Chapter Text

The stars were burning in the night sky. The hallways were dark, only lit by the pale emergency lighting above the doorframes. They tinted the hard wood floor and walls green, leaving the rest of the corridor in black shadows. The staircase beyond the glass door across the hallway, on the contrary, was floodlit and drenched in yellow. The harsh light there hurt the eyes of the late passers-by, the single young man who made his way upstairs was squinting against the lamps suspended from the ceiling. He yawned and padded further upstairs, passing one hallway after another, setting one foot in front of the other.

One of the perks of the lodgings the Academy of the Fine Arts offered their students, were the studios, workshops and rehearsal rooms that were free to use. The close proximity to their living quarters, shared flats under the roof, made it even more desirable to attain one of the rooms that were reserved for students of music, art, sculpting and drama. Every student was assigned a room upon moving in that they were allowed to furnish and decorate according to their preferences and conception. The rehearsal rooms for drama students were in the basement, studios and music rooms on the first and second floor, the remaining two floors housed the rooms they all lived in, each one different. The 19^th century townhouse, an old sandstone building with statues on every pediment, was enthroned over the busy street with its shops, ice cream parlours and independent coffee shops, all mainly frequented by the students who lived on caffeine and mania. Throughout the day, the street never stopped moving. It was during the nocturnal hours that it got quieter outside. The busses, cars and people fell silent and deserted the picturesque setting of the academy and the surrounding buildings.

It was easier to work at night, when no-one else worked and no other noise disrupted the cognitive process that was so essential to finishing important pieces. He had needed just a little more time but his eyes threatened to fall close without his permission and he had decided to finish another night. If he would finish at all. He lacked inspiration. The deadlines they were given by their tutors were up for negotiation most of the times but at some point they had to deliver. He needed something to draw, urgently. Instead of focussing on the task at hand, he had worked himself into a drunken stupor, finishing the last bottles of cheap alcohol he had stocked up on in his studio. He staggered towards the next flight of stairs, hands reaching out in front of him to grasp the wooden handrail to pull the deadweight of his body up onto the next step. Everything going on in his brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool, his thoughts were neatly stashed away, just about out of reach. Sometimes, he enjoyed the numbness alcohol induced. Sometimes, he hated nothing more. There was no knowing which of the two it would be until it was done, until he had drunk too much to stand straight or hold a paint brush. It angered him because he should know better than behaving like the drunkard he turned into whenever he ran out of luck and inspiration. He disgusted himself and for a moment he had to stop because he could not figure out whether he had to throw up or not.

He didn’t and by the time he reached the next landing he could almost breathe without feeling like the steps were coming up to meet him. The lights were switched on in the corridor to the right. There were a few music rooms down there, he knew because Combeferre had his on this particular corridor where he kept all his cello supplies.

His drunken mind told him to check and switch off the light, if need be. Opening the glass door worked, he was pleased with himself. Grinning, he walked down the hallway, checking the small windows in the doors. The rooms beyond were dark and unoccupied. Of course they were, no other soul in the entire building was as self-destructive and messed up as he was. He cursed himself silently as he swayed on his feet and tried to remember which direction he had come from. The hallways always looked the same, empty wall space superseded the never ending line of dark brown doors, a single table and a wobbly chair that were never used because the music students were notorious for running through the hallways with their heads either bowed or in the clouds without looking left or right before locking themselves into their rooms.

There was music. Somewhere on this corridor someone played the piano. It sounded beautiful. He tried to remember why he knew the melody, where he had heard it before and why there were tears springing to his eyes. A faint memory of garden parties, polite conversation and his mother’s red cheeks forced him to lean against the wall next to the glimmer of light on the linoleum floor, pouring out of one of the small windows. Schumann, he realised, Kinderszenen. His mother had forced him to learn them by heart, back when she insisted on piano lessons that were wasted on him. He thought to have developed an aversion for the whole book of sheet music but as he stood next to the closed door, following the melody in his mind, almost humming along. What kept him from it was the realisation that if he heard the piano, whoever played would hear him, too. The person in there went through the whole book, one piece after another; and he listened, his ears strained. Images flurried in front of his eyes, memories of his nanny and the gardener’s son one summer, dancing with him around one of the trees in the orchard. Another, his mother serving a fruity dessert at a garden party and sending him off without it because he knocked over a glass. Despite this, it seemed a good memory.

His drunken brain muddled it all together and when he heard the familiar first notes of Träumerei. The piece had been his favourite as a kid and still was, apparently. The impulse took over after just a few bars. He needed to know, he needed to see. The soft, melancholic tune wavered through the hallway, filled with the passion and expressiveness of someone who understood. His brain wanted to know the kindred spirit, the other soul that used the nocturnal hours to practise.

