Work Text:
No one ever considers the non-human guardians that watch over the city of Paris, high atop parapets with visages carved from cold hard stone. The watchers whose eyes never close. They see everything and nothing at once, doomed to never take part in the city life they care for.
But every now and then, and opportunity comes along: a flick of the wrist, a caught cuff, a brush to free it.
And stone breathes.
Grantaire learns very quickly two things: one, that he is ugly, and two, he does not care.
He was a young gargoyle by most standards, built with shaky drunkard hands to replace a damaged brother, doomed to view the beauty of the angels and the saints, but no hope of reaching them.
The third thing he learns is: he is still a gargoyle, and as such, he can only guard the gates, he cannot enter into paradise.
Breathing for the first time is a challenge, especially when there are all these new limbs that move seemingly with a mind of their own. He gasps for breath, and pokes himself in the eye. He tries to take a few step, and falls flat on his unfortunate face when his arms don’t shoot forward to catch him as the would for any man.
But he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
It’s overwhelming at first, and that never really changes, he simply adjust to all the constant sensation. Sometimes he has to find a dark corner to hide in as not to call too much attention to himself. He sees too much with his eyes still set to take in the men and women of the city in all their glory and all their horror.
Then he discovers art.
And after that: wine.
There are rules, of course, there are always rules.
He must not be caught outside after sun up, for he will turn to stone wherever he is, and if he is caught in direct sunlight outside his place on the cathedral, he will turn to dust.
He cannot tell anyone what he is.
He cannot unfurl his wings in the twilight hours, though they are best kept hidden at all times any way.
And the last rule is he must find the one who gave him life, and give his life in service, or he will stay stone longer and longer until he never turns back.
Grantaire doesn’t know how he knows these rules. He just does.
So Grantaire looks for an angel born in flesh.
Only, as it turns out, finding one person that he has never seen in a city of millions is rather difficult. And he is easily distracted.
He makes another discovery in women. Women of all kind and shapes and colours and sizes. He revels in them when they spare him the time.
And then he discovers men.
And he discovers painting and boxing and dance and fight. He discovers music and books and poetry and sculpture. He discovers stories from other doctrines, from the Greek to the Nordic to anything he can get his claws - hands - on. He discovers flowers and fresh fruit and warm bread.
And he discovers absinthe.
Grantaire finds his angel entirely by accident. In fact, it could be said his angel finds him, in the backroom of a cafe with bad wine and good atmosphere.
The angel is far more than an angel. For the first time Grantaire questions that the gods may exist after all, and here one stands before him. Golden and sure and cold as stone, his Apollo.