The first thing Grantaire notices about the man standing on the table is that he is tiny. The second thing he notices is that the man has startlingly violet eyes. Then he notices the long white-blond hair, and ridiculously pale skin, and the way he holds a notebook in his left hand. (Not that Grantaire's staring, though. Honestly, he's not.) He's shouting about something, and there's a group of listening students at his feet. From the looks of them, they're from an assortment of backgrounds. There's a ginger man with paint all over his hands and the sleeves of his button-down, and a slim, fair skinned girl with dark blue hair. (Grantaire thinks it must be dyed, because he's never seen that shade come naturally.) There's a large man with purple bruising around his eye. Grantaire takes them all in before refocusing on the tabletop speaker.
He's the most handsome man that Grantaire has ever seen. Sure, his skin is too pale, and his eyes flick from side to side (involuntarily, it would seem.) as he makes his speech, but still. He's beautiful, all right, but iit's an interesting beauty. It's not classic. Grantaire could stare at him all night, and never get enough.
The man seems to feel his eyes, because he squints in Grantaire's direction, before crouching down on the tabletop to whisper in someone's ear. The man also looks in that direction, and then whispers back. The blond one frowns, and continues to lower into a sitting position. Once he's seated, he continues to stare in Grantiaire's direction, a delicate frown on his face, and Grantaire decides that he has to introduce himself. He stands, but the pale blond hops down from the table, and his friends all exit with him.
That night, Grantaire drinks so much that Musichetta, the owner of the café, lets him crash on her couch above the place, rather than having him drive home with so much alcohol in his system.
He sees the blond two days later, walking down on the street. He's wearing sunglasses, probably to protect his eyes, which in the glimpse that Grantaire caught of them looked very sun-sensitive. He's also clutching a book bag to his chest. A tall man with glasses accompanies him, keeping a hand against the small of his back, almost like he's guiding him. (Later, Grantaire would learn that he was.) Grantaire's heart skips a beat, and he races to catch up.
"I saw your speech in the café," he shouts out as he reaches them. They turn, and the blond has a startled expression on his face. Then he smiles, and his smile makes Grantaire's heart beat against his ribs like a caged bird.
"Oh? Which one?" And Grantaire pauses, because honestly? He's not even sure that he didn't dream it up while he slept off the booze on 'Chetta's couch.
"Uhm…"
"It's alright. I've been told they blur together. Did you enjoy it, at least?" Grantaire freezes, unsure of what else to do. The blond turns to his companion, then turns back. Utterly in awe, Grantaire bobs his head in a shaky nod.
"I-I- yes. I did. I'm Grantaire, by the way."
"Enjolras." Enjolras smiles again. "And this is Combeferre." Combeferre extends a hand to be shaken, which Grantaire accepts nervously.
"We really should be going," Combeferre reminds his friend gently, and Grantaire feels his stomach flop into his toes.
"Oh…see you around, I guess." Enjolras nods.
"See you." And they're gone, just like that. Grantaire stands on that street corner for a moment longer, steadying his heart, before trudging off to his little house on Rue Plumet.
The next time Grantaire sees Enjolras, it's at a party 'Chetta's hosting at the Musain. There's a space that's been cleared for dancing, and Grantiare's in the middle of the dance-floor, boogying with the blue haired girl, (Eponine, she'd called herself.) and drinking plain water for once. His stomach has been rocky all day, and he's not sure that having a beer (or five) will really help him keep down what little he's eaten, and he's not ready to eat any more.
He's still dancing as he heads to the washroom, swinging his hips from side to side, when suddenly, his hip swings into something solid.
"Grantaire!" Damn, but he recognizes that voice. It's Enjolras, wearing a stylish red turtleneck, jeans, and his sunglasses, which are perched on top of his head. His eyes are still twitchy, but he seems able to focus more now that he's looking directly in Grantaire's face.
"Enjolras, hi." It comes out harsher than he'd meant it to, but he's so nervous, standing in front of this god. Enjolras smiles nonetheless, tilting his head. "I've missed you. Didn't see you in here the past few days." It's been more like two weeks, but Grantaire's polite.
Enjolras flushes. "I had an accident with the stairs," he explains. "Or, more like my friend did, and he dragged me down with him. It's nothing. I'm back." He grins. "But what brings a gentleman like yourself here on this evening?"
"I'm friends with 'Chetta." Enjolras's pale eyes go wide.
"No kidding!" he exclaims. "The guy who got me into the accident is dating her." His eyes tick to the side involuntarily again, and as Grantaire watches, he notices that they move constantly. He frowns.
"Is there something wrong with your eyes?" As soon as he says it, he regrets it, but Enjolras just tightens his smile a fraction of an inch and shrugs.
"It's…um…no. Nothing's wrong with them." Grantaire thinks that he sounds annoyed, and he's not surprised. "It's called Nystagmus." He's not smiling anymore. "It's just a vision thing." Grantaire nods.
"So, you're visually impaired?" He asks. (Goddamnit Grantaire, he thinks.) Enjolras nods.
"It's a common occurrence in people with Albinism," he explains, and understanding dawns on Grantaire.
"I didn't mean to be-" he starts. "I mean, I didn't want to sound rude. Sorry." The other man laughs, thankfully, and Grantaire cracks a small smile. "My foot's kind of taken up residency inside my mouth," he jokes.
"It's fine. I get stuff like that all the time." Another smile is directed his way, and then Enjolras has moved off into the crowd.
Grantaire spends the next night researching Albinism. Nothing comes of it, though, and by twelve o'clock, he's reaching for the beer that he promised himself would be left alone. It's getting to be an addiction, but he can't seem to stop. He empties one bottle, and then another, and by the time he's too drunk to hold the bottle anymore, he's worked his way through quite a lot of his stash. (It's not very strong, thank heavens, and he's good at holding his liquor.)
His phone rings, then, and he fumbles for it, fingers weighted, a stupor spreading from his brain all the way down to his toes. The number isn't one he recognizes, and he lets it ring, because hell if he's going to answer in this state. When a text pops up soon after, though, he curses himself. It's Enjolras, and he wants to know if Grantaire will attend their morning meeting. He texts back a quick yes, and silences the phone before letting himself drop into a drunken slumber.
The café is quiet at seven thirty, and Grantiare's grateful, because he barely woke up on time, and his head's pounding. He slumps quietly into a seat and turns his eyes to Enjolras, who spares him a quick smile before turning back to Combeferre. Grantaire sighs, and Musichetta whisks up to the table as if she's been summoned.
"What'll you boys be having?" she asks. Enjolras perches his sunglasses on the top of his head and gives her a glance.
"I'll have a hot chocolate," he requests, and Combeferre gives him a look. "It's too early for coffee." She nods and turns to Combeferre.
"I'll have an iced tea," he requests.
"And you, Grantaire?" He blinks up at her, and she looks down at him. "Grantaire, are you all right?" He nods.
"I'll have a cup of English Breakfast, please," he mutters. She nods and disappears into the kitchen in a flurry of long skirts and short hair. The girl from the night before drops into the seat across from Grantaire.
"Rough night?" she asks, and he nods, because she doesn't look much better herself. Her hair is tangled, and there's a bruise forming under her eye. She's tried to cover it up, but it's still there, only accented by her bright makeup. "I get that. Me too." She pauses, looks down at her hands, and continues. "Thanks for dancing with me last night. I had fun."
"I did, too." He wants to say more, to ask what had happened to her face, but the café door swings open, and the ginger hurries in, followed by the big man with the black eye.
"Feuilly," Enjolras greets. "Bahorel. Nice to see you." Feuilly smiles, and Bahorel grins like a wolf. He's not the kind of guy that Grantiare wants to mess with, regardless of the fact that he's wearing a Team Bella t-shirt.
"If you don't tell me who this strapping young man is, Enjolras, I may just have to take him with me to my lair." The voice comes from behind Grantaire, and makes him jump. He turns, and there's a young man standing there, peering at him from above.
"Courfeyrac, sit down," Enjolras barks, and it sounds too harsh to be coming from his mouth. He sits next to Grantaire, looping an arm casually across Grantaire's shoulders.
"So…" His voice promises mischief, and it makes Grantaire smile, despite the pounding headache, and the gladiators battling in his stomach. (He thinks one of them must be using the sides as a springboard, because pain stabs through it intermittently, and he feels like he might throw up.) "You got a name?"
"Grantaire." It's Enjolras's voice. He looks up, and the man in the seat next to him howls triumphantly. "Are you all right?" Grantaire shrugs.
"So, you're Grantaire," the man howls. "I'm Courfeyrac. It's a pleasure to meet you. Enjolras mentioned you, but we thought you were someone from some online revolution group." He waves a hand dramatically, and Grantaire thinks that he can like the guy, given time. He already likes the look of the man that's followed him.
"I'm Jean," the man says, and Grantaire gives him a genuine smile. With his long auburn braid, cheery grin, and strangely masculine features, there's nothing to dislike about Jean, except maybe his fashion sense, which is already giving Grantaire a headache.
The meeting begins shortly after, and Grantaire is introduced to more and more people. There's a Marius, and a Cosette, and a Joly, and Bossuet. (Grantaire quickly learns that he is the accident prone one.) By the time the meeting is closed, Grantaire's forgotten all about his hangover, thoroughly enjoying the company.
Grantaire misses the next meeting, thanks to the mother of all hangovers. Eponine gives him a call, and he answers, even though he can't remember ever giving her his number.
"Where are you?" is all she asks.
"My house," he answers. "I'm kind of sleeping off a hangover, so if you don't mind…" he lets the thought hang. If she's anything like he thinks she is. She'll hang up and let him get back to his bed. She doesn't though.
"Where do you live?" It's a simple enough question, but Grantaire has to think for a minute before he can remember.
"Uh… 44 Rue Plumet." She laughs.
"You live right near Marius's girlfriend," she exclaims, and she sounds happy enough, but there's a hint of jealousy in her tone. "She's in 55 with her dad." There's silence on her end for a while, and then, just as he's about to hang up, she speaks again. "I'm heading over."
"What?"
"You heard me. I'm heading over. Is there anyone in your house I need to know about?" He grunts.
"Not really. No. Sometimes this guy comes around with a beer and the paper, but he's not here now." She makes a noise before hanging up.
That's how she ends up at his small house two hours later, watching dumb reality shows while he plays with her hair. And that's the beginning of their beautiful friendship.
Grantaire's drunk for the next meeting. His father called that morning, and he's drunk himself into a stupor before Eponine arrives to pick him up. (He thinks he may have texted her, but he can't remember, and his fingers keep fumbling with the buttons now.) She takes one look at him and tries to tuck him into bed, but he insists that he belongs at the meeting. It's no surprise when he botches things.
Enjolras is in the middle of a passionate speech when Grantaire makes his first mistake. "Death is everywhere," he calls from the back of the café, interrupting the fair leader's fury. "We don't try to fight it. Why fight oppression, then? Isn't death just oppression?" The glare Enjolras gives him is cold and disapproving, even as he continues in his speech, and Grantaire sinks back into his chair. But the deed is done.
After the meeting, Enjolras grips his shoulder as he turns to leave. "What was that?" he demands. Grantaire flounders for an answer.
"I'm sorry," he says instead. Enjolras shakes his head.
"I need you not to do that," he says. "There are some people who would agree with those views, use them to hurt us." And Grantaire is horrified, because he has put this god of a man in danger.
"I'm sorry, Apollo." Enjolras stiffens.
"What?" Grantaire shrugs off the hand on his shoulder.
"Nothing."
The next meeting is canceled, on account of Enjolras overworking himself (or so Combeferre says), which leaves Grantaire with nothing to do. He texts Eponine for a while before giving up and watching crummy reality shows for the next hour and a half. It's a full three hours later before Enjolras reaches out to him personally.