He turned around and peeked through the window, only to see an angel. The boy sitting at the piano was concentrating solely on his fingers on his keys. A few light, curly strands fell into his face out of the ponytail that held his long hair back. They framed his marble profile, accentuated the alabaster undertones of his skin and caused the light reflecting on his sharp features to appear like a halo, glimmering with an aura of immense sadness. His fingers moved over the keyboard nimbly and with ease, fingertips stroking the ivory carefully with every note he played. He was mesmerising in the way his body seemed to curl around the sound he coaxed out of the instrument, every clear note an open love letter to the piece he played and the air that surrounded it. He moved on the piano stool with the gracefulness of an acrobat, simple movements meaning so much more, unknowing that he was being watched through the door. His expression was peaceful and calm, reflecting nothing but the apparent effect the music had on him. He looked vulnerable under the harsh light in the Spartan furnished room. There wasn’t anything but the piano and the stool, no posters or photos on the wall. It made it easy for the secret spectator to concentrate his entire drunken consciousness on the angel playing the romantic tunes with fervour and the passion of someone who knew how it was to feel the solitude and loneliness both late night sessions and the music were prone to induce.

At some point, he must have stopped breathing, his throat closed up and he needed to avert his eyes from the sight he had been drinking in like he usually only downed liquor. The salt of tears stung in his eyes and his cheeks were wet of tears shed without his notice.

The music stopped. After having finished Kind im Einschlummern, a lullaby, no new cue into the last piece followed. It took him a moment to think about what this could mean in connection with the legs of the piano stool scraping over the floor boards, but when the realisation hit, he scrambled to reach the staircase before the music room door opened. His brain, sobered up by the panic and terror of possibly getting caught, worked better now, allowing him to retreat in near silence until he had reached his own flat under the roof. His flatmates were asleep on the living room, they were curled up and entangled with each other. He tried to sneak past them without making a sound, they looked too peaceful to be disturbed. Once he had closed his door, he merely stripped out of his clothes and fell facedown onto his bed. Before he fell asleep, he grabbed his phone and earbuds, pulled up Schumann’s Kinderszenen and closed his eyes.

There was no telling whether this was the eventual reason for the dreams he had after falling asleep. The blonde angel that ran from him, just out of reach, the way he tried to catch him, always barred at the last moment. He did not sleep peacefully but it was enough for him to feel rested when he woke up again.

From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, he knew something had changed. Colours, shapes and emotions were swirling through his mind, and all of a sudden, his thoughts made sense. He all but jumped out of bed, dressed in one of his paint splattered coats and ran past his two roommates who were having breakfast in their shared kitchen, without explaining why he bolted, clad in only his old work coat over his boxer shorts.

He was finally inspired.

***

‘What the hell is going on?’ Jehan slammed the door shut and strolled through his studio towards the comfortable old divan in the middle of the room and flopped onto the collection of throw pillows that had been gathered there, ‘Explain yourself!’

Grantaire grunted under his breath, not looking up from the canvas he was working on. He could hear Jehan move on the divan, probably trying to find a comfortable position without pushing pillows off it. A deed almost impossible to succeed at, he knew that from experience.

‘I’m talking to you, Grantaire,’ Jehan’s voice grew in volume, their mode shifted, ‘I received a very disturbing message from Joly. At first, I did not want to believe you of all people would possibly storm out of your room in your boxer shorts, but alas, I can see your legs.’

Grantaire turned around, fastening his work coat around his chest, ‘I don’t see how any of it is your business.’

‘Well, you have shocked the poor Joly, apparently. Believe me when I say that message was a joy to wake up to. What happened?’

‘I had an idea that needed to be taken to a canvas. I succeeded, so far and will finally be able to hand something in,’ he wiped his hands at the cloth he kept at his work station, ‘Did they take a vote and send you?’

‘You know they did,’ Jehan let their legs dangle over the armrest, ‘but beyond the joy to see you sober, yet still in a funny state – it is wonderful to see you work out of passion, rather than compulsion. May I take a look? A sneak peek?’

‘Knock yourself out,’ Grantaire turned to his paints, ‘I’m still going to work so don’t get in the way.’

They blew him a kiss before getting up to walk towards the painting Grantaire was working on. He had put it on a sturdy easel since the canvas was bigger than any they had seen him work on before.

‘This is bigger than the last one, isn’t it? It looks different.’

‘It’s just a thought I had,’ Grantaire stepped back in front of the canvas, close enough that his nose almost touched the wet paint, ‘I hope to capture it in all its emotions.’

