic again. After a few minutes, the sense of curiosity overcame the opposition and he carefully opened the bag with trembling hands. On the top of a pile of Enjolras' own clothes lay a small folded piece of crushed paper. The note was obviously written on whatever Grantaire happened to have at the time as the back was covered in an artistic scrawl. Enjolras slowly opened it needed to know what Grantaire wanted him to read. Apollo, if Gav or Courf have given you this then that means my plan come through and everything is as it should be. Enjolras chocked on his tears; everything is not as it should be, most certainly not. I had to get you out of there.I couldn't let the marble Apollo be scuffed by those brutes. In this bag are some things I needed to give or return to you. In the base of this bag are some fake papers for you, I had to take yours to pull off this ploy but here are some replacements. It seemed the cynic had thought of everything; maybe he wasn't as useless as everyone assumed he was. It hurt Enjolras that they had only discovered this when Grantaire was doomed.
Enjolras carried on reading aware that the other men were trying to subtly read over his shoulder. He didn't care, they deserved to know. Also there are all the clothes I borrowed to decide what would be the most convincing, sorry if anything is ruined or anything. Enjolras hated himself at that moment. If Grantaire thought some stupid papers and clothes were worth more than his life then Enjolras had obviously been worse to him that he thought. Also some stuff I rescued from your place. Don't come after me Apollo … or you Fey … or you Ferre cause I know you will be reading this too. Enjolras felt both men back off but after casting a pleading glance at them; their soothing presence returned behind him. I don't need saving and if any of you put yourselves in danger for me then it will negate all I have done. All I ask is for you all to stay safe … and don't get yourselves killed. From your cynic. Enjolras felt emotions boil over inside him but it was as if he was frozen in place; like he was an emotionless marble statue not a human being at all. Emotions hurt and you could be hurt if you showed them; he had learnt from this, don't show what you feel and no-one can use them against you.
He pulled the clothes out and laid them next to him on the bed gently but the contents of the base of the bag were far more interesting. The first book made shock fill his heart; Grantaire had rescued his Fall of Robespierre. Grantaire knew how special that book was to him and he rescued it. He didn't deserve to have a follower as good as him; but yet Grantaire always seemed to be there no matter how badly he was treated.
After placing his precious book next to him and removing a few more clothes, underneath was a book he had never seen before. The black paint was wearing away in places where it had obviously been rubbed or hit. Big sheets of cream paper filled it along with notes, letters, pamphlets, everything crammed into its battered covers. With trembling hands and a nervous curiosity, Enjolras opened the book. Inside was taped another note addressed to Enjolras. Hello again, I don't want to burden you but in here is everything I treasure. You don't have to read through it … actually I would prefer it if you didn't but I doubt it will stop you. Just keep this safe for me. Goodbye old friend. Enjolras's mind battled again over whether to read or to lock away but eventually the sense of curiosity prevailed again and he examined the first page.
The first painting he found was shocking in itself. The black and grey merged together creating a dismal scene that he recognised as Grantaire's old street, before he moved out that is. Not a single trace of light pierced the work. Red stood out running down the centre of the street. It didn't take a genius to work out that it was supposed to be a river of blood. The red oozed from under the door of the Grantaire household and formed this river. Grey people walked around it but seemingly I noticing of the atrocity around them. If people didn't know Grantaire this painting could easily be classed as republican; but it wasn't it was true. Grantaire always let his emotions flow in his painting. This was how he let emotions out and the horror was displayed clearly. Enjolras felt tears prick at his eyes as he looked. His usual R was swirled in red ink in the corner along with the date; 1812, he painted this horrid scene when he was seven years old. Seven years old, Enjolras gawped at the work. It was obviously talented for a seven year old but he had always been talented; it was more the horrors he had seen. Enjolras turned it over carefully and he recognised the older Grantaire's slanted scrawl. Death of Innocence: RIP Eleanor Grantaire 1807-1812. Tears threatened to flow as the hidden meaning penetrated his mind, a little sister dead;four years old. And he presumed not through normal circumstances. He hurriedly turned the page but this was no better.
The same street was sketched out this time using cheap charcoals instead of the paints on the page previously. But yet on this work there was light. Sat outside the Grantaire household was a boy; a boy shrouded in a halo of brilliant white light. He illuminated everything around him but no one seemed to care but the artist. Dark seemed to radiate from the depressing house and try to crush the light radiating from the young boy. After a few minutes of staring at the painting, it hit him. The figure was him; it was a young Enjolras. He know Grantaire saw him as Apollo but he had never seen his paintings before. Again the signature of a red R stood out in the corner and the date in identical red ink. This one was from a lot later and must have been painted in hindsight. 1823; he would have been eighteen this time. Attached to the back of the painting was an assortment of letters on headed notepaper that Enjolras instantly recognised. It was the Paris-Sorbonne University; the most remarkable art college in France. Monsieur Nicolas Grantaire, we would like to offer you a place at Pais-Sorbonne next year. I look forward to your response, will you please send us a sample of your work. Enjolras flicked over to the next letter in curiosity. The painting you sent us was up to our standards and you have confirmed your place with us, Congratulations. Enjolras couldn't believe that Grantaire would dare turn down a place at Sorbonne. He just couldn't. The page was turned again. Dear Monsieur Grantaire, unfortunately we are not able to offer you a scholarship due the level of income of your family. Our scholarships are reserved for people that otherwise would not be able to come and you do not fit into that category. We look forward to seeing you in September.
Everything was starting to fall into place in Enjolras' mind but the next letter confirmed it. The college is incredibly sorry that you cannot join us this year and hope you will reconsider our offer. We wish you luck with where ever you choose to go, au reviour. Enjolras looked shocked at the letters; he had always blamed Grantaire for being a drop out. The drunkard had never corrected him. Thoughts and guilt raced through his mind; he and Combeferre could easily have paid for his fees, they could have let him move in with them. But yet Grantaire did not accept charity. He was too proud to ask for money or somewhere to live, it was always temporary. This was all his parents fault; they must have refused to give him the money needed when he moved out, so he couldn't go. The crinkle of paper snapped Enjolras out of his thoughts and he found himself crushing the letter in his hand as the anger poured from him. He would not let this go now he knew. He would never be so ignorant again. Never.