He's sitting on his bed, looking through an old photo album when his phone buzzes against his thigh, making him jump. He pulls it out and glances at the screen. There's a simple message.
Enjolras: Help!
Grantaire regards the message for a moment before responding.
Grantaire: What?
Enjolras: Combeferre has me locked in our house. Save me.
Grantaire: Can't you just let yourself out?
Enjolras: I'm with Bahorel. I trust you've noticed our size differences. And he's watching me! 21 Spring St.
Grantaire texts back a quick affirmative that help is on the way before rushing out to his car. The drive to Spring St. is uneventful, Grantaire spills his coffee in the back seat by accident, but everything else seems to be touched by gods for the short drive over. The house is small, larger than Grantiare's, but by no means the largest on the block. Jean is sitting on the porch swing, wearing a monstrosity of a sweater with striped skinny jeans and floral converse. His hair is in a messy bun, and he's scribbling away. He barely glances up when Grantaire reaches the porch steps.
"You're here for Enjolras," he says. Grantaire nods. "Back room. Can't miss it. Red, white and blue door." The man turns back to his writing, and Grantiare realizes that he's not getting any more information from him, so he thanks him and tries the doorknob. It's open, but with a man like Bahorel in the house, he assumes that the inhabitants aren't too worried about attackers.
Speak of the devil, Bahorel's in the kitchen, baking something that smells suspiciously like chocolate chip cookies, and it makes Grantaire feel oddly sad, but he plows on until he reaches the ridiculous door that supposedly belongs to his Apollo. (He's taken to calling him that in his mind, because the man is clearly a god.) He knocks, and Enjolras's voice calls out to him from inside.
Once he's gotten into the room and closed the door behind him, Grantaire gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lights. Enjolras watches him the entire time, illuminated softly by the light that glows over his shoulder.
"It's dark in here." Grantaire mentally slaps himself the moment the words leave his mouth.
"You can turn up the lights. I don't care." Enjolras shifts around in his chair and twists a knob on the lamp behind his desk, and the glow brightens. He squints against it, turning back to Grantaire. "So, I assume you got my texts." Grantaire nods.
"Uh-huh." Enjolras laughs.
"That was a stupid question, wasn't it?"
(No! Nothing you ever say could be stupid!) "Yeah, I guess." Grantaire shuffles his feet and looks at the floor. "What was it you needed me for?" Enjolras shrugs.
"Company." The word is casual enough, but Grantaire thinks for a moment that Enjolras is mocking him. "No, really," the man says. "I want company. I'm not allowed to leave, and there's no way Bahorel won't catch me if I try to sneak out-Yes even with you!"
Grantaire bites his lip, thinking. "I guess I can stay," he says slowly. "For how long?" Enjolras shrugs again and gestures for him to have a seat on the (red, white, and blue) bed.
Three days later, Enjolras is deemed fit for outings again, (Who is Combeferre to make these decisions, Grantaire wonders.) and the group of friends is gathered around a table at the Musain. Musichetta bustles around them, refilling coffee cups, or ruffling hair. Grantaire has to reach up more than once to fix his steadily tangling curls. Enjolras has long since tied his hair back, and Grantiare thinks that the contrast of black on white is fascinating. He doesn't realize that he's begun to stare until Eponine nudges him in the ribs.
"What'cha lookin' at?" she mock-whispers. Grantaire nudges her back, and it turns into an all out nudge-fest. Before long, both of them are gasping for air, laughing loudly. Enjolras glares at them from his seat, but there's nothing cold about the look. It's a playful glare, like the ones that Bahorel likes to send around the little group.
Laughter, it seems, is contagious, because Jean ("Please, call me Jehan!") is laughing, too, watching them wrestle each other. He plays with the Cosette girl's hair, plaiting and un-plaiting it, humming tunelessly to himself.
"Yeah, what are you looking at?" Courfeyrac's voice from behind makes Grantaire jump. (When doesn't it, really?) The man has looped an arm around his shoulders, holding a fistful of Grantaire's green sweater for support. Grantiare shrugs him off.
"Nothing, now," he says, and it's not really a lie, but Courfeyrac is the master of wheedling information out of people, and Grantaire figures that the object of his gaze won't remain secret for long.
"Was it Enjolras?" And, damn, is Courfeyrac good at this, he thinks, flushing with embarrassment. "Ooh! It was!" Grantaire pushes him away. He feels guilty. He doesn't know why he's so fascinated by Enjolras. It isn't love. (He knows what love feels like, and it doesn't feel like this.) It isn't even major like. There's just something about the man that fascinates him, beyond his physical appearance. He's bold, and brave, and he believes, something that Grantaire has never been able to do himself. He's a shining example of what a young leader should be.
"So what if it was?" Grantaire hisses, turning to fix Courfeyrac with a glower. (If looks could kill, he muses, Courfeyrac would be dead.) To his great annoyance, the Irishman merely laughs, eyes twinkling merrily. "Does it matter?" Okay, maybe he should let it drop, but he's starting to get defensive.
"Not at all."
"What color is your shirt?" Grantaire freezes, giving Eponine a long stare.
"Are you drunk?" he asks.
"No, but I'm starting to think that you might be," she hisses. "Look at your shirt!" He looks down, eyes focusing on the pink and yellow monstrosity that is his shirt.
"I…it isn't that bad," he cries out, flailing his hands. "It's…it's artistic."
"Artistic, my ass," Eponine snarls. "Who picked it out? Jehan?" Grantaire frowns.
"No. It's one of mine." He turns up hin nose in mock-offense, and Eponine laughs, running a hand through her hair. (The blue is faded, somewhat, and she's colored bits of it black with a sharpie.)
"It's pretty damn ugly." Grantaire shrugs, because there's no way she's changing her opinion any time soon, and he's not the kind of guy who tries to make people think like him. (Besides, the shirt is pretty damn ugly, now that he's looking at it again.)
Bossuet isn't at the next meeting, or if he is, Grantaire doesn't see him. It's surprising when he sends out a group text, asking for a shoulder to cry on. Even though Grantaire's only known him for a month, he volunteers, hopping into his car almost as soon as he sends an answering text.
Bossuet doesn't look good when he answers the door. He's pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and there are tear tracks down his cheeks. He stares at Grantaire for a moment before bursting into tears.
"'Chetta says it's over," he chokes out as soon as he gets a breath. Grantaire sighs, grasping the man by the arms and leading him to the small couch. "She doesn't feel anything for me anymore. She and Joly-" He breaks off, leaning into Grantaire's shoulder. "I-I'm sorry. You don't really know me. You probably don't care. It's just, there's no one else who's not busy right now, and Enjolras said he'd come over, but then Combeferre left, and he's legally not allowed to drive, and Bahorel's out, and…" The words die, and Grantaire lets him sink into a sort of exhausted silence, save for the occasional hitching breath, or quiet sob. It's been at least half an hour before he decides to speak.
"I don't know you," he begins. "But I do care. You're a bright man, and whatever 'Chetta's deal is, it's not about you, I'm sure." He makes a mental note to ask her about this, because he's sure that Bossuet didn't do anything to hurt her. He doesn't think that the man is capable of it. Bossuet looks at him tearfully, gives him a small smile, and then shows him the door. They don't talk like that again, but they sit together at the next meeting, and Bossuet buys him a drink.
Two entire months pass in a blur, and suddenly it's fall. School is starting up again, and Grantaire hardly sees any of his new friends. He spends most of his time holed up in his room, (He's moved in with the others.) hiding from the sea of textbooks and sweaters. (Those are courtesy of Combeferre and Jehan, who seem to have a hobby of knitting Franken-Sweaters.) Sometimes, Eponine stops by just to say a quick hello, but she's working multiple jobs, trying to provide for her little siblings. Mostly, she just leaves Gavroche and Azelma at the house and rushes off to a shift. Mostly, it's just him, all alone.
The knock on the door makes him jump, and he calls out quickly for the person to come in. That person is Feuilly, who looks exhausted, and quickly shuts the door behind him.
"It's a mad house," he murmurs to no one in particular. Grantaire snorts.
"Tell me about it." Grantaire drums his fingers on his knee. Feuilly tilts his head at him. "I mean, I'm getting overwhelmed, and I'm not even taking any classes." The redhead nods.
"I get that," he says after a pause. "I almost didn't get my scholarship this year, and even when I did, I almost didn't want to go back." The news comes as a surprise to Grantiare. Feuilly seems so hard working, so dedicated to his art.
"Really?"
"Yeah. I can't afford this shit." He laughs bitterly, and Grantiare feels sorry for him. "I'm lucky to be here at all." He lowers his eyes.
"C'mon," Grantaire says. "You know in your soul that isn't true. You're here because you deserve it." Feuilly fixes him with an intense stare.
"I'm a ginger," he stage whispers. "I don't have a soul!"
When Enjolras's classes start, he all but disappears into his room. Grantiare finds him there more than once, asleep at his desk, CCTV still enlarging his neat handwriting, as well as the black ribbon that holds back his hair. (Probably courtesy of Jehan.) He turns it off, shakes the revolutionary awake, and pushes him toward the bed.
On one such occasion, Enjolras is awake when Grantaire peeks around the door, but everything's shut off, including the lights.
"Headache," is all he says when Grantiare asks. "Bad one." He starts to stand up, and tumbles into the taller man's outstretched arms. "Oh." He gives a tired chuckle. "Sorry. I don't think I can stand anymore." Grantiare doesn't say anything, shifting Enjolras so that he's laying bridal style in his arms.
"When was the last time you had something to drink?" Enjolras frowns up at him. "When's the last time you ate?"
"Uhh…" Enjolras shakes his head sleepily.
"That's it." Grantaire takes off toward the kitchen, Enjolras little more than a dead weight. At the bottom of the stairs, he drops the revolutionary into Bahorel's lap, (The hell, man?) and fixes a bagel and a cup of cold water.
"He's not going to eat that," Bahorel warns. "He might spit it out on you." But he pushes Enjolras into a sitting position to let Grantaire feed him. Enjolras, to his credit, doesn't spit the bagel out, but he does make an unhappy noise when he's finished it. He drinks the water more willingly, and even lets Grantaire tuck him into a corner of the couch, wrapped up in a blanket. Grantaire pretends not to notice when the man's head falls onto his shoulder as he drifts off.
"You know, I think you're the only one I've never really talked to," Grantaire says, staring across the table at Jehan, who raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"Really?" is all he says, sipping his iced tea.
"Yeah, really." Grantaire laughs. "I've even talked to Cosette and Marius more than you. What's your deal?" Jehan shrugs, looking down at the table.
"Not much," he murmurs. "Nothing that you don't already know about. I'm 21. I'm majoring in History of Dance. I like gardening and knitting Franken-sweaters." He pauses and gives Grantaire a poisonous look. "Yes, I heard about that little nickname. Anyway, that's me." A smile lights up his face. "Oh! I got you something!" he cries. "A little bird told me your birthday's coming up, and we…um…I thought it might be nice to give you a gift, because…here!" Jehan shoves a small box into Grantiare's hands, ignoring his shocked expression. "Open it."
Grantaire picks at the wrapping for a bit before tugging on the edge of the colorful paper. It comes undone fairly easily, revealing a small, wooden box. Inside of the box is a ring with an absinthe green stone.
"We each have one," Jehan explains, holding out his own hand, where a ring with a purple stone is displayed proudly. Grantiare feels tears burn his eyes.
"I don't know what to say." And he doesn't. This is so much more than anyone's ever done for him. Jehan just smiles and leans back in his chair, looking for the entire world like he's the one who just received a gift.
The first month and a half of school pass quickly, and even though Grantiare's only taking a free drama class at the community theatre two blocks away, he finds himself glad to have the distraction. At twenty-three, life really isn't getting any easier for him. He wakes up most times with no recollection of entire nights, something that he blames entirely on the alcohol. (It's definitely an addiction, now.) Enjolras is only getting more infuriating, now that he lives with the man.
