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Grantaire is sitting in the third QSU meeting of the semester when he finally loses his quiet and un-opinionated demeanor.
Well, kind of. Éponine would tell you that he lost it when he decided to go to the opening QSU meeting in the first place but he pointed out that if she was going to be double majoring and dating someone, he was going to be spending a lot of time alone unless he made friends or met a romantic partner. The QSU – Queer Student Union, not Queer Straight Bullshit – seemed like it would kill two birds with one stone, and the events looked decent at times. God knows he didn’t want to talk to the pretentious assholes in his major. He didn’t need anyone to compete with for “most pretentious in conversation.”
The first meeting was pretty cool, it had free pizza and only one (weird) icebreaker, which Grantaire considered a win. The club president hadn’t been there, which Grantaire found odd until he learned that he was only absent because he was being held in the local jail for “vandalism” on the student plaza, and had insisted that his friends attend the QSU introductory social prior to bailing him out. In retrospect, Grantaire should have gotten out when he heard this. Instead, he was interested to learn about said vandalism, only to find out that it had been this mysterious leader who was responsible for washing away the homophobic chalk on the plaza and replacing it with queer positive writing. A noble cause, one that Grantaire could actually get behind. He thought it was pretty shitty that the freshman had to come onto campus for their first day of classes to see some anti-queer bullshit, and reasonable to want to rectify it. It was typical that the rectification did not last long, it sounded like the police’s first move after arresting the “vandal” spreading “queer propaganda” had been to wash said propaganda off.
“Liberal bastion, my ass,” Grantaire had muttered upon finding out. If he hadn’t already been fairly disillusioned with the bureaucratic fuckery that was public education when he first began his undergraduate career, he would be now. But alas, the sad fact of being a humanities major at a prestigious school with a flourishing S.T.E.M. side was lack of funding and disillusionment upon declaring.
Anyway, the club–or union, as the members repeatedly insisted upon–had seemed somewhat promising, not too horrible. He had showed up about ten minutes late to the second meeting due to an overtime seminar, managing to miss introductions, ice breakers, and pronouns. The meeting had been reasonably fun without the ice breakers. It was a game night of sorts. More importantly, their president was not a mere myth at this event, but was in the flesh, attempting to fit words like “Marxism” and “foco theory” into Scrabble. So, largely missing the point of what the enthusiastic one called “queer Scrabble”. But perhaps “mere myth” wasn’t adequate; he certainly looked like something out of a Homeric hymn.
Éponine had scoffed when he had told her this, looking pointedly at his glass of wine as if this being’s beauty had been fabricated by his two buck Chuck. Alas, not even Trader Joe’s finest could create such an Apollonian beauty out of nowhere.
Grantaire hadn’t spoken to Apollo that night, and thanks to his seminar running late, hadn’t even caught his name. However, to his delight, after a rousing game of Gay Battleship – where all the ships were named after gay couples who had famously been together, broken up, or seemed on the tenterhooks – with a very friendly (read: loud) guy named Courfeyrac, he was invited to join a group of them at a bar that Friday night. He had mentioned that he wasn’t twenty-one yet, to which the others just scoffed. Apparently, they knew a place. It was perfect timing, as Éponine had yet another date with Cosette that night. It seemed as though they were trying to make up for lost time. Friday night, then, saw both Grantaire and Éponine frantically preparing for the evening.
“You know, she literally saw you vomiting after you chugged half a bag of bagged wine at your first frat party. I don’t think she’ll stop liking you if your eyeliner is not perfectly even,” Grantaire commented, watching his roommate redo her eye makeup for the sixth time that afternoon. He dodged the hairbrush that came hurling his way, laughing.
“Fighting words, coming from someone who hasn’t been out all semester,” she snapped back.
“Fuck off,” Grantaire responded, flipping her off lightheartedly. “Help me pick out a shirt. You only have to impress one person, not even. I have to impress a whole bunch.”
“Wear the green flannel, it brings out your eyes,” she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of their shared closet, not even looking up from where she had moved on to fastidiously applying her lipstick.
“Isn’t that yours?” Grantaire asked, eyeing said flannel cautiously.
“Pretty sure it’s yours, I just wear it all the time. Anyway, it’s definitely clean, unless you’ve worn it since Tuesday. Which is more than I can say for most of your clothes, I might add,” Grantaire flipped her off again, shrugging on the shirt.
“Thanks,” he said, eying himself in the mirror. Not great, but as good as he’d ever get.
