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1. Anything
Grantaire was sitting at his usual spot in the Café Musain. Lesgle had just pushed past him with a rather hesitant step, careful not to get too close or Grantaires carelessness might rub off. Enjolras is like a beacon of patriarchal hope as he stands before the crowd (mob) of schoolboys. Grantaire would laugh at their little planning if he wasn’t afraid they’d kick him out.
It’s only when Enjolras approaches him and gives him a withering look that Grantaire remembers why he’s here; he is here because Enjolras needs him. He’s here because despite everything else, personal safety included, he would follow Enjolras into hell if it meant they’d still be together. This was essentially what sacrifice is, too bad Enjolras just thinks of him as a no good drunk.
“I need someone to take care of the passageway.” Enjolras projects to the room, his attention restored.
Grantaire stands, moving closer to the center of the room, “I offer my service.”
The look Enjolras sends him is one of shock; it’s soon replaced by a deep scowl. “I’m in no mood for your talk today Grantaire, we have business. Be serious.”
“I am wild.” He says rebelliously, and the grin moves freely now because the look Enjolras is giving him has Grantaire just about fighting back the laughter that is threatening to spill forth at any second. If it did, it surely wouldn’t help his case. Enjolras gets this look about him whenever he’s furious, one that Grantaire finds less intimidating and more mildly agitated. Enjolras has his mouth turned down in a frown and his eyebrows are pinched.
“Go get drunk Grantaire.” He says tightly, returning his attention to his men.
“Enjolras let me help.” Grantaire insists, he reaches out and grabs a hold of Enjolras sleeve and tightens his stance in case Enjolras decides to yank himself away. If there is one thing Grantaire is good at, aside from drinking games, it is the fact that he won’t give up; persistence.
“What will you do?” Enjolras asks, and maybe Grantaire is imagining it but his tone seems lighter. The scowl isn’t there anymore and Enjolras doesn’t seem upset. There is something in his eye that would suggest that he hopes this is a time that Grantaire is being serious, of course, luckily for Enjolras he is being rather serious for a change.
“Anything.” Grantaire breathes, closer now even more so as he says that one simple word right next to Enjolras ear. He doesn’t think his voice came out sultry or sexy or anything of the sort, but it looks to have riled Enjolras up just as he had wanted. His desired effect had come to fruition.
“I’ll black your boots.” He adds lamely, just for the benefit of the men still watching them. They shouldn’t be witnesses for this. No one should be, but if there weren’t witnesses then Grantaire wouldn’t have nearly as much fun toying with Enjolras; making him wild.
Enjolras jerks back, "If you want to help, than stay out of my way."
Grantaire slinks back to where he was sitting and apparently there are several protests because not even four minutes later Enjolras is trudging over to where Grantaire has his feet up, a bottle cradled in one hand.
"You're in charge of the passage." Don't let them down.
Those are the unspoken words that Enjolras doesn't dare say aloud, but those are the ones that are present in his eyes.
Grantaire has won this round.
2. I Believe in You
Enjolras’ words are becoming slurred in Grantaires mind. The stress and the alcohol going to his head. The table was littered with empty bottles, aside from the half empty one still clutched in Grantaires hand; the liquid sloshed back and forth in an arc.
Enjolras' is present in the corner of his eye, dancing back and forth like an untamed fire that Grantaire wants to capture and keep to himself.
It's only when Enjolras retreats up the stairs and gets caught with a sliver of the sun that seems to set his whole frame aglow, when Grantaire realizes how wrong he is. He could never capture all that Enjolras is, nor keep it to himself. He's a force that can not be tamed despite his clear cut lifestyle he'd never give in. Enjolras stands for so much as opposed to Grantaire. His life's about a good drink and a nice dream. That's all he can hope for these days and he doesn't know why he doesn't just leave. He gets very close to though, when Bouset informs him -with a very deep frown- that Enjolras needs him. Bouset looks at him as if Grantaire will suddenly decide to not help in this cause, as though he is such a coward to abandon those he stands side by side with. He brushes away the small sting that Bouset’s words leave him with, his mind set on Enjolras once more.