When he's not practicing monologues, he's watching the Apollo from various corners of various rooms, something that everyone has taken note of. Even Gavroche pokes him in the side more than once and giggles about his obsession. (Which, Grantiare is sad to admit, isn't all that inaccurate.)
"What are you looking at?" This time, it's Enjolras who asks him. Grantiare jumps, thinking he's been caught, and then he realizes that with Enjolras's weak eyesight, there's no way he'd be able to see the direction his eyes are pointed in.
"Jehan's Halloween decorations," he lies. Enjolras turns and squints in that direction instead.
"Oh." When he turns back, he's smiling. "Cool. I want to go for a walk." He announces. "Now, you can either get me my cane, or you can come with me." Grantaire wastes no time in rushing to the blond's side. "Well." Enjolras laughs, and Grantiare laughs with him, because his laughter is contagious. "Come on, then."
They end up walking all the way down to the river, where Enjolras pouts because Grantaire is being sensible, for once, and doesn't want either of them anywhere near a boat. They eat ice cream and talk for nearly an hour before Combeferre calls them frantically, asking if either of them have seen Jehan. Neither of them have, but it's late, so they head back to the house.
They find Jehan, nearly three days later. Aparrently, he as a habit of sneaking off when he's under pressure, and doing things he enjoys, like going to a play, or sometimes, a concert. Grantaire doesn't quite get the concept, but he's okay with it, because Jehan's never been hurt.
Combeferre is a different story. He's livid by the time Jehan returns, cursing him out, even slapping him. It's frightening, because Combeferre is normally so levelheaded, and now he's screaming and cursing. Grantiare locks his door and turns his music up as loud as it will go.
After twenty minutes, the shouting dies down, and there's a knock on his door. Grantaire sighs, heaving himself up to go unlock it. As soon as he does, Eponine slips into the room, carrying her purse and a large bottle of apple cider.
"Can I come in?" she asks, quite pointlessly, because she's already inside. Grantaire nods and steps aside so she can fully enter. She flops onto his partially made bed. "Wanna drink?" Grantaire shakes his head.
"I'm good." She smiles and takes a sip.
"Your loss. It's delicious." She leans back, letting her blue ponytail fall across his pillow. Her hair is faded even more now, and against his garish orange pillow, it looks like something out of the ocean. He studies it for a bit, and then studies her.
"Have you ever considered letting Feuilly paint you?"
"What?" Eponine sits up, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm serious," he says. "You're gorgeous." Eponine laughs.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she says. "But no."
Combeferre gets into a car accident on all Hallows eve, which leaves the house in a sort of stunned silence, save for the occasional laments from the friends.
"It should have been me," Bossuet murmurs quietly as they wait in the hospital corridor. "It's always me." Grantaire pats him on the back, and he looks surprised. "I didn't think anyone could hear," he explains, cheeks going a bit pink.
"How could this have happened?" Enjolras is furious, of course, glaring around the group. "How?" And beneath the fury is genuine fear, for if Enjolras is the leader, then Combeferre must be the guide, and Courfeyrac the heart, for even as everyone wallows in their misery, he smiles reassuringly at all of them. Once, when no one is looking, Grantaire sees him wiping away tears.
Eponine is paler than Grantiare thought possible. Her skin is almost as pale as Enjolras's, and there's sweat shining on her brow. She twists her hair over and over around her finger. More often than not, her eyes are squeezed shut. Next to her, Gavroche has grabbed a fistful of her skirt, and stands there, clinging to it.
A nurse comes by after what seems like days (It's probably been about three hours.) to tell them that they can go in two at a time. Enjolras volunteers to go first, along with Courfeyrac. Both of them leave looking quite pale, but they're smiling a little.
"He's going to be all right," Enjolras announces, but his voice cracks, betraying how worried he really is. He's got a hand pressed to his stomach, a gesture that Grantaire has learned means he's going to be sick in the near future. Courfeyrac notices, too, and with a few soft words, he leads the revolutionary away.
Grantaire follows them. He isn't sure why, exactly, so he says it's out of guilt. But there's a boiling pot of concern and anger bubbling in his chest, and it won't go away by just standing there, so he follows. He waits outside of the bathroom, just to the left of the door, waiting until Courfeyrac opens it, supporting a trembling Enjolras.
"Is he okay?"
"Jesus Christ!" Courfeyrac whips his head around, alarm clear in his eyes. "Don't do that, Grantaire!"
"Is he?" Grantaire knows that he sounds desperate, and he doesn't care anymore. "Is he all right?"
"I'm fine," Enjolras rasps from Courfeyrac's side. "I just need to go home now." Grantiare frowns.
"I'll take you," he offers. Enjolras turns bleary violet eyes to him.
"Thank you."
Enjolras is surprisingly good the entire way back to Spring Street. He leans his head on Grantaire's chest as they sit in the back of the bus. Every so often, he lets out a little sigh, or a groan, and then Grantaire lets him sit up and curl in on himself until the nausea passes, and then allows him to rest his head again.
Before ten minutes pass, Enjolras is asleep, and Grantiare finds himself stroking the man's hair. It's really quite soft, and it looks so pale in the dim lighting, just like the rest of him. So white, it's almost transparent. He looks like an angel, with his eyes closed, and his arms hugging his stomach. When the bus finally reaches their stop, he feels almost guilty about waking Apollo up.
"What is it?" Enjolras asks sleepily. They walk to the fornt, where the stairs are, and Enjolras struggles. He almost misses the steps of the bus, and Grantaire grasps him firmly by the elbow. "Thanks."
"Be careful," Grantaire warns, fully aware that if his legally blind companion falls, it will be his fault. Enjolras just stands there, breathing deeply.
"Shit," he murmurs. "I don't…I can't…um…" Grantiare understands, helping him down the stairs. In the dim light, Grantaire can barely see the flush to his companion's cheeks.
"Don't be embarrassed," he murmurs, gripping Enjolras's shoulders. Enjolras shakes his head.
"I'm fine," he says. His voice breaks, though, and it's a harsh sound, cutting into the calm façade that he's clearly put up. "I just…I'm not usually like this, you know."
"I know."
Enjolras shakes his head. "No you don't," he says. "But thanks." He's flushing an even darker red, and he bites down on his lip. Grantaire frowns.
"Let's get you home, okay?"
Surprisingly, Enjolras doesn't put up a fight as Grantaire bundles him into bed, merely squirming under the covers and pulling them up to his chin. Cosette hovers by the doorway as Grantaire turns out the lights, biting her lip and frowning.
"Is he okay?" she asks. Grantaire nods.
"He's fine," he says. "He just got a little stressed." Cosette nods.
"Let me guess," she murmurs. "He threw up." Grantaire gives a little shrug.
"He's also tired, I think." The woman makes a small noise. "Why didn't you come along?" Large blue eyes fix on his, and Cosette smiles sadly.
"Marius is strong," she murmurs. "He doesn't need me there. He'd ask if he did." Grantaire shrugs, letting his eyes travel over Cosette. She holds herself protectively, now that it's just the two of them standing there, talking in hushed voices. She looks very much like a frightened bird, one that's still learning to spread its wings. Grantaire frowns at her for a while, thinking.
"You're very loyal," he says after a minute has passed in careful silence. Cosette nods. "Is that what it is to be in love?"
"You're very forward," she says, blinking at him. "Maybe too forward." She pauses, regarding him calmly. "But I think I like you." Grantaire gives her a mock bow.
"I do my best, Madame," he says, and Cosette actually giggles.
"Not yet."
Three days later, Jehan cuts all of his hair off. Grantaire finds him on the floor of the downstairs bathroom at four in the morning, crying silently, holding his head in his hands. "What've I done?" he says to himself, over and over, and Grantaire resists the urge to place a hand on his back, because there's clearly something wrong with him, so he just runs to get Bahorel, and then tracks down Eponine.
He finds her leaning against a wall, with a tall, dark haired man leaning over her. From what Grantaire can see of him, he's got olive skin and a handsome face. He's wearing a torn leather jacket and a surly expression though. Grantaire thinks that he doesn't like the man.
"Eponine," he says. Part of him wonders if it's just to disturb her and that man. In any case, they jump apart. Eponine runs a hand through her hair, and the man straightens his jacket.
"Grantaire!" Eponine sounds breathless. It's the airlessness of guilt, but as far as Grantaire can tell, they haven't been doing anything wrong. They're just two young adults, saying goodbye after a night out. "Grantaire, this is Montparnasse."
"Nice to meet you," Grantaire mutters out of politeness. Really, he'd rather be back with Jehan.
"Same to you," Montparnasse says in return, bowing his head slightly. He's got one of those smooth voices that make Grantaire gag. Instead of focusing on the voice, Grantaire focuses on Eponine.
"We've got a problem," he murmurs. "Jehan's cut off all of his hair. Bahorel's with him." Eponine's eyes go wide.
"Oh my God." She whispers something to Montparnasse, who slinks into the shadows, before grabbing Grantaire by the collar and pulling him toward the house. "What the hell is happening back there?" she demands. "I leave for two fucking hours, and someone's destroyed their hair? What the hell is wrong with you people?" But there's no fire behind it. She's worried, just like everyone else.
Eponine in a fit is a sight to behold. She dumps Grantaire's sorry ass at the door and races off to find Jehan. Grantaire hears her cooing sweet nothings to him almost as soon as he reaches the bathroom door. Bahorel stands guard, arms crossed sternly.
"What's going on?" Grantaire asks. Bahorel frowns.
"He's in a bad way," the larger man says, and if it weren't so serious, Grantaire would laugh. (Doesn't he always?) "This is the second time he's done this. It's best to leave him be. Eponine will watch over him, and when Feuilly gets home from the late shift, he'll take care of him." Grantaire nods at the man's words.
"That's good," he says, because he feels that he has to say something. Bahorel smiles softly.
"I hope you're right."
Jehan seems barely to be present in the next week. Grantaire, though not overly fond of the poet, thinking him rather harsh for a romantic, finds himself worried. He's used to a certain presence from the man, and now there's none, like a lapse in summer, when all fades to that grey area that is not quite fall. There's something unsettling about it.
Grantaire stops passing by Jehan's room. In fact, he tries to avoid the poet at all costs, avoiding his dead grey eyes, and is pale face. He avoids the tall, thin frame, and the sloppily cut hair. Sometimes, he feels eyes on the back of his head, and when he turns, he sees those eyes staring back at him.
On one such occasion, the owner of the voice speaks to him. His voice is dull and monotone as he asks him a simple question. Grantaire drinks that night, so much that he can't walk the next morning. Never having felt threatened by the man before, he's now unsettled by his cropped locks, and his hard features. He looks every bit the tragic villain from a bad novel.
Feuilly and Bahorel are constant companions to the wilting plant that is Jean Prouvaire. Joly flits around like a little butterfly whenever he's home long enough to have time for fretting. Grantaire sees him more than once wringing his hands, talking to Bossuet in a soft murmur. Despite that Grantaire envies him, because he keeps a smile on his face, even in the presence of the dying poet.
Yes, Grantaire thinks that the poet is dying. He's seen it before, lights going out with no reason for it. Enjolras has seen it, too. He can tell by the way their leader never smiles anymore when he's with Jean. It's like he's already picking out the funeral flowers. Even Jean can feel it, Grantaire thinks. He finds him once, lying on the grass, staring up at the sky. If it weren't for the rise and fall of his chest, Grantaire would think him a dead man already.
"We've got to do something," Feuilly cries. The man's been hiding himself away, and now that he's there, in the open, Grantaire can see the hurt and pain visible in every inch of his body. He's hunched over, hugging his midsection like he's got a stomachache. His amber eyes are shiny with something like tears. "He's slipping away from us again."