“No problem, asshole. Zip me up?”
“Hey, what’s the occasion? You’re pretty dressed up, even for a date,” he asked as he helped her into the definitely new black dress.
“Can’t a girl impress her girlfriend every once in a while?” Éponine asked coquettishly, fluttering her eyelashes. Grantaire raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “It’s the one year anniversary of when we really became friends,” she explained, somewhat reluctantly.
“Oh, when you stayed up all night talking about the boy that you followed to college and that she met in linguistics class before realizing that they were the same person?” Grantaire laughed.
“Fuck you,” she said cheerfully. “It worked out fine in the end, we’re in love and Marius is translating Slavic into Russian somewhere, happy as a clam.”
The doorbell rang just as Éponine was rushing to put her shoes on, muttering about how she was certain to be late. Grantaire opened it, expecting to see the bundle of kindness also known as Éponine’s girlfriend. Instead, he was greeted with the ball of energy known as Michel de ‘call me by my last name so help me god’ Courfeyrac.
“Hey, hope you don’t mind that I came to pick you up!” He said, grinning. “My roommate told me the address when I mentioned you were coming with us tonight, says he knows you and your….girlfriend?”
“Roommate!!!!” Éponine and Grantaire bellowed at once, shocked when they realized a third voice had joined them. A slim, freckly-faced man was standing behind Courfeyrac in the doorway.
“Marius!” Grantaire exclaimed. “Speak of the devil! I haven’t seen you in ages!”
“Well, it’s been a bit of a summer,” Marius explained, shrugging. “We can catch up at the bar – I couldn’t believe it when Courfeyrac said he knew you! I thought you were anti-on-campus organizations.” Grantaire wasn’t sure how to explain his presence at the QSU without bringing Éponine into it.
“He figured he should make friends who weren’t me,” she cut in, clearly sensing Grantaire’s discomfort. “And I see he’s made at least one.” She extended her hand to Courfeyrac, flashing her teeth at him in the semblance of a smile. “Éponine Thenardier, please see that my roommate gets back in one piece. I would hate to have to pay the rent all by myself. Now, if you boys don’t mind, I have a date.” With that, she grabbed her purse and strode out the door, stopping only to blow Grantaire a kiss and press another one to Marius’s cheek.
“Woah,” Courfeyrac said, staring after her with a somewhat shell-shocked look on his face.
“Yes, she does have that effect on people,” Marius said, patting Courfeyrac on the back companionably. “Her girlfriend is particularly taken by her. Cosette.”
“Wait, that’s your friend that –” Courfeyrac clearly recognized the name.
“Yep.”
“So her girlfriend is the one who you –”
“Yep.”
“Is her girlfriend anything like her?”
“Scary? No. Incredible? Yes.”
“Nice.”
Grantaire was laughing silently all throughout this exchange, making a note to tell Éponine about it later. His laughter soon faded, however, as they headed to the bar, the familiar knot of anxiety making its presence known in his stomach. There was a reason that Éponine was one of three friends he had on campus, and why he didn’t see Cosette and Marius enough. The idea of going out and making friends was anxiety inducing in itself. The actual act was insane. The walk continued and while Grantaire made small talk, it was a struggle not to throw up. He wished he had grabbed a drink before they left.
“So how do you know this place?” Grantaire asked, tugging on the back of his hair uncomfortably.
“Oh, our friend Musichetta owns it!” Courfeyrac grinned. “The main bartender, Feuilly, is one of our good buddies too. It’s a coffee shop – bar – situation, so it’s got all the good stuff. We all help out though, take shifts, so Musichetta doesn’t really charge us for the booze.” Grantaire raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Here it is!”
It was far enough away from the main streets that the crowd appeared to be there for the sole purpose of going to this particular bar. A hand painted sign creaked above the entrance, the words “La Musain” painted around a picture of a barrel and a French flag. It certainly looked like a bar Grantaire would picture as being in France. The voices spilling out of it broke the illusion, the noise clearly labelling La Musain as a place to be.
Courfeyrac swung the door open, not even blinking at the bouncer in the entrance, choosing instead to give him a hug. Marius waved his hand in greeting as he walked past him, relieving Grantaire of any remaining anxiety that they would, in fact, get stopped. If Marius’s baby face went ignored, then Grantaire would be fine. His heart stopped, however, when the bouncer said, “hang on a minute!”
“Are you in that boxing class thing?” he said, to Grantaire’s surprise. “The one in the student gym that meets at like ten on Mondays?” Grantaire nodded.