He walks up the stairs with a different spring but still paces himself, can't seem too excited or people will start to believe that he actually cares. He just can't have that. So he goes over to where Enjolras is huddled in a corner, observing as always.
Their eyes meet and it’s as though the world spins faster for just those five steps it takes Grantaire to be a breath away from him and then everything stills at a woozy pace.
Enjolras signals him over as soon as he’s within sight. The rest of the Barricade Boys part to let Grantaire find his way to the center of everything. They talk and argue and Enjolras complains - as he seems to do an endless amount of nowadays - about Grantaire and how his breath reeks of booze. He questions him on whether he truly believes in anything anymore and that could be the very question that stirs up all these feelings of regret.
“How can you have an opinion when you stand for nothing, believe in nothing?” Enjolras growls, fists clenched as he tries to keep from flat out decking Grantaire.
“You’re wrong, dear leader, I believe in something.” Grantaire is good at smarting off and laughs at the simple fact that some of the men have paused in their preparations to make sure they are not needed to break them apart.
“Pray tell then, what exactly is it that has the illustrious Grantaire believing? What do you put your faith in?”
“I believe in you.” Grantaire mumbles, not used to the biting edge that no longer seems like a joke on Enjolras tongue. He feels oddly silly as he stands in front of these men and tells Enjolras in no uncertain terms why he’s here and alive and by his side.
But Enjolras doesn’t balk and doesn’t question his response, just pushes it aside. Grantaire doesn’t know what bothers him more, the fact that Enjolras doesn’t read into what he’s saying or that Enjolras might not even care.
He drowns himself in drinks and women to try and forget. But no amount of drinking could ever erase the look of Enjolras face in his mind. He fears he may never escape it.
3. Do You Permit It?
The final act is nearing. Grantaire can feel it in his bones as everyone runs around him and bumps into him, some ignore him even more than before. No one is in the mood for jokes now, not anymore. Grantaire’s ears ring with the sound of gunfire and his nose is clogged with the smell of chaos and burning, he feels as though there’s only one option for him as everyone settles in for the night.
Enjolras darts away to check on the men that have taken up with the barricade, which is essentially everyone but Grantaire. He decides to do something he’s good at with the time he’s got left, since there’s no way in hell he’s abandoning this cause. Belief or not, he won’t let Enjolras go down alone. He vows this to no God, just himself. But this does not mean he’s going to spend his last night in sorrow for what is to come, surely death will still be waiting after a bottle of absinthe. He downs the bottle as though it’s water and ignores the acidic taste slipping down his throat as smooth as silk.
He must have fallen asleep where he sat, bottle empty in front of him, because he wakes to a glow so bright it feels like the sun has a personal vendetta against him as his head pounds and his eyes can only stay open for a pinch before they shut resolutely, leaving his mind to sift through so much of his hangover ridden thoughts. There’s the smell of smoke and gunpowder all around him, some things can’t even change in one night. He even has a sick feeling deep in his gut that if he were to stagger over to the large open - and cracked - window, he would see the bodies of his friends littering the streets, their blood painting the cobblestones a muddy crimson.
Grantaire wants to shout in anger but he’s still too drunk to do much of anything, he falls out of consciousness when he hears more pangs of bullets hitting their mark; he wonders which of his friends that bullet has ridden him of.
The sounds of the fights have all but stopped and that is when Grantaire awakens, when the battle is already lost, and he looks around him as his eyes peel open. The soldiers have cornered Enjolras, leaving Grantaire to wallow in his drunken sleep, not deeming him important enough to be added to the message of death they have left in their wake. That just won’t do.
Enjolras is startled by the sound Grantaire makes as he stumbles forward, he’s eerily pleased to meet the eyes of the reason behind his devotion. At least he was granted this much before deaths embrace. The soldiers are surprised too as he lets out a small cry, “Viva La Rebelion!”
Hell, Grantaire shocks himself with that statement. He still does not believe, he never will, not in causes such as these. Not unless he can find Enjolras leading the way; ever the beacon of light and life.