Grantaire frowns, but for once, he knows when to hold his tongue. Leaning back into his chair, he shares a look with Eponine, who shakes her head slightly.
"There's nothing we can do," murmurs Enjolras, and his voice is the softest Grantaire's ever heard it. "This has happened before. All we can do is ride it out." He sighs, looking for the entire world like he's praying for a miracle.
"And then what?" Everyone turns guiltily. Jehan stares back at them from the door. "You'll pick out my funeral flowers? You'll call the priest so I can confess my sins?" He laughs heartlessly. "Dear Lord, I confess to having loved another man. Dear Lord, I confess to having..." He stops, still staring at them all. "It's my birthday tomorrow," he says softly. There's no venom in his words. He sounds exhausted.
Courfeyrac stands. "Jehan, please," he murmurs. "Don't be like this." He starts to move toward the man, but he starts away.
"I'm not a child!" he shouts, and his voice breaks on the last word. He's crying, and Grantaire knows he should be worried, but it's less frightening than the empty well that has been Jehan in the past week. "I'm not a stupid, blubbering little girl, who's lost her mother in the supermarket! I'm a grown man, and none of you can see that!" Courfeyrac starts toward him again, and the sound of palm meeting cheek cracks through the silence.
"Enough." Enjolras's voice is soft. "Both of you stop." They do, surprisingly. Jehan sinks down the wall, and Courfeyrac takes his seat. "Yes, Jehan," he begins. "You are very much a man, as well as a poet, and a romantic, and a good friend. We have no reason to doubt that you are strong, but you can't expect us not to worry. We almost lost Combeferre. We can't lose you." He turns to face the rest of the room, and there's a fire in his eyes that's been lost for a while.
"The times are hard," he cries out. "Not only for us, but for everyone. We are very fortunate to have each other. Not everyone can boast of such friends as these! However, in these trying times, things like this can tear us apart. Two weeks ago, Combeferre was struck by a car on his way to work. Jehan, you've fallen apart in a way we've only seen once before. Feuilly, you almost gave up on yourself, despite the fact that there is so much inside of you that is worth fighting for. I've doubted my ability to stay strong without my guide. Combeferre is my friend, and without him, I am as lost as the rest of you. But we can't let any of this destroy us."
A tear slides down his pale cheek, and he stares out at all of them with his soft, unsteady gaze. "I love you all," he whispers. "I can't let this be torn apart. We can't let this be torn apart." The silence that stretches on is painful, and then Cosette begins to applaud. Marius wraps his arm around Courfeyrac, and Bahorel pulls Jehan to his feet. In moments, all of them are standing, reaching out to each other in some way. Grantaire slips silently out the door. Moments like these are not for him to enjoy.
Combeferre returns from the hospital with little fuss. He's not very steady, but the house seems lighter with him there. Jehan disappears for a week, but then he pops back in, and Grantaire watches the doctor in training quietly berate the man, and then he watches Combeferre plant a soft kiss on the poet's forehead. That's when he turns away. Even drunk, he has enough respect to know that some things aren't for him to see.
Eponine's moved away with Gavroche and Azelma, apparently staying with that Montparnasse fellow, but she spends a lot of time tucked into the corner of the Musain with a cup of coffee, chatting to Grantaire about her life. Her hair has faded almost completely, and it's a strange greenish color. She tells him that she wants to dye it back to blonde, but she doesn't have the time, or the money, what with taking care of her siblings and all. Grantaire wishes that he could say something smart to that. (When has he ever said anything smart, he thinks.)
Once, as they're sitting in a booth, sipping their beers, Musichetta comes and sits on the edge of the table.
"How's it going?" she asks, and both of them shrug. Her smile softens, and she takes each of their hands in her own. "Oh, sweeties." Grantaire stares at her hand for a moment, at the olive skin, and the red fingernail polish before staring at her face.
"You look nice," he blurts. She laughs, scooping up his beer in one hand.
"You're done for the night," she says, and with a kiss to the top of each of their heads, she's gone.
It's not fair, Grantaire thinks, staring out of his little window at the backyard. It's really not fair. For once, he has something beautiful, something that he can share in, and he's fucked it up again.
He didn't mean for it to go that way, honestly. He'd only wanted to have a little fun, and in his drunken state, fun was not a concept that had many boundaries. Calling out little jokes and puns and phrases while his Apollo spoke had seemed like a good idea.
Now, as he watches them celebrate on the lawn, he realizes that it could have gone better. It could not have gone worse. There are things that are not for him, and happiness is one of those things, he supposes, watching Combeferre give Enjolras a tight hug. Hell rages in his skull, and he tips back his fourth beer of the night, letting the drink hit his stomach.
"Grantaire?" Light pours in from the hallway, and Eponine's voice carries over the darkness. "Grantaire, I know you're drinking in there." Grantaire doesn't have the energy to look guilty. He just hands her the bottle and goes back to staring out of the window. "Grantaire, what happened?" He turns watery eyes on her. She's got a bit of bruising across her neck, and she looks tired.
"'Ponine." It's about all he can manage before he breaks into tears. The door shuts with a bang as the woman rushes to comfort him, her arms going around him in a protective circle.
"Shh," she comforts. "Everything's gonna be okay. You'll see." Her fingers thread through his hair as she hums something that sounds suspiciously like All I Ask Of You. Before he knows it, Grantaire finds himself falling asleep.
"Ow! Shit! Fucking-oh holy crap, ow!" Grantaire starts awake to the sound of angry yelling in the hall. (Whoever said noise doesn't wake a drunk must have been drunk themself, he figures.) Still, he heaves his tired body out of bed (When did he get there?) and makes his way into the hall.
"What's going on?" he calls. There's another bang, and then Feuilly shouts back,
"Bahorel dropped my desk on his foot!" Grantaire chuckles and pushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. (He really should cut it. It's getting past his ears.) From the room directly across from Grantaire, Combeferre stumbles into the doorway, rubbing sleepily at his eyes and pushing his glasses up his nose simultaneously.
"Stop swearing," he mumbles. Behind him, Jehan peers around his arm. His eyes are shadowed from lack of sleep, (It's been one of the bad nights, Grantaire assumes.) but he's smiling at his friend's misfortune.
"Where's Bossuet?" he jokes. There's another loud swear and then,
"Prouvaire? What're you doing here?" Jehan laughs a bit.
"I'm staying with 'Ferre, remember? Just for a few days." There's a silence as Bahorel thinks and then he makes some comment about how it's too early in the morning and continues to move the desk. Jehan disappears back into Combeferre's room, and the man himself pushes past the people scattered through the hall, presumably to make himself a coffee and then rush off to class.
Grantaire wastes no time in catching up to him. "I'm really sorry about what I did," he mumbles, studying the ground rushing past his feet as they walk.
"I know you are," the taller man says. "And I think Enjolras knows it, too." He fixes Grantaire with a curious expression. "But why apologize to me?" Grantaire shrugs.
"I'm not sure," he says, and that's probably the worst lie he's ever told this man. He's apologizing here because he is afraid. He's afraid that Enjolras hates him, and that he'll never speak to him again. He's afraid that he'll have to go back to 45 Rue Plumet, which is as bad as bad can get. He's afraid that he'll have to leave behind everything he's gained here.
"Bullshit," Combeferre murmurs. Then his tone softens into something else entirely. "But it's none of my business. Be gentle with Enjolras. Apologize." He pushes ahead of Grantaire and rounds the corner into the kitchen. Grantaire pushes back up the stairs and locks himself in his room.
"Fucking hell!" The shout makes Grantaire jump, and he wonders for a moment who's funeral he's going to be attending, before Eponine storms into his bedroom, soaking wet and hugging herself like she's going to tear apart.
"What's going on?" he asks, and she glares at him, eyes shining with what looks suspiciously like tears. "Seriously, 'Ponine. Sit." She doesn't, but she does flail her arms a bit, and water drips off of them, emphasizing how wet she is. "Oh, sorry. I'll…uhm…I'll find you something clean to wear." Nervously, Grantaire searches through his dresser for something that Eponine can wear. He settles on dark pajama bottoms that haven't been worn since he bought them, and a shirt that may once have said Iron Man on it.
"I'll go change in the bathroom," she says, ducking out before he can offer to wait in the hall. When she comes back, she looks a little less waterlogged, but still shaken up.
"What happened?" he asks. She shakes her head.
"Montparnasse," she begins, "is such an ass." Grantaire raises an eyebrow.
"Called it," he murmurs.
"What?" Eponine's voice rises in pitch, and Grantaire quickly backtracks.
"Uh…what's going on, exactly?" he asks.
"'Parnasse got kicked out of school," she says. "And it wouldn't be a problem, except that he got angry, and he broke a ton of shit in our place." She wipes away the tears that have begun to fall, biting her lip for a moment. Grantaire reaches out and takes her hand in his own. "I don't even think I've got two plates left in the entire…" she trails off, lowering her head to stare at the ground, and Grantaire's thumb rubs soothing patterns against the back of her hand.
"Ignore him," he murmurs. "He's a worthless little shit, and the only thing he can do is be violent." Here, he pauses, lost in his own thoughts. He remembers his father, who used to break things when he was angry. He'd never hit Grantaire, but even now, he shudders at the thought of him. "Some people are like that, you know."
Eponine looks up, fixing him with a glassy chocolate stare. "I know." At a loss for what to do, Grantaire leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. She smiles up at him, and while the occasional tear still makes its way down her cheek, all she seems to be is sleepy and content. Murmuring something about Gavroche being downstairs, she allows Grantaire to tuck her into his bed. Just this once, he doesn't mind sleeping on the couch.
Winter sets on fast, and Grantaire finds himself without heating. So does Eponine, and she and her boyfriend bring the kids over more than once. Despite all of Eponine's kind words about him, Grantaire can't help but dislike Montparnasse. He's the pretty-boy kind, all dolled up with nowhere to go. (Kind of an evil Courfeyrac, he muses.) Most of his time, from what Grantaire can gather, is spent moping around on various couches, watching various TV programs.
Enjolras doesn't like him much, either. Grantaire can tell. Every time the man comes over, the revolutionary locks himself away, pretending that he has homework to do, or speeches to write. Sometimes, Grantaire joins him, but something's been pushed between them. Conversations are heated, silences icy.
Eponine pleads with them all to give him a chance. He's nice, she says. He's gentle with the kids, and honest, and good. Grantaire hears him talking on the phone once. He's neither honest nor good. Once, they're left alone together for five minutes. Montparnasse doesn't make eye contact. Instead, he whistles some rock song medley for the duration of their company. Grantaire sits on the kitchen counter, legs dangling down, staring into the handsome face, trying to make a map from the lines.
Montparnasse looks funny, Grantaire thinks. His nose is long and straight, his eyes a strange greenish color. His hair is dark, pulled into a low ponytail. His lips are red and chapped, as though he's been biting them. His eyebrows are forever pulled into a look of extreme disdain, and his cheekbones are sharp enough to cut glass.
Grantaire feels no burning desire to get to know him, despite Eponine's soft pleas for everyone to get along. She sits on 'Parnasse's lap, enfolded in his arms, glaring out at them all as they sit in stony silence. Her fingers thread through Montparnasse's long black curls, and if she appears his guardian angel, he looks like Satan himself, his lips twisted into an approximation of a smile, his hands wrapped around her wrists like talons. She never shows any discomfort with him, though, only with the others who scorn his name.
"I'm sorry." Grantaire hovers at the doorway to Enjolras's room, watching the blond man try to rearrange his bookshelf. He's being ignored, he thinks, and rightly so.
"Excuse me?" Enjolras turns, one hand coming to rest on his hip.
"You heard me." Grantaire lowers his head. Enjolras rolls his eyes.