“Oh, I think I’ve seen you there!” He said, connecting the face with a loud, booming laugh and a pair of very fast fists. “Bahorel, right?” The bouncer – Bahorel – nodded, his face splitting into a wide grin.
“So Les Amis have invited you along, huh?” he asked. He must have seen Grantaire’s confusion, because he elaborated. “Sorry, it’s a bit of a joke we all have, since the bar is French, y’know? Anyway, Courfeyrac must like you. They try not to let just anyone go to La Musain with them.” Grantaire flushed, surprised and flattered.
“I guess? I met them at QSU.” Bahorel grinned.
“Cool. I want to go, but I have a stupid general ed course at the same time this semester,” he scowled briefly, before the wide grin slid back into place. “Anyway, I’ll probably join y’all later. Enjoy.” Grantaire waved goodbye, recognizing the dismissal for what it was and rejoining Courfeyrac, who had already managed to procure beers for himself, Grantaire, and Marius.
“C’mon, we’re all over there.” He said, gesturing to a rambunctious group sitting on stools in the back corner. Upon closer inspection, it appeared as though they were all sitting around several barrels. Grantaire grinned, he liked the barrel décor.
“Everyone, if you haven’t met him, this is Grantaire!” Courfeyrac announced as they walked up to the table. “Play nice, he’s new. But not too nice, he kicked my ass at Battleship.”
“Hi, Grantaire,” the table chorused. Grantaire waved awkwardly, sipping his beer to hide his flushing face. Courfeyrac gestured at a seat and pulled another one next to him.
Despite his initial trepidation, Grantaire soon felt his anxiety dissipating, a combination of drink and conversation. To his mild disappointment, Apollo wasn’t there, although it was likely that if he had been present, Grantaire wouldn’t have been able to speak at all. Instead, he got to know Jean Prouvaire, a poet who also had the somewhat dubious honor of being Grantaire’s fellow English major, and the only one who he didn’t hate on sight. He got along immediately with a pair he recognized from the QSU meetings, Joly and Bossuet. There was a beautiful woman sitting next to them who showed up shortly after he did, and appeared to be holding hands with one or both of them at all times, chatting to Marius as she did so. Next to Marius was another person Grantaire recognized from the QSU meetings as the person who had been patiently playing Scrabble with Apollo, a bespectacled and also ridiculously attractive person who introduced himself as “Combeferre and he/him pronouns, I think.”
The beautiful girl leaned forward and addressed him about an hour, and two more beers in. “Musichetta,” she introduced herself, finally allowing him to put a name with the face. The name was familiar – this must be the owner of La Musain. She looked quite young to own a business, which Grantaire found impressive. “I hear from Pontmercy over here that your roommate is dating the infamous Cosette?”
“She’s not infamous!” Marius cried, fiercely coming to his ex-girlfriend’s defense. “Infamous implies famous for being bad. She’s just talked about a lot, because I dated her for a bit and because she’s wonderful.”
“Right, okay, sorry – the wonderful Cosette,” Musichetta corrected herself. Grantaire nodded, unsure where this was going. “Anyway, you must get your roommate and her girlfriend to join our little gang. There’s entirely too few girls – only me and sometimes Prouvaire.” Jehan saluted her at this, tapping at a button on their jacket that said “they/them”.
“Not today!” They grinned. “Chetta’s right, we’re entirely bereft.”
“Cosette will almost certainly be willing,” Grantaire agreed. “And she can probably talk Éponine into it.” Musichetta cheered at that, and gestured to the redheaded bartender – Feuilly, probably – for another round of drinks. Several glasses of almost certainly not beer appeared in front of them.
“I made this cocktail up out of leftover bottles one night and it ended up being surprisingly good,” Musichetta explained, rolling her eyes. “We call it Les Amis, I guess. We’re the only ones who drink it here.” Grantaire laughed and took a sip. It tasted like friendship.
Grantaire woke up the next morning with a minimal hangover and several new numbers programmed into his phone. He did more activities before the next QSU meeting than he had through his entire first year of college except with Éponine. He and Jehan went to a poetry reading on Saturday night, basking in the language and free wine. He swung by the bar on Sunday to give Musichetta and Feuilly a hand moving kegs around as a thank you for the free alcohol on Friday. Monday, Bahorel greeted him at the gym and they practiced together for the whole free box period. That same day, he had lunch with Joly and Bossuet. The entire time, he and Courfeyrac exchanged gifs via text message – Courf went so far as to tag him in a meme. He was truly living.