Jehan’s presence did not bother him. They visited often, whenever they had a spare minute in between rehearsals and their studies. Grantaire had purchased the divan for them in the first place, after they had complaint about having to sit on the ground whenever they visited. The conversations they had propelled his imagination and inspiration more than any spirit or liquor could. He could rely on Jehan’s honest opinion of his work, his criticism, approval or dismissal. With the piece he was working on the pressure was high. He had enormous expectations of himself that were met by Jehan’s opinion most of the times. Grantaire could not tell whether he had captured the emotion he attempted to display correctly, therefore, he appreciated Jehan’s good eye whenever they came by to visit.

They could stand side by side for hours and Jehan would sense when Grantaire wanted to move and make way for him without any difficulties occurring. In this position, Grantaire allowed them to follow the creative process he went through as every stroke of his brush brought more colour and life to the canvas before them.

He tried to capture the dream he had had, the exact sequence that had him leave the apartment in his underwear. One particular image had been burned to his memory; the dreamlike fantasy of an angel, standing at a cliffside, body half turned away from the spectator. The long, golden hair was blown into the marble face by strong sea winds whilst a hand tried to push it back behind one ear, obscuring the face even more than the hair already did. Solely visible, the eyes of his angel looked out of the picture and met the spectator eye to eye, an unspoken question trapped in their expression. Grantaire had spent the first hours of the morning with different sketches of eyes, redrawing and crossing them out until he was satisfied with the outcome. Transferring them to the canvas had taken up a large portion of what had been supposed to be his lunch break but by the time Jehan had waltzed into his studio, he had finished the whole head and got to work on the body.

‘This is magnificent.’

‘You think so?’

‘Upon mine honour I doth swear.’

‘Stop it.’

‘I mean it, R. This painting is taking my breath away. You have outdone yourself – and I don’t even want to know where the idea for this came from. It’s plain beautiful.’

‘That’s the first time I’ve heard you use the word ‘plain.’’

‘Mock me all you like, I hear none of it. I’m in love.’

‘Bit strong, don’t you think?’

The silence that followed his question was only interrupted by Grantaire’s own irregular breaths. Jehan had taken a step back to take the painting in and frowned slightly at the way their friend fiddled with the brush in his hands.

They cleared their throat and inhaled deeply, wincing only slightly at the paint fumes they inhaled, ‘I don’t know where the idea for this came from, R. All I know is that I am looking at a masterpiece. I have seen most of your work up until today so I don’t have to go on about your brush and structure, we know you know you are good. No, the difference is what you do with your brush and structure. You have managed to capture a lonely soul. They are so close, just beyond the canvas, and yet, something is keeping you away and whether it is an external cause or the figure itself is not decisive. They are close enough that you can see a hint of a smile through the hair, past the arm but they keep you away with their eyes. Jesus, R, these eyes are something worthy of special recognition. At first, I thought them to be playful, teasing but now I see the pain lingering behind the surface. It is there, waiting for the spectator to move on to break out in absence of a witness. The playfulness I thought I’d seen is impatience, more likely. The secrets of a lifetime are trapped behind those eyes and no-one there to hear them. It is hauntingly perfect, R, the ghost of an existence beyond the painting still there. You’ve done it, R, I’m bowing to pick up the crumbs under your table.’

Grantaire felt a shudder run down his spine. Jehan, with all their eccentrics and the playfulness of a child, had just about described what he had had in mind when he first got up in the morning, eager to catch it. He tried to stand upright, not give in to a crippling want to bend in half and melt onto the wooden floor. Jehan’s words pushed him out of his comfort zone whenever they felt the need to address his paintings but he had never sounded as sincere and touched as this time, looking at a painting Grantaire had dubbed with the working title Catch Me I’m Falling.

‘One thing though,’ Jehan reclined on the divan again, pulling their feet up, ‘They are asking a question and demanding an answer. What is the question? What the answer?’

Grantaire shrugged, ‘I don’t know. They haven’t told me yet.’

Jehan pulled him to sit on the divan and threw an arm around his shoulders, ‘You know, for having painted something so beautiful in just one day you deserve to rest tonight. We could get the gang together and go out for drinks.’

‘Are you trying to say that I’m allowed to get drunk tonight?’

‘That’s what you said. Anyway, who can stop you if you decided to get drunk? I say we go out, have a good time and you can decide how much you drink.’

‘I need to work on my painting.’

‘Grantaire! Are you quite well?’ Jehan slapped their hand to Grantaire’s forehead, ‘No, you don’t have a fever. I can’t believe you are turning down an opportunity to get pissed over a painting. Well, actually…’

They got up and looked at the half finished figure on the canvas, ‘I get it, R. Please be careful, though. Don’t overdo it, not again.’