"Yes," he says. "I did." He pauses, looking up through his lashes and smiling softly. "You are forgiven, I think." He turns back to the shelf. "Now, what do you think? Should it go in alphabetical order by author, or by title?"
Grantaire doesn't think that forgiveness could ever feel so wonderful as this.
"Are you in love?" Courfeyrac's so close Grantaire can feel his warm breath against the back of his neck. He starts up violently, almost ramming his head into the man's chin.
"What?"
Courfeyrac takes the seat across from him, smiling. "With Enjolras," he clarifies. Grantaire shakes his head.
"No."
"I thought that was the case," the Irishman says. "You're very easy to read, Grantaire." He smiles again, tilting his head at the man.
"You must be a very good reader," Grantaire teases before he can think about what he's saying. Courfeyrac laughs.
"So I've been told," he muses. "So I've been told." They laugh, and then there's a sort of comfortable silence, the kind that isn't off-putting so much as unusual. Grantaire takes a drink of his coffee. Courfeyrac rubs his hands together as though he's warming them. He's shivering a bit. Grantaire wonders why he hadn't noticed it before.
"Are you cold?" he asks. Courfeyrac shakes his head.
"No, why?"
"You're shaking."
Coufreyrac looks down at his hands, and then traces his eyes back to Grantaire's.
"I'm a little frazzled, that's all." He laughs, and the sound is humorless. "I get that way, sometimes. I'll be fine." He rubs his hands together again before beginning to rub at his thighs viciously. Grantaire doesn't know what to do, because Courfeyrac always seems so happy and carefree. Now he's glancing around nervously, and his fingers are twitching every so often.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. Of course I am." Courfeyrac smiles at him, and the gesture makes his eyes go all crinkly, so Grantaire can tell that he means it. He stands. "I'm going to go get another cup of coffee."
Montparnasse stares at Grantaire from his perch on the porch swing. Grantaire stares back. He's leaning back against the railing of the porch, ignoring the way the wooden rods stick into his spine. Idly, he picks at a splinter that's stuck itself through his thumb, though without his eyes on it, he's pretty sure that all he's doing is driving it further into the appendage, which will probably give Joly a heart attack.
"You've been friends with Eponine for how long?" Montparnasse's voice is soft, accented in a way that Grantaire is not familiar with.
"Uhm…" The question was forward, and Grantaire is not entirely sure how he's supposed to answer it. "A couple of months, I guess." He lets his gaze drift a little. "Why do you ask?"
Montparnasse shrugs. "You seem…how do you say it?" He pauses for a moment. "Close. You are very close with each other."
"Fuck! Watch it, Eponine!" The yell comes from inside of the kitchen. Grantaire, who's been hovering in the hallway for the better part of five minutes, decides he'd best check it out. He creeps down the hallway and pushes open the door gently, just as there's another yell.
"This isn't hurting you," comes the quiet scolding. "Sit still." Eponine moves slightly to the side, and Grantaire gets a clear view of what she's doing. She's grappling with Joly's cartilage piercing while he bites his lip.
"You washed your hands, right?" Joly asks, twisting in his seat to look at her. Grantaire can almost taste her frustration as she pushes his head gently back into position.
"I do this for a living, you know," she reminds him gently. He nods, wincing again. "Sit still, you fucker." There's an angry sigh, and then Eponine says, "I don't get why you did this in the first place." Joly shrugs.
"I wanted to." He gives an embarrassed laugh. "I'm not scared of germs, you know."
"I know." Eponine's tone is soft, reassuring. Grantaire's seen others in this place before, reminding Joly that he's not completely worthless. He steps farther into the kitchen.
"What're you doing?" he asks. It's stupid, because he knows exactly what she's doing. She turns to look at him, and there's a strange expression on her face, something that's half amusement, half anger.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" she demands. "I'm taking out Joly's piercing, because it's been a year, and apparently, it still hurts like fuck." On the chair, Joly gives a whimper of agreement. Eponine goes back to carefully twisting the back of the earring, and after a minute, she gently draws her hand back. "There you are. All done."
Joly grins, bringing a hand up to touch the place where the piercing had been. "Thanks, 'Ponine," he says, planting a kiss on her cheek as he stands. "Thanks a ton. Thanks-"
"Yeah, yeah," Eponine mutters, but she's grinning too, and so is Grantaire, because Joly's happiness is contagious. "Now get out of here, asshole."
Enjolras coughs. Grantaire glances up at him from the book he's got propped on his lap, trying to appear surprised, like he's been startled from his reading. He's not reading. He hasn't been reading for hours. If asked, he could probably describe in perfect detail the slope of Enjolras's nose, the curve of his lips, the way his lashes cast soft shadows across his cheeks.
"Are you all right?" he asks. Enjolras nods, still coughing.
"Choked," he manages to spit out between coughs. "Sorry…to have…disturbed…" Giving up, he curls up and waits it out. Grantaire closes his book.
"On what?"
"Water." Enjolras's face is flushed a pale pink, and if Grantaire were still drawing, that face would be on every page. "Sorry again." He turns to look at Grantaire, and Grantaire wonders what he must look like through Enjolras's eyes. Surely, he thinks, Enjolras can see that he is ugly.
"You haven't disturbed me," he says, and it's a lie, because he's been staring at the peaceful figure of Enjolras relaxing for the better part of an hour, and the sudden fit has shattered that calm.
"You're being weird again." From his plaee at Grantaire's feet, Gavroche blinks serenely up at him, grinning in a way that suggests utter contentment. There's a sparkle of mischief in the boy's eyes, one quite fitting for a ten year old boy. There's something else there, too, a strange knowing look that ages the boy's face.
Grantaire cocks his head at the boy, trying not to look alarmed. "How am I being weird?" he asks. Gavroche shrugs.
"You're always staring at Enjolras," he says. "Do you like him?"
"No." Grantaire knows how to lie, but he doesn't have to. Sometimes, he thinks that he hates the man. He's cold, and withdrawn, and uppity, and- (He's getting ahead of himself now, but he can't seem to stop writing the list.) "And that's none of your business, anyways, who I like." He crosses his arms, knowing that he's being way too defensive, that he should quit while he's ahead, but he's been accused of this too many times.
"All right, all right," Gavroche mutters, and he sounds so much like his sister. Grantaire reaches out to ruffle his hair, chuckling as the boy pulls away with a yell. Yes, he's definitely like his sister.
"Grantaire!" The call comes from behind, and Grantaire has to do a 180 to see who's calling. It's Bahorel. There's blood down the front of his Jane Eyre T'shirt, and he's grinning wolfishly, brandishing a fist. "Grantaire, you will never believe the fight I just got myself into." Reaching Grantaire's side, he proudly displays the bloody nose and the red welt forming across his cheek. It's in the shape of a hand, and Grantaire wonders whose hand it was.
"What happened?" he asks. Bahorel tips his head back and laughs. It's a bellowing sound, one that makes Grantaire wish he were a farther away from the sound.
"I was trying to talk to this woman in a bar," he begins, and Grantaire has to roll his eyes at that. "When this man came up and asked me what I was doing with his woman. So I said I wasn't doing anything, and he called me a dirty rotten scoundrel." He laughs again, and Grantaire rubs at his ears.
"So he slugged you."
Bahorel nods. "Yep," he says, still chuckling. "That he did. The girl was really mad about it, too."
Grantaire laughs. "I can imagine."
Grantaire spends most of the first two days of winter break hunting for Eponine. He finds her at noon on the second day, pressed against a wall, locking lips with Montparnasse. They don't see him, so he knocks gently but loudly on the door, causing them to jump apart as if they've each been burned. Eponine straightens her braid. Montparnasse smooths back his hair.
"Did you need anything?" Eponine growls.
"Uh…no. It's fine." (Grantaire wants to say yes, but he's pretty sure she'll murder him if he does.) "Go back to…uh…" Wilting under the force of Eponine's chocolaty glare, he reaches for the doorknob. "You know what? Bye!" On his way out, he crashes into L'Aigle, who topples into the banister of the stairwell.
"Crap!" he yells. (Apparently, L'Aigle never swears, because he's unlucky enough that he'd inadvertently teach some little kid a new word.) "I didn't see you there! I'm so sorry!"
Grantaire waves a hand, even though he's pretty sure his nose has never throbbed quite like this. Bossuet looks at him from where he balances awkwardly against the railing, smiling sheepishly.
"I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asks, flushing a deep red. Grantaire shakes his head, resisting the urge to check if his nose hasn't pulled a Phantom of the Opera on him.
"I'm fine," he mumbles. "I gotta go." Leaving a stunned Bossuet standing against the rail, he pushes out of the building and into the clean late fall air. It's cooler than it has been, and the wind stings his eyes a bit, making them tear up. He doesn't rub at them. His hands aren't ever steady enough anymore for something like that. Instead, he pulls his hood over his face and walks. He could take a bus, he supposes, (Like that time with Enjolras, a part of his brain reminds.) but the air is fresh and nice, and he needs to clear his head.
"Grantaire?" The owner of that name lifts his head from where it lies on a stack of torn up newspaper. Blearily, Grantaire pries open his eyes, feeling hands at his shoulder. In the haze of sleep and alcohol, he recognizes a halo of white-blond hair and soft smile.
"Enj-Enjolras?" Grantaire blinks. He must be dreaming, because angels have never visited him before, and certainly not this angel. Strong hands wrestle him into bed, and then Enjolras's musical voice sounds close to his ear.
"Go to sleep, Grantaire," he says. "Wake restored."
Grantaire wakes to the sound of someone singing softly in the hallway. The song is not a familiar one, but it's pleasant enough. It sounds like something a small child would sing. The voice is soprano and light. (If it were a drink, Grantaire thinks it would be honeyed tea.) For some reason, he feels an urge to sing along, even though he doesn't know the tune. Part of him feels alive as he listens, alive in a way he hasn't felt in years. He wants to dance, wants to paint, wants to praise things.
The voice draws nearer to his door, and then there's a soft knock, and the singing stops. "Grantaire?" Cosette says, and it makes sense that the gorgeous voice is hers. Grantaire smiles a bit as he sits up.
"Yeah?"
"Marius isn't going to be coming over today, so I was wondering if you wanted to go to the cinema with Joly and I." She doesn't attempt to open his door, merely waiting on the other side. Grantaire pulls on a clean shirt and some jeans and yanks on the doorknob.
"Sure thing," he answers. "Where's Marius?"
Cosette giggles. "He said he was sick, but I think he's just nervous. He's meeting my father tomorrow." She pauses, looking up through her lashes. "We've been together for two years, you know."
"I know." Grantaire looks at her, at the fresh beauty practically radiating off of her. "Your point?"
"He loves me." She giggles again. "I've got the wedding planned. Well, 'Ponine and I both do." Sighing, she brushes a lock of dark hair back from her face. "I don't think Eponine likes me as much as she says she does."
Grantaire shakes his head. "I think you're imagining things," he says, and then, "Speaking of imagining, I think I dreamed that Enjolras tucked me into bed last night."
"That's because I did." From his place just behind Cosette, Enjolras grins at Grantaire. "I most definitely did." He winks, widening his grin. "Unless I'm the one imagining." He laughs softly as he moves away from the door, and for some reason, Grantaire feels angry with him. It's an odd feeling, one that's out of his place.
"Asshole." The word grinds itself out from between his teeth, and Grantaire knows that he doesn't mean it. He feels even sorrier when Cosette lets out a little gasp and bats at his arm.
"Language!" she warns. Grantaire mumbles what he thinks is an appropriate apology and stares morosely at the floor. Cosette sighs, and he feels a warm hand cup his cheek. "What's wrong with you?" There's absolutely no venom in her words. She's genuinely worried for Grantaire, and the thought makes his eyes well up with tears. He's never had anyone be this worried for him before. No one's ever really cared, except maybe Eponine, and she's too busy now to care anymore.