Five hours before the QSU meeting, news broke that the chancellor of the university had been hiding public university funds and using them for his own ends, rather than…well, not doing that. By the time Grantaire entered the QSU meeting, discussion about it was in full swing. He slumped down in the seat next to Marius, who had apparently decided to begin attending the meetings.
“What’s going on?” he asked. Apollo – Enjolras, apparently, and wasn’t that a fucking mouthful? – was pacing back and forth, muttering things to Combeferre and Courfeyrac.
“Enjolras is angry because some of those funds should have been used for a queer resource center on campus and instead we’ve been given a temporary hold for an indeterminate amount of time on building it while the chancellor hires a public trainer,” Bossuet butt in. “I bet you anything he’s rearranging the QSU schedule right now to address it.”
Grantaire hadn’t heard him talk much at the board game meeting, so when Apollo calls the meeting to order, he’s blown away. His voice is clear and ringing, and he is even more beautiful when he’s passionate.
“Comrades –” he begins, and Grantaire has to hold back a snort at this, because who the fuck does this guy think he is? They might be at a supposedly liberal school but nobody starts sentences like that anymore. “Today’s meeting is supposed to be about being an LGBTQ+ student on this campus. It’s supposed to be about how to find resources to help you, which professors will allow you to avoid readings because of hate-language-specific triggers, which classes include queer representation, and where to go when you need a queer-specific space, but when it’s not a Tuesday night.” He pauses here, presumably for dramatic effect. “Unfortunately, I cannot provide all that information. We will give you the information we have, and answer questions to the best of our ability. However, there is one thing I can say for absolute certain – there is not a queer resource center and there is not a queer specific space, because the supposed leader of our university is greedy, and robs us, the students, of the very things we’re paying for.” Grantaire looked around. His new friends were in agreement with the golden god. Then again, everything he was saying was true, so far. Nothing to argue with.
“This is not the root of the problem,” he continued. “This is a symptom of a much deeper issue. The chancellor’s greed is typical of those in power; they are able to take money from those relying on them to fairly distribute it and so they do, thinking only of the ways to enrich themselves with as little work as possible.”
Still technically true, still completely ridiculous. But what did he expect from a man who began by saying ‘comrades’. Grantaire needs something to keep himself quiet, so he begins doodling. He doesn’t trust himself to not speak otherwise.
“I can tell you which teachers won’t discriminate against you for being openly queer. The good news is that the list of teachers who will do so is miniscule, as far as we know. Our citizens, especially our fellow students, are for the most part, accepting and more tolerant than we dared imagine only a few years ago.” Grantaire focuses more on his drawing. Keeping his mouth shut has always been an issue, but he doesn’t want to alienate his new friends. “However, that is not going to fix our problem. The problem is rooted deeply in the systems surrounding us. It is rooted in the bourgeoisie desire for financial and social advancement for a single individual, even in the hallowed halls of an educational institution, rather than the advancement of the populace. The capitalist greed that is embedded in this university is destroying the purity of education.” Grantaire couldn’t help himself, he snorted quietly at that phrase. Not quietly enough, however. He suddenly felt as though the righteous fury of a thousand suns was being directed at him.
“Do you have a problem with what I’m saying?” Apollo was definitely the right name for him. Burning anger, willing to turn your ears into ass’s ears should you make the wrong move, etc. “Is the corruption of the university funny to you?” Shit, he was coming closer.
“I just think the phrase ‘purity of education’ is kind of elitist, that’s all,” Grantaire said, demonstrating his remarkable inability to shut his goddamn mouth when he needed to. “Education has never been pure, unless you’re operating on a definition of ‘pure’ as white, upper middle class to elite, straight men. In that case, by all means, continue defending the purity of education. But if that isn’t the case, then you have to admit that the university is not a sacred place of learning, supposedly free from the political tides and the so-called capitalist greed.”
“It should be, it’s a public university,” he shot back. God, he was beautiful when he was angry.
“I notice how it isn’t free, despite that. What does non-profit mean to these people, anyway?” Grantaire scoffed. “They’re taking money from us, they’re putting the money to football or chancellors. It sucks, but that’s the way of things.”
“So you’re saying there’s nothing we can do about it?” This question appeared to be rhetorical, and Grantaire bit his lip as Enjolras continued on with his speech. “But there is something we can do about it. There are measures one can take, demonstrations that we can plan. It’s been done before. It’s been done here.” His eyes were shining. Oh god. He was going to do it. He was going to –
“After all, there’s a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart, that you can’t take part! You can’t even passively – what is your problem?” Grantaire’s snort must have been even louder this time, loud enough for Apollo to stop playing his lyre and reciting Mario Savio’s speech.
