Joyeux Anniversaire, Victor Hugo! Attention dear readers! Today (February 26th) is Victor Hugo's 208th birthday. This chapter is my gift to him. I hope he appreciates it, and I hope you do as well.
He sits in his corner each night, as he has done for years. But the glass of wine before him empties slowly as the evening wears on and is never refilled more than once.
His mocking comments punctuate my speech, drawing snickers and disapproving head shakes from the men; I glare at him, though he can surely see the smile in my eyes. His remarks are amusing, calming moments of relaxation inserted amidst my demanding fervor; they are my links to reason, always there to ground me before my ideals carry me away.
When I ask for volunteers to carry out a variety of tasks designed to precipitate our revolution, he responds before any of the others, raising his overlarge hand high in the air.
The first time this occurs, several of the men laugh. "You, Grantaire?" Courfeyrac laughs. "One must care about a cause to fight for it." This master of wit has no snappish comment; he looks ashamed of himself.
I am Apollo. Childish spats between my men do not concern me as long as they accomplish their tasks.
I am Marcellin Enjolras, watching these foolish students bully my only friend for trying to improve himself and the ailing world around him.
"If the Winecask wants to do something useful with his life, gentlemen, by all means, we mustn't discourage him." There is more laughter at my words, but it is quickly followed by silence and the meeting resumes. Grantaire looks at me gratefully; he knows the good intentions behind my harsh words. He knows I cannot speak differently in the presence of my impressionable sheep.
He stays behind after the meetings end. We play wild games of make-believe, imagining living in the world we fought to create. I go over my plans and he listens for impracticalities, correcting them without the sarcasm he must employ at meetings. I work on my school papers while he sketches me. He thinks I do not see, and for a time I do not enlighten him.
The clock is tolling the hour of one. We have not spoken since the last brave student left the meeting, though the silence we share brings more warmth and comfort than the idle chatter of most men. I do not know why I say it; perhaps I am merely tired. "They are quite remarkable."
He looks up, startled by the interruption of our silence. "What are?"
"Your drawings. I only wish I could one day live up to them."
His face turns a blotchy red colour and his mouth opens wordlessly. Finally, he stammers, "When did you see…" but cannot bear to complete the thought.
"You left one on the floor several weeks ago." He turns away, shoving his current piece into his pocket roughly. "Grantaire!" I pull the crumpled paper from his pocket and smooth it on the edge of the table. "I'm flattered, really. To be the favorite subject of one so gifted…"
He looks at me, tears brimming in his eyes full of shame. "You're so beautiful, Apollo. You can't understand what it does to a wastrel like me, sitting in the presence of a hero. I want the world to see you shine, though all these sketches end up in a heap on my filthy floor. I'm sorry. I just don't know how… I'm sorry."
I take his rough face in my hands and turn it toward me. "You will be there, no? When we fight?"
"Of course. But it isn't enough! They have to see-"
"They see the cause, Vivien; that is enough for them."
If I ever look back on this moment I will swear that it was Grantaire who moved first. But I am not sure of this, not sure of anything except that his lips are on mine and I am not pulling away. He is soft and warm and gentle and nothing at all like I would have imagined, had I ever allowed myself to envision this moment before. I am no longer in my chair, but pressing him back against the table. His strong arms pull me closer to him; my face is nestled in his hair and his lips have found my neck.
There is no explosion, none of the violent burst of passion described by schoolboys and cheap novelists. The strongest feeling is a determination, a desire to set things right that I fulfill with each kiss. It is as if we are pressing the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle into place. Our bodies are the edges, seamlessly connecting and completing the broken picture we have always been capable of forming.
We release each other at the same moment, parting as naturally as we began. He stares at me with a look of shock, as if he cannot believe that the marble box encasing my heart has finally disintegrated.
"They see the cause," he whispers, continuing my words from before. "And we see everything else."
I nod.
Somehow, the others do not notice the change in us. I suppose that they have grown used to Grantaire volunteering for tasks and they assume that his desire to sit as part of the group is the natural progression of his newfound faith.
He sits at my table in the center of the room, his intense eyes glistening in the candlelight as he copies down notes on our meetings. He does not drink more than a glass of wine each night; I often finish it with him after the meeting has ended.
They do not see the peace I now feel, for they never knew how tormented I had been. But I am sure that my strengthened spirits have strengthened theirs; the meetings have been once again filled with a sort of determined fervor that I feared was dying out.
Most nights, we end up at my flat, working together to plan our insurrection. He insists that I go to sleep at two o'clock at the latest, claiming that he becomes too tired to work after that hour. I know he is concerned I will make myself ill again.
Just weeks ago, my bed was barely large enough for myself. How is it that it now comfortably accommodates two? We lie close to each other, just close enough to feel the other's presence. We do not kiss- there is enough time for that at the Musain after meetings. I can taste hope in the air as he wraps his arm around me, snoring softly into my hair. In these hours I believe it absurd to think we could lose the upcoming battle. At the barricades, I will lead my friends in the fight for France's freedom. Yet at the same time, Grantaire and I will fight for our freedom, for my freedom.
Soon, the people of France will be free from tyranny, and I will be free from the people of France. They will have to make their own way in the world I have helped them create; Marcellin Enjolras will be too busy living his own life to guide theirs.
It is May 7th, 1832. The men are straining at their reins; they are ready to fight. I am sure that our insurrection will begin within a month.
Our meeting tonight was remarkably productive and encouraging, especially Grantaire's report from the Café Julien, which he visited this afternoon on my behalf. Monsieur Sorel, the barman, has managed to procure double the amount of arms and powder than he had originally promised and his ranks have grown by ten more men.
But none of this is important right now. The meeting is over and Grantaire and I are walking back to my- our- flat. He has draped his arm over my shoulders and is whistling the national anthem. I never thought my personal life could mix with my patriotism; as I listen to his rather tuneless voice, I find that I was very much mistaken.
I turn left down the street that leads home, but find myself stopped by Grantaire, who is standing resolutely at the corner, his hand holding my wrist and his mouth twisted in an impish smile. "We're going this way."
If you want to review my work, I would appreciate it, but more importantly, please take a moment to wish the greatest man who ever walked the earth a happy birthday.
Okay, I know this kinda cuts off. I promise there's more coming, but I just wanted to put this up on the birthday of Victor Hugo.