Combeferre reclines in the only armchair on the second floor. Perched on the arm of the chair, Enjolras has tangled his fingers into the man's hair and refuses to let go. Below them, Grantaire languishes (he calls it languishing, but really, he's quite uncomfortable.) on the floor. They're talking, and it's boring talk, so Grantaire's tuned them out. Enjolras's soft voice is like a lullaby, and his eyes are kind of heavy. Combeferre doesn't speak very much, and when he does, Grantaire can't really hear him. (He's rather soft-spoken, which R appreciates.) As he lies there, he starts to drift. (Despite the fact that he can't feel his left shoulder anymore, and his legs are starting to go quite numb as well.)
"Grantaire?" Combeferre asks, or at least Grantaire thinks he does.
"Whaa?" Even in his sleep induced haze, Grantaire doesn't even try to justify that as a real word. Instead, he blinks tiredly up at the medical student. "Oh, yeah. A bit. I guess."
Combeferre chuckles. "Enjolras and I just wanted to know if you were up for a party at the Musain tonight. It's Feuilly's birthday, you know."
Grantaire hadn't known, but he nods anyways. "Sure," he mumbles. "Just let me get dressed." Again, Combeferre chuckles, and the sound is infuriating.
"It's not till eight. You have plenty of time." There's a smile playing on the man's lips. "Don't stress it, Grantaire."
But Grantaire does stress it, because he's only been a part of this little family for less than a year, and some of them have been together since childhood.
"Having fun?" Eponine asks. Once again they've managed to find each other, and she and Grantaire are in the center of the dance floor.
"Yeah," Grantaire yells back. "Where's your boyfriend?"
"What?" Eponine shouts. Grantaire spins and dips her, leaning in close to her ear.
"I said where's your boyfriend." When he rights Eponine, she's frowning.
"I didn't invite him," she murmurs. "It's not his world." Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulls herself closer to him. "I don't love him," she says, as softly as is possible over the loud music. "I don't love him, and he doesn't know."
From that night, watching Eponine with Montparnasse is strange, but it doesn't hurt as much. It doesn't make Grantaire feel so ignored. Instead, it becomes more of a game, watching her sit on his lap, watching them kiss. He begins to notice that she pulls back just as often as she accepts gestures of affection. She doesn't smile very much when she's with him, not with her eyes.
Whenever Montparnasse leaves the room, Grantaire watches Eponine closely, scanning her face for signs that she'd lied to him, signs that she does love Montparnasse. But there's nothing loving in the way that she stares after him. She likes him, that's obvious, but it would be lying (Or at the least, greatly exaggerating.) to call it love.
One Saturday night, after most everyone has gone to bed, Grantaire sneaks down to the kitchen for a midnight snack. He's been having quite a bit of trouble getting to sleep, and he figures that cup of warm milk won't go amiss, even at his age.
"What's wrong?" The voice is soft, accented, and certainly belongs to Montparnasse. Ducking around the corner, Grantaire slides down the wall, where he can observe without being observed.
"Nothing's wrong." It's Eponine's voice. "I'm tired, is all." She laughs, and Montparnasse sighs. There's a shuffling sound, and Grantaire imagines that he's put his arms around her.
"You're cold," he breathes. "So cold." There's more movement from the kitchen. He must be kissing her, Grantaire thinks, and the thought doesn't make him angry anymore. Instead, he feels sorry for Montparnasse.
"Please, don't," Eponine murmurs.
"What's wrong?" Montparnasse says, and Grantaire doesn't think that he's imagining the hurt in the man's voice.
"I-I have to go. Gavroche- it's midnight. Azelma has school tomorrow. She shouldn't be up this late."
"They can look after themselves for a little longer," 'Parnasse murmurs. There's the sound of him being pushed into a cabinet, and Eponine's angry shout.
"I told you not to kiss me again!" she yells. (Really, she's said nothing of the kind.) Grantaire winces, shrinking back into the darkness. "I have to go! Don't you know what 'no' means?" She stalks out of the kitchen. Grantaire watches her go from his little corner. Montparnasse follows slowly, and for the first time since Grantaire's known him, his shoulders are slumped in defeat.
Grantaire is running. He's not entirely sure why he's running. He knows it has something to do with needing to clear his head. He knows it wasn't a decision he made while drunk, because his body would be cursing him if it were. He knows it's not to escape from the police. What he doesn't know is why he's actually putting one foot in front of the other, covering large stretches of space.
His phone rings, and he lets it. He always hates to cut a chorus short. It's a quirk of his, he supposes, and a rather strange one at that. He still doesn't know why he's running, or why he's scared. Yes, he's scared.
Maybe it's the fact that Eponine asked him how to break up with someone like 'Parnasse. ("Fuck if I know," he'd told her.) Maybe it's the fact that Joly, Bossuet and Muschietta are apparently all back together again. Maybe it's the fact that the painting class has ended. Maybe it's the fact-
Grantaire shakes his head, stopping for a red light. He needs to get a grip on himself, needs to get his act together, because this running? This is what Jehan would do, and Grantaire is not Jehan. His phone buzzes again, and he resists the urge to break it, because he is not Jehan. He doesn't do things like that because he's scared.
Instead, he answers it dully, hoping that whoever's calling, (he didn't bother checking caller ID.) will get the message and leave him alone. "Where the fuck- where are you?" Eponine shouts. (Language, Gavroche chimes from somewhere on the other end of the line.)
"Went for a jog," Grantaire mumbles, and it's close enough to the truth. Eponine snorts, the sound sending a buzz of static through the line.
"Jog, my ass," she growls. "Where did you end up? Paris?" If the basilisk killed with it's eyes, Grantaire would imagine that Eponine could do the same with her voice.
"I'm scared, Ep." His voice cracks, and Eponine sighs.
"If you can't go back there," she says, and her tone has softened considerably. "Then please, R, come to my place. It's empty. The kids are at school. Hell if I know where 'Parnasse is. Just, I don't like the thought of you wandering the streets like this."
Grantaire does as she says. He hangs up and jogs in the opposite direction. (He thinks it's the right one.) When he reaches her block, he slows to a walk, dragging his feet all the way until he reaches her apartment building. He doesn't have to climb the stairs or anything. Eponine is waiting for him, her glower scarier than the devil itself.
"What the hell were you thinking?" she cries. "I was worried sick! I called Comebeferre! Hell, I almost called Jehan." Lurching forward, she wraps her skinny arms around him, pulling him into a fierce hug. "Don't do that to me, Grantaire."
Grantaire drops his head into the curve of Eponine's shoulder and neck. He's crying now, and he doesn't think he could stop, even if he wanted to. She, to her credit, doesn't say anymore, stroking small circles into his back. He leans himself into her, soaking up her warmth. Part of him doesn't even notice as she bundles him into her apartment and seats him on the ratty old couch.
"Okay," she begins. "I know you don't want to talk about this, and frankly, I don't either, but we've got to." She rubs at her eyes. A twinge of guilt runs through him. They're bloodshot and tired, and she's been crying herself.
"I-I'm sorry," he whispers. "I won't do it again." He wants to ask for a drink. He wants to run again, but Eponine's firm hand on his wrist keeps him from going anywhere. (It's not that he couldn't get away from her, but he doesn't want to.) She stares at him, and her eyes look less like chocolate now, and more like mud. He's broken her.
"I heard you tried to run away." Jehan's voice is quiet. It's been quiet in the past months, since the "Incident". Grantaire grunts. It's a signal to go away, and if Jehan gets it, he doesn't pay attention. He sits on the couch next to Grantaire, resting one hand on his knee. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," Grantaire snarls, and for a moment, he thinks he might have scared Jehan away, but Jehan only retracts his hand and sits in gentle quiet. They don't speak for a long while. Grantaire alternates between watching the clock and staring dully at the carpet. Jehan curls in on himself, taking less than his share of the couch, letting Grantaire have more than enough breathing room. When he does stand to go, an hour has passed in this fashion. As he hesitates in the doorway, Grantaire almost tells him not to go.
"Thank you," is what he says instead. Jehan gives him a tiny smile and disappears around the door.
"Hello." Courfeyrac rests a hand on the back of Grantaire's neck, making him jump.
"Jesus Christ," he yells. Courfeyrac laughs.
"I seem to make you jump a lot," he says. "Sorry about that." He grins, sliding easily into the seat across from Grantaire. "I was just coming to warn you that Enjolras is in one of his moods." Courfeyrac's wide mouth twists into the closest thing to a scowl that Grantaire's ever seen on the man. "Just, don't rile him up, okay?"
Grantaire nods. He wants to ask what happened, what someone had done to make Enjolras so mad. "That's too bad," he says instead. "So, cinema time?" Courfeyrac sighs.
"No," he says. "I wish. I think he needs me." He sighs. "I have no idea what happened. One minute, he was fine, and the next minute, he was freaking out." Burying his head in his hands, Courfeyrac lets out another sigh. From upstairs, a door slams. (If door slams could be angry, that one certainly was!)
Grantaire tries not to show concern, not in front of Courfeyrac, the man who'd jump at any opportunity to tease someone. "Is he okay?" he asks, praying that he's kept his tone bland enough to avoid suspicion. Courfeyrac nods.
"He's fine. I think someone might have called him a demon or something, and it shook him up," the Irishman explains, flicking a lock of hair out of his eyes. "Why so concerned?"
Grantaire shrugs, letting out a short huff of air. "Where does it say I can't be concerned?" he says. Courfeyrac barks out a laugh. It's strange, hearing such a harsh sound from him.
"Oh," he murmurs. "Nowhere."
Joly is crying. Grantaire stands there, trying to process it. Not only is Joly crying, but also he's on the floor, which has never happened in all of the time that Grantaire's been there. Not only that, but Bossuet and Musichetta have wrapped their arms around him, and both plant gentle kisses against his temples.
"Please leave," Bossuet says, his voice low and dangerous. Grantaire hesitates. "Grantaire, go." From where he's been locked in a web of arms, Joly twists around to fix tearful eyes on Grantaire, which makes him pause again, because Joly has fascinating eyes. His left one is very green, and his right one is the color of a clear summer sky.
"It's okay," he says. "He can stay. I think I'm okay now." He tries to wriggle out of their arms, but they hold him tight. Grantaire suppresses a chuckle at the sight of Joly squirming like an uncomfortable puppy as he turns to go again.
"I'll leave you guys alone," he says. "Feel better Joly." He's not sure, but he thinks he hears Joly murmur a quiet, "I will."
The room is dark, but that doesn't stop Grantaire from drawing. His hands have itched for tools since October, and it's December now. Christmas is approaching, and he has no money for gifts. (Like always, he realizes, but there's nothing to be done.) Dark lines trace out the curve of Musichetta's eyebrows, the little gap between Gavroche's teeth, Combeferre's glasses. Lighter strokes make up Enjolras's hair and eyelashes, while thick marks suggest bruising around Bahorel's eye, and spatters of paint on Feuilly's sleeves.
On the couch, Enjolras rolls over in his sleep, sighing softly and tangling his fingers in his own hair. (Not that Grantaire's watching, because really? He's not.) He gives the pale locks a small twist, and Grantaire's pencil starts up all over again, tracing all sorts of things. Enjolras's face blossoms across the page, framed by soft, lazy curls. Cherry blossoms form a crown on his head, and as his body is penciled in, angel wings sprout out of his back. By the time Grantaire's finished, a sort of Apollo has sprung to life over the stark white of his notebook.
"Grantaire?" Grantaire starts guiltily, slamming the notebook shut with a lifeless snap. (He says lifeless because it makes a hollow thwack, and that's about it.) "Grantaire, did I fall asleep here?" From the couch, Enjolras blinks sleepily, squinting into the darkness.