“I just think it’s funny that you’re reciting Savio’s speech when discussing capitalist greed regarding the university as inspiration. First of all, Savio has nothing to do with being LGBTQ+ on campus, although I see why you’re upset about the funding. But it’s not exactly an example of successfully stopping financial exploitation of students,” Grantaire shrugged. “After all, Regan only decided to implement tuition after the Free Speech Movement as an attempt to get students to feel as though they had to attend class. It was a measure to stop protest, y’know. I attended a lecture about it last year.” Enjolras, who at this point was standing over him, looked taken aback.
“Really?” he said, his voice returned to a normal tone.
“Unfortunately.”
“Can you get me those sources?” He was business-like now, a complete shift from the glowing presence that had been towering over him only a few seconds earlier. Dumbstruck, Grantaire nodded. Enjolras flashed him a grin. “Cool, thanks.”
“I’ve been derailed.” Enjolras said, striding back to the front of the room. “But perhaps that’s for the best right now. I’m going to return with a plan of attack – preferably one that is both more focused on LGBTQ+ students and doesn’t have any gaping historical flaws in inspirational speeches.” If the grin hadn’t already killed Grantaire, the fact that Enjolras then winked at him would have. “Back to our regularly scheduled queerness. Combeferre, take it away with LGBTQ+ friendly STEM classes and ways to correct transphobic rhetoric in science-based discussions?” Combeferre nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he began to play a PowerPoint that was somehow both serious and completely covered in glittering rainbows.
Grantaire was in a daze for the rest of the meeting, doodling absentmindedly, unsure what had just happened to him. As he was standing up to go, however, he felt a hand clasp his arm.
“Grantaire, right?” It was Enjolras. Grantaire silently nodded. “Cool. I’m Enjolras, I realized we’ve never been properly introduced.”
“Alas, I try to give someone my name before I tear down their beliefs,” Grantaire managed half a smirk, nothing compared to his usual one. Luckily, Enjolras seemed to find his half-hearted attempt at humor funny.
“You’ll have to try a little harder to tear me down, I’m afraid,” he said, smiling again. Grantaire felt like he was floating. “I enjoyed that conversation, and I hear you’re going to be joining Les Amis?”
“God, you make it sound like a cult.” Enjolras gave him an entirely too serious look at that, before smiling directly at Grantaire for a third time. His knees were weak.
“Hey, before you go –” Enjolras said, changing the subject as he moved to pack up his own bag. “Is there any way I could have the drawing you made during the meeting? I saw it when I was yelling at you and I really liked it.” Grantaire stared at him, stunned.
“What? You want that doodle?”
“You call that a doodle? Jeez, I don’t think I could handle seeing a drawing – it’d be too good. Anyway, you don’t have to say yes, but I thought it was funny.” Grantaire nodded, completely taken aback, both by the request and the compliment. He pulled out his notebook and ripped the doodle in question out, handing it to Enjolras.
On it was a cartoon-style picture of Enjolras standing on a platform next to a guillotine, with the offending chancellor clearly about to get his head chopped off. In bubble letters at the top of the drawing, it said “LGBTQ”, underneath which Grantaire had drawn a speech bubble coming from Enjolras’s mouth with the words, “Let’s Guillotine the Bourgeoisie Tonight, Qomrades” scrawled inside it.
Enjolras stared at it for one anxiety-filled second and then let out a clear laugh, making Grantaire’s knees – if possible – even weaker. He slid it carefully into a notebook as if it were something precious and then grinned at Grantaire.
“I think you’re going my way, right?” He pointed toward where his apartment must be. Grantaire nodded. “Perfect. You can walk with us.” He strode out of the room, not waiting for Grantaire’s response. He, of course, followed mutely.
“Come on!” Enjolras called, striding ahead of Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Marius – apparently the others walking in the same direction, although Grantaire thought they might all live together or near one another. “We have things to do!”
“Do we?” Combeferre asked, shaking his head at his friend’s apparently normal odd behavior.
“Yes!” Enjolras called back. “Let’s guillotine the bourgeoisie tonight, qomrades!” Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh at the airy tone with which Enjolras said such a bizarre sentence, and the looks of confusion on the others’ faces.
Perhaps losing his cool was not the worst thing that could have happened.