Enjolras is stunned but he holds it together as though he expected Grantaire to come through in the end, and maybe he did, but there is no time to ask or hope that Enjolras wanted anything more from him than subordination as opposed to Grantaire who had always wanted companionship and something he never dared to admit out loud; even if he could feel the way Enjolras responded to everything he said with a little bit of spite but never hatred, something very far from hatred, something Enjolras would call a bit of admiration but Grantaire would label as a bit of love. He understands now, that what he’s wanted all along is this. The rewarding look Enjolras slides over him as he staggers through the crowd of soldiers - even they respect Enjolras enough to allow him the one courtesy of dying on his own terms - until he is right by Enjolras’ side.
“Do you permit it?” Grantaire questions, looking straight at Enjolras, his eyes soaking up everything of this marvelous man in front of him before he no longer has the chance.
Enjolras knows what Grantaire is asking of him, and Grantaire knows he will not deny him this right to die on his own two feet...for a cause he never wanted to give himself over to, but for a man he’d always believed in.
Grantaire feels something warm slip into his hand and he thinks for a brief second that it’s Enjolras hand, only letting that be confirmed as Enjolras lifts their joined hands in rebellion one last time. He doesn’t even feel the first bullet hit, but he’s grateful that he won’t live long enough to see Enjolras die. Instead he feels the world drop away and his knees hit the ground.
The scene is poetic really, to outsiders looking in, the soldiers feel a pang of remorse as they realize what they have done to someone so devoted. They do not bother moving the bodies for a very long time, out of respect or duty it’s unclear. Grantaire would be pleased to know that his body ended up slouched next to Enjolras’ who had died standing against a wall. Even in death he would not fall. So there they were, the patriot and the man who never believed in anything.
The man who only ever believed in one thing. One person. One man. One love. Enjolras.
4. A New Beginning
He's not born with the name Grantaire but he knows that he once was. The alcohol taste floods his mouth like a memory and he realizes it's been far too long since that hot June night. There are days when he wanders the streets of France looking for a tuft of blond curly locks or a flash of crimson red. He looks for five years to no avail.
But not all is lost, along the way he meets several of the past barricade boys for even in death there is no escape from the bonds of brotherhood. Even without Apollo they're able to find the path to righteousness; striking up rebellion wherever they go. But this being the 21st century rebellion is something different, what were known as traitors are liberals. It's a fresher newer age and he loves it. Everything would be more enjoyable if only he could find his Apollo. Another thing about this new age, he finally has the right to call Apollo his, if Apollo will have him, in every sense of the way. What was hidden and shamed before is now common.
Bouset and Lesgle are quick at work on new banners, there names are different too but he can't help keep it all straight in his head. He always refers to himself as Grantaire anyways so what's the point? Can he not be two men at once? All the bravery and charisma of who he is now coupled with the knowledge and love, passion, of his past. It's a combination that works wonderfully without his alcoholic tendencies. He thinks, with a certain fondness, that this life is much better. If he could only find his missing piece.
He's twenty-three now and the crowd of people are making his job increasingly difficult. He's almost close to shoving the goddamn flyers in everyone's faces because no one seems to be paying attention. The swarm is keeping him off balance and then the inevitable happens, someone turns around too fast knocking into him. He's five seconds from hitting the floor when someone else catches his upper arm and that grip is firm but gentle at the same time. A warmth in the coldness of the park where he -and the rest of the alliance- is trying in vain to spread the word on the next protest in Musain square.
He gets his two feet firmly planted on the ground, "Thanks mate," he says to the stranger, looking to meet liquid hazel eyes and blond hair, no more curls but he's wearing a red hoodie and that's fucking close enough. The stranger introduces himself, but Grantaire is already so far gone. All he hears is Enjolras.
It isn't the smell of strong alcohol that floods his nostrils and it isn't a hazy film that glosses his vision this time. Instead it's the smell of gunpowder and smoke, of sweat slicked bodies and fear. The golden film is back framing the man in front of him. The flyers end up scattered on the floor and for once Grantaires clumsiness is not to blame! Not that anyone will believe him when he re-tells the story, but he knows the truth. It's the blond haired man from his past that slips into place in Grantaires arms.
Where he's always belonged.