"Yeah, you did." Flicking nervously at the edge of the notebook, Grantaire resists the urge to sit on it. Drawing people isn't an issue. It's not even very creepy. It's just that Grantaire knows how much Enjolras would hate to be drawn like an angel, like a god.
Grantaire hates dreams. He knows that he's dreaming, and that frightens him, because he doesn't like knowing that he's out of control, even if he is aware that nothing that's happening has any real effect on his life. Especially when the subject of his dream is Enjolras, and he's being hurt.
In the dream, they're in a clearing, and it looks like a magic clearing to Grantaire's eyes. Enjolras is lying in the center of a dark circle of energy. He's crying blood, and it trickles into his hair, like wine on snow. His eyes are closed, and his lips are red and raw, like he's been biting them. He's dying.
There are feathers all around his body. He's lying in a large heap of them, which would make Grantaire laugh, except that the feathers nearest to him are colored red with blood, and it isn't his. His hands curl against his thighs. If it weren't a dream, Grantaire would run to Enjolras, stop the bleeding, and make the pain go away.
"Grantaire?" Enjolras murmurs. His eyes flutter open, and Grantaire can't move. He's about to cry out when-
"Grantaire!" Eponine's voice hisses next to his ear. "Grantaire, wake up. You've been talking in your sleep for half and hour!"
Embarrassed, Grantaire lifts his head from where it's been resting on her shoulder. "Sorry," he mumbles. She shrugs violently, and he's glad that he's no longer using her as a makeshift pillow.
"What were you dreaming about?" she asks. It's his turn to shrug, which for some reason makes her laugh, full bodied and lively. "Is it not my business?" she says with a wink that's almost conspiratorial. "Is it personal?" With all the grace of a mountain lion, (and the compassion, too.) Eponine throws herself across Grantaire's lap. Her bony elbow digs into his stomach.
"Ep," he grunts. "You're hurting me." He shifts uncomfortably, and her elbow slides into his thigh.
"Sorry," she says in a tone that indicates nothing of the sort. Grantaire laughs, ruffling her hair as he leans back into the couch, nightmare totally forgotten.
Music filters in from the living room as Grantaire bustles around the kitchen. He's making a giant bowl of ice cream for the little group in the living room, and he has to admit, it looks pretty appetizing. It's a mix of all sorts of flavors, though it's predominantly chocolate, (Grantaire's favorite, which Combeferre happens to be allergic to, so there's a second, smaller bowl with strawberry alone.) with three different syrups and a big dollop of whipped cream. There are rainbow sprinkles over the top, and Grantaire's quite pleased with his work.
"Oi, Eponine!" he calls out. There's an answering shout, and then she bundles herself into the kitchen, practically drowning in a pair of Bahorel's sweatpants and one of Bossuet's flannel shirts. She's wearing her own tank top underneath, along with a pair of Jehan's fuzzy socks, and it looks very cozy.
"What?" she grumbles, crossing her arms. "I was having a good time in there." She blushes, adding, "Marius is playing the Sitar for us."
Grantaire laughs, grabbing his giant bowl of sugary goodness and handing the smaller one to Eponine. "Give that to Combeferre, will you?" he barks, but he's laughing. Eponine laughs, too, padding out into the living room, slipping a bit in Jehan's socks. Grantaire feels a sudden urge to chase after her and play whack-a-mole with the floppy blonde bun she's somehow managed to create. Instead, he follows along at a slower pace, keeping his gait laid back. Ahead of him, Eponine bounces happily, dropping the strawberry ice cream into Combeferre's hands and planting a kiss to the top of his head.
Though Grantaire's been living with the Amis for over three months, he's still struck by how incredibly tactile the little group is. It started with small brushes of hands, and moved on to hugs, and now Grantaire's being pulled daily into large cuddle-puddles. It's a comforting feeling, although he'd at first been unsettled by the constant contact. Courfeyrac is the worst, always grabbing at clothes and hair. Eponine's just as bad, always snaking her arms around different people, often clinging like a baby sloth to anyone who will stand still long enough.
On the couch, Combeferre and Feuilly are fighting over the television remote, making such a racket that Grantaire's surprised they haven't startled Marius out of his music induce reverie. The man plays on, eyes closed, mouth turned up in a happy grin. Next to him, Joly's begun to play the accordian, and Jehan's rummaging around behind the couch. A moment later, he produces a flute, and then it's an all out music session, with those who can't play an instrument singing loudly. (They're off-key, too, Grantaire thinks, but he doesn't really have an ear for these things. Music isn't his scene.) Grantaire's is willing to bet that they spend twenty minutes in this fashion, before Marius places his instrument to the side and falls back, rubbing his hands together.
"That's enough of that," he chuckles. Eponine makes a whining sound, nudging the sitar closer. "My hands hurt. I haven't done this in ages." He maneuvers himself so that his head ends up in Cosette's lap, and she giggles at his silliness. Next to them, Feuilly nudges at Marius's head with his newly won remote.
Grantaire brushes gently through Eponine's hair as she sits on the edge of the toilet bowl. "What color are you doing?" he asks blandly, running a lock of hair through his fingers.
"Purple," she says. "I was thinking ginger, but my mum's a ginger, and so's Feuilly, and Jehan might as well be," she explains. Grantaire nods. Though all the reasons are sound, he knows that the real reason she's not going red is her mother, with whom she's never been close. From what Grantaire could gather in his many conversations with Eponine, the woman who called herself Marie Thenardie had been a cruel, abusive woman.
"Purple's nice," he says, bridging the awkward gap brought on by the mention of Eponine's mother. "Purple might go well with your skin." He tilts her head to the side, admiring the smooth, fair skin. As he does' he thinks of his own, riddled with small scars from his adolescence, with a large red birthmark cutting through one eyebrow. Eponine, while not exquisite, at least has the blessing of attractive skin.
"Hurry up," she hisses. "I wanna get this done." Wrenching herself away from the brush, Eponine hangs her head over the sink and wets her long hair. "Where's the dye?"
Grantaire hands it to her, only a little sad that she's covering up her nice hair again. Leaning back against the sink, he watches her distribute the dye into her hair. She, to her credit, is incredibly good at it. (Grantaire guesses that she's dyed it many times.) Deft strokes distribute the purple goop all over Eponine's head, and when she flips upward again, hair completely smothered, Grantaire feels a stab of despair for her hair.
"Well," Eponine sighs. "No going back now." She straightens her tank top and faces Grantaire. "You can either wait with me for 20 minutes, or you can go chill out somewhere for the rest of the day."
He opts to leave. When he sees her next, her hair is a deep violet color, and she's grinning like the Cheshire cat.
Someone's knocking on Grantaire's door. The beats are frantic, and there's a voice to go along with it, low and scared. He doesn't want to get up. The bed is warm and inviting.
"Grantaire, get up!" Bahorel yells. "Feuilly fell down the stairs, and he's not moving!" There's panic in the man's voice, enough to get Grantaire out of bed and at the door.
"Where's everyone else?" he asks, but even if Bahorel's gone straight to him, and everyone else is still asleep, he doesn't think he minds.
"Joly and 'Ferre are with him," he says. "Bossuet…I don't know where he is. Enjolras is at classes. Everyone's at classes." He shakes his head, crying too hard to continue.
"What do you need?" It's a simple enough question, but Bahorel ignores it, pushing past Grantaire and lumbering over to the window. Grantaire hovers behind him uncomfortably. Bahorel's big. If he lashes out, Grantaire's royally fucked.
"I need you to go see what they're doing," Bahorel breathes. "I'm too scared to ask." He presses his forehead against the window. Granaire creeps toward the door and slips into the hallway.
Feuilly's lying at the bottom of the stairs, all ginger hair and colorless skin. He hasn't been moved very much, as far as Grantaire can tell. (Of course, with possible neck injuries, they haven't moved him.) One of his arms is twisted at a sickening angle. His eyes are open. Without asking, Grantaire knows that he is dead.
"What's going on?" he asks anyway. Joly and Combeferre look up from their places around the body.
"He's dead," Joly whispers. "I-I'm so sorry. Please tell Bahorel that Feuilly is dead." And he gives in to a heart-wrenching sob, and then another, and Grantaire can tell that this isn't the first time he's lost someone, but it's the first time it's been someone he loved. From the way that he tenderly straightens out Feuilly's arm and allows Combeferre to carry him into his bedroom, it seems as though he isn't ready to believe it, as though he expects that any minute now, Feuilly's going to open his eyes and not be dead anymore.
When Grantaire slips back into his room, Bahorel's lying face down on the bed. "Tell me," he mumbles into the pillow. "Please."
Grantaire bites his lip. "Feuilly's dead."
The sound that Bahorel makes isn't even human. It's a guttural sound, (Grantaire supposes that it could be called a scream.) coming from somewhere deep inside of the man. From the stairs, Joly's sobs increase in volume, and then Grantaire's drowning in a sea of loss.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. Then he runs. He runs as fast as his legs can carry him, past the door, down the stairs, past the place where Feuilly's body had been, and past Combeferre and Joly. He runs until he can't see the house anymore. He runs and he runs and-
He's falling, and there's someone else falling with him. At first, he thinks he's run into an older person, because their hair is so white, but as they fall, Grantaire sees the violet eyes and shocked expression.
"Enjolras?"
Enjolras lands on top of him, and they don't even try to get up for a minute, just lying there. Enjolras is shaking, and when they do manage to stand, Grantaire sees the tears cutting down his face. (He's not an ugly crier, but he looks mortal when he cries, so unlike the god that Grantaire knows.)
"What happened?" Enjolras demands. His voice is trembling as violently as the rest of him, and Grantaire can't even pretend to understand how he feels. All he knows is that it must be a terrible feeling.
"He fell," Grantaire says, lowering his eyes. (He may look heartless, but at least Enjolras can't see that he's about to cry.)
There's a heavy weight in the air as Grantaire and Enjolras walk back to the house. Enjolras is limping a bit, (Grantaire's not surprised, what with the way they'd barreled into each other.) and he holds onto Grantaire for support, as well as guidance. Enjolras has long since stopped trying to wipe the tears away, and passerby shoot them worrying looks. One woman even stops them to offer her help, but Enjolras merely presses his face into Grantaire's chest and ignores the woman, and Grantaire has no choice but to thank her and move on.
As they reach the driveway, and ambulance pulls into the main road and drives away. Grantaire tightens his grip on Enjolras, who's shaking badly, clinging to the front of Grantaire's shirt. (He's shivering too, because it's cold out, and he hadn't remembered his coat.)
"Grantaire?" Enjolras mumbles. "Grantaire, don't take me back there." He tightens his grip. Grantaire says nothing, steering the man gently up the stairs, keeping a hold on his shoulders. Enjolras clutches his cane under his arm. It's partially folded, and Grantaire thinks that it might also be broken.
"We have to go back," he says. One hand comes up to pat awkwardly at Enjolras's hair. "They've taken the body." It's such a cold thing to say, and Grantaire hates himself for saying it, but Enjolras didn't see the body, and he did. He'd seen the way that Feuilly's arm was twisted, the way his eyes stared blankly up at what Grantaire assumes was some sick heaven, the only place where people like them could go.
The funeral is a quiet affair, small and personal. Few people speak, and those that do lavish their affections on the dead painter.
"He was my best friend," Bahorel all but whispers. "I cherished him above all else. He was my guiding force, my light at the end of the tunnel. When everything was so hard, when I wanted to give up, when there was too much going on, he'd sit down with me, and we'd talk, and we'd talk, and it wouldn't seem so dark anymore." He passes a hand over his face, crying too hard to speak.
"You always said," Enjolras murmurs. "That Humanity was your mother, and Justice was your father. And to this, I say, let me have been a brother to you. Let us have been to you what you were to us. You welcomed us with open arms, when you had no reason to trust that we were on your side. You believed in us, and you believed in yourself.
"Once, you told me that there was always a light at the end of the tunnel. There was always something to hope for. I hope that we will be with you always, wherever you are, as you are with us always. I love you more than words can say. You are the brother that I could have had, and the friend that I always wanted." He drags a hand under his eyes, blinking rapidly. "I'm so sorry. I am so, so sorry."
Joly doesn't speak. They don't let him. But when Bossuet goes up to speak, he stands there with him, braced against his chest. Before they leave, he gives his protector a long, sad look, and his whispered apology is heard through the hall. It's not his fault, but he blames himself, and no one can blame him for that.
Courfeyrac doesn't speak for very long. He keeps his words soft and gentle, and a sort of sleepy lull steals through the room. He doesn't smile all that much, but when he does, a warmth floods Grantaire's heart. (Metaphorically, that is.) Someone's sobbing unabashedly from somewhere in front of Grantaire. Enjolras sits in stony silence ahead of him, head bowed. He looks so average, despite his white hair standing out against the black of his suit-jacket. He'd protested the suit, Grantaire remembers. Feuilly wouldn't want it that way, he'd said, and he was probably right, but Feuilly's dead now, and it doesn't matter what he'd want.
Next to Grantaire, Eponine holds Gavroche tightly to her, stroking his hair and kissing the top of his head. Grantaire wishes that he were in Gavroche's place. Even if Eponine keeps shooting him worried glances, he can't feel the same warmth that Gavroche is feeling. Even when she brushes a hand across his arm, an act of friendship, he can barely feel it. He's cold, numb, and all he wants is to feel again.
Eponine's head is in Montparnasse's lap. He's got his fingers tangled in her purple mess of hair, and he's humming softly. The sight makes Grantaire girn sleepily as he shuffles past them on the way to the kitchen. So far as he can tell, Eponine's the only one who can bring out the man in Montparnasse, the part of him that isn't a greedy monster.
"Baby," Montparnasse yawns. "Could you get up for a moment?" Grantaire hears the couch cushions shift, and then Montparnasse is joining him in the kitchen. "I'm sorry about your loss," he says, shuffling his feet.
(No you're not.) "It's fine," Grantaire says. "It's fine. Thank you." He doesn't look at Montparnasse. Behind him, the man clears his throat uncomfortably.
"You don't like me." It isn't a question, but then, neither is the 'no' that Grantaire responds with. It's not that he hates Montparnasse; it's just that he doesn't quite trust him. Whether or not this man has any emotional advantage over Eponine, he's got a fair amount of physical strength, and Eponine doesn't. (She's not weak, but Grantaire's pretty sure she could be badly hurt if Montparnasse caught her of guard.)
"Guys?" Eponine calls from the living room. "Are you okay?" The remote clatters to the floor. Montparnasse lopes back out of the kitchen before his girlfriend can come investigate, leaving Grantaire alone amidst the cabinets. He lets his gaze wander over to where he knows Courfeyrac keeps his alcohol, deliberating. (It's not really a deliberation. He knows what he's going to do.) Reaching over, he grabs a bottle and a glass and seats himself at the counter.
The first glass is heaven, and he wonders why he hasn't done this sooner. It burns on the way down, but it's a good burn, a grounding burn. He finishes the glass sooner than he'd meant to, and then another, and another, and another. The drink fogs his head, and for the time, he's almost able to forget about Feuilly, and about the strange hole in his chest that's been left by the man's death.
The New Years celebration is cold and dark, and doesn't feel like a celebration at all. Bahorel locks himself in his room for twelve hours, leaving only when he thinks that no one's around. (For the most part, he's right. Grantaire only sees him once.) Joly frets about the cold weather, absolutely certain that he's going to catch his death. Bossuet rubs his back as he frets, occasionally leaning over to whisper things to him. Musichetta takes turns sitting on each of their laps. (Grantaire's not entirely sure how they're all okay with each other, but he can't spot any cracks in their bond.)
Enjolras spends most of New Years on the phone, shouting at what Grantaire assumes is various family members. Once, he slips downstairs to grab a glass of water and hand out small gifts, but he disappears into his room again. Grantaire wants to follow him, only, he's afraid of the repercussions.
Jehan retreats into his shell again, but he doesn't leave the house. New Years day finds him curled up in the window seat on the second floor, gazing out of the window at the snow blanketing the ground. He plays with the ends of his hair thoughtfully. Grantaire doesn't even have to think about sitting next to him. It comes naturally, and Jehan seems to welcome it, adjusting himself so that he's curled against Grantaire's chest. It's awkward; Jehan's at least four inches taller than the man he's using for a pillow, but somehow, they make it fit. Jehan leans his head on Grantaire's shoulder and stares up at him with large, grey eyes. (Grantaire thinks that nothing will ever make the poet's eyes seem alive.)
Jehan's tapping a sharpie against his ankle as he sits there, and without thinking, Grantaire takes it and begins to draw little patterns on the poet's skin, smiling to himself as a little house appears on the man's shoulder. "Can you take your shirt off?" Grantaire asks. Jehan turns to fix him with a quizzical glare. "I mean, unless you just want an arm sleeve," he mumbles. "I was going to do something bigger."
Jehan complies, tugging off the tank top and turning his back away from Grantaire, who begins to draw again. This time, he draws all of the people he's come to know and love in the past seven months. Feuilly takes the centermost position, eyes twinkling merrily, just like they had in life. Bahorel comes next, arms wrapped protectively around the artist, and then Jehan, short hair whipping around in an invisible wind. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and combeferre take up the positions just to the left of Feuilly. They've linked hands, and Grantaire draws tears shining in Courfeyrac's eyes, and a compass around Combeferre's neck. Eponine, Cosette, and Marius take up the small of Jehan's back. Cosette and Marius are entwined in each other's arms, and Eponine stares longingly at the both of them. Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta take up another shoulder, all piled on top of each other in one chair, matching goofy grins on their faces.
"There," Grantaire says, leaning back. "All done." There's an uncomfortable cramping in his hands, and he wonders how long he's been working. In front of him, Jehan twists around, trying to get a good look.
"Can you take a picture?" he asks. Grantaire shrugs. Jehan practically turns himself upside down to retrieve his phone from under a mound of cushions. Grantaire fumbles a bit with the camera button, trying to put the least amount of pressure on his stiff fingers. Jehan grabs the phone at the first opportunity and ogles the design. "It's beautiful," he says. His fingers ghost over the spot where Feuilly is. "I'm going to get it tattooed," he says decisively. Grantaire's eyes widen and he makes a strangled squawk.
"Don't do that!" he cries. "I mean, you should think about it first!" He flails wildly. Jehan grabs his hands.
"I'm not," he says. "Feuilly's death made me realize something. We're not immortal. I might lose them all tomorrow. I want to remember them. Besides, I've done it before." He unclasps a thick leather bracelet to show Grantaire the place where tiny cursive forms a chain around his wrist. "One of Eponine's coworkers did it."
Grantaire sighs. "It's really not good enough for a tattoo, Jehan," he tries. Jehan purses his lips, shaking his head in displeasure.
"I want it, R," he says. "More than I've wanted most things these past few months." Unfolding his long legs, he makes a move to get up. Grantaire deliberates for a split second weather it's worth going after him or not, but he's too slow, and Jehan's already tugging his tank top back on and snapping his bracelet back into place. "You're not going to change my mind about this," the poet snarls. The kiss that he places on Grantaire's lips burns like acid. He waits until he can't see the auburn head anymore to rub furiously at his mouth.
"I can't believe you!" Enjolras shouts. His face is red from the effort of screaming, and for the first time, Grantaire finds him astonishingly ugly.
"Why the fuck not?" Grantaire yells back. Not for the first time, he wishes he could say something a little more eloquent. "Who the fuck put you on such a pedestal?"
Enjolras looks like a fish out of water as he struggles for a response. "I am not on a pedestal," he growls. "You think you know everything about everyone in this entire house. You think you can judge us, don't you?"
Grantaire feels every word like a knife wound. "I liked you," he cries out. "I wanted to be a part of your family, fuck it! And you didn't care." He's crying. The world blurs in and out of focus, and he doesn't care. "Now, all I want you to do is disappear."
At the top of the stairs, Enjolras clings to the railing. "You think I didn't care?" he whispers, and he sounds broken. He clenches his fists. "Fine. get out." The words grind out of the monster on the stairs. Grantaire thinks more than ever that he hates him. "Leave. I don't want you here anymore." And he retreats into his room. Grantaire hears the door slam forcefully.
He leaves. There's really no point in him sticking around after that. He runs back to 45 Rue Plumet, which, by some miracle, hasn't been rented out again. Two days later, Bahorel drops off all of his stuff. Eponine stops by to chat every couple of days, and then weeks, and months, and then suddenly, her visits stop completely. Few of the others bother to contact him.
He turns to drink for comfort. It's really the only thing he knows anymore, and this time, there isn't anyone to pick him up when he falls. He tells himself that he's grateful, because the less people regulate him, the more he can forget. Once, he thinks he sees them in the crowd, but when he pushes through the mass of people, they've disappeared, and he's pretty sure he'd imagined the whole thing.
Montparnasse visits him once, to tell him that he's broken up with Eponine. Grantaire feels sorry for him. It's clear that Eponine's the only good thing that had ever happened to the man, and he's going downhill. He's more than a little drunk when Grantaire sees him, and Grantaire's not surprised. (Somehow, he doesn't think that 'Parnasse had been the one to initiate the dumping.)
Joly calls him twice, and both times, Grantaire can practically taste his happiness. It makes him sick. He blocks Joly after that. Bossuet calls him, then, and Grantaire doesn't pick up. (Knowing Bossuet, he'll just blame that on his luck.)
Jehan sends him a picture of the tattoo that Grantaire helped design. Despite himself, he can't bear to delete it. In the picture, Jehan's eyes are the closest to alive that Grantaire's ever seen them, and he'd liked the poet. Honestly, he's the only one that Grantaire really misses.
And then there's Enjolras. Enjolras never tries to reach out to him. For all Grantaire knows, Enjolras could be dead. (And for all Enjolras cares, Grantaire thinks, he could be dead as well.) For a while, Grantaire tries to hate Enjolras, but all that he can muster is fear, fear of the way he's hurt the man. Enjolras, he muses, was never a bad person. He was just cold, the way he'd been taught to be.
"You think I didn't care," Enjolras had said. And Grantaire knows that he still does, wherever he is, because Enjolras isn't the kind of person to just forget about friendship, or love, or trust. In every touch of warmth in the cold, Grantaire feels the revolutionary's prayers, and he hurts all the more for it.
Years later, Grantaire will sit at that same table, in that same café, drawing the same monster from the stairs for the first time since he'd walked out. The monster will have a pretty face, but there will be something behind his smile, a cold, deadly hate that will follow Grantaire to the grave. Years later, Grantaire will not remember the angel, only the demon that drove him away.
Years later, Enjolras will pull out the box he has hidden behind his formal-wear. He'll go through the drawings, and the photographs, and the small objects, and he'll cry. He'll cry because he missed his chance, and because he's never been good for anything except hurting people. He'll cry because he's never seen Grantaire's face the way everyone else saw it, and he never will. He'll cry because he's the one who sent him away.
Combeferre will find him like that in the morning. Years after that, Grantaire will be invited to Enjolras's funeral, but they can't know that yet, and so for the time, they must remain broken, frozen in time like they were that first moment that they met.
Years later, Grantaire's son will see a man speaking on a picnic table. He'll follow him, because that's what his father did, and that's what he is meant to do. Enjolras will always lead, and Grantaire will forever follow.
A/N: This was really long, I know. Thanks to everyone who stuck around 'til the end. I'd love to hear what people think about it.