Grantaire went up to him and offered him a hug. Jehan returned it with a kiss they pressed to his cheek before leaving the studio with nothing but a reminder that he was welcome to join them for a pint. Grantaire hummed, already focussing on the waistcoat he clad his dream vision in. There was work to be done and he enjoyed the rush of inspiration surging through his veins for once. He did not care for booze that night, did not care that he still was in his underwear, did not care that he had not eaten all day. Instead, he felt the obligation to finish the painting as soon as possible. Whilst mixing colours he hummed a melody that he identified as Kind im Einschlummern minutes later. It had gotten stuck in his head, he caught himself whistling it later as he finished the waistcoat and the hands. He tried fighting it by plugging his phone into the loudspeakers he kept on his desk in the studio and playing his own playlist of classical music and operas.

By the time he had finished the figure, leaving only the background to be done, it had darkened. A look at his phone startled him as he seemed to have spent hours more in the studio than he had planned to allow himself. Again, it was past midnight and his phone showed him no less than twenty messages from six of his friends. Most of them asked why he had not joined them at the bar, only Jehan let him know that they hoped he had a good time with his work. They also told him to go to bed before dawn. Grantaire smiled tiredly. Four in the morning had to be acceptable as before dawn, he thought as he cleaned his brushes and stored away the pigment he used. He had done a good job in drawing his angel. And yet, he could not fight the urge to stray from his path. Climbing the stair up to the flats, he tried to take in every little sound that was made in the house. There was little to hear beyond his own steps on the old wooden stairs up into the second floor where he had spent sweet hours of the previous night listening to Schumann’s romantic tunes. He had had no memory of what time it had been, he had been drunk, after all.

He entered the labyrinth of corridors without thinking about it. It was only after passing the first fire door that he stopped to lean against it and catch his breath.

‘What am I doing?’ he muttered, ‘What am I doing?’

He wanted to bang his head against the door behind him, smash the disruptive thoughts and doubts in his mind. His brain demanded the bottle, to be drowned out with liquor and forgotten about for a few, blissful hours. The thought revolted against his wish to get a grip and sort his life out once and for all and it made him feel helpless. He had told Jehan that he felt like there was a strap around his chest that could only ever be tightened. It prevented him from feeling free to do what he liked and had been object of his inspiration quite a few times.

Chopin’s Prelude in E minor floated down the hallway, its careful notes played with utmost melancholia. He pushed himself off the wall just as the melody grew more desperate, a short, fruitless attempt to break the overwhelming sadness surrounding it. It was a short piece, sadness encasing it from the first note to the last. Next was a variation of Brahms’ lullaby Guten Abend, Gute Nacht. It had been transposed and filigreed, played soft enough to have him think a single gust of wind would be louder. Following this, Liszt’s Liebesträume seemed almost hopeful in comparison. The clear melody enchanted him and made him feel like he could dance over the corridor. Without looking, he knew which rehearsal room the music came from and who sat at the instrument. Climbing scales and melodies, entangled in each other, topped off with rapid combinations, all set to waltz time, made him feel light headed and coaxed him into sneaking closer. Another set of soft notes made their way into the hallway. They caressed his head, combed through his thoughts and covered those that screamed for destruction and oblivion. Tchaikovsky, his brain supplied, Song of the Lark. A memory of his mother at her piano pressed at his consciousness. It had been her favourite son, the first thing she would play for an encore during her concerts, clad in her sparkling evening gowns, the audience enamoured by her play. He had sat in the box reserved for her family, a boy of five years, on display for everyone to see. Everyone had seen him and complimented his mother on the beautiful by in his sailor suit, elderly ladies had given him chocolates and ruffled his dark curls. They adored him as much as they praised his mother’s skill.

She had never seen him up there, a small child with his nanny. He had stopped going when he turned ten, too old to charm possible patrons. His mother had ordered his nanny to give the sailor suit away. Two months later, she was gone as well and he was officially a big boy.

He wiped away a stubborn tear that attempted to embarrass him for his memories. Standing in front of the music room, he had to fight the urge to run away. But this was not his mother, this was a music student who played divine. The sight calmed him. Although he was not able to see much through the small window in the door, he saw enough. He saw the tight lines around his mouth, tense for concentration and focus. He saw the way muscles and sinews moved under the white shirt, and how his fingers danced over the keys. The details that had slipped his mind the night before stood out now, the factor that he played from memory, that he had his eyes closed and that he kept his arms closer to his body than he had ever seen a pianist do. He seemed on edge, despite the beautiful music he played.

He began another Chopin and Grantaire shivered. The Nocturne in C sharp minor, Reminiscence. He loved the melancholic intro before the left hand took over the theme, the way the notes were strung together and combined to form one of the most beautiful melodies he knew. He knew the way the theme returned after a short excursion to scale sky-high in semiquaver sequences.

He did not hear them that night. All of a sudden, the discord of a hand being slammed onto the keyboard with almost destructive force. There was a heavy silence that followed this, before a single sound escaped the closure of the room. It was almost inaudible and he would have missed it, if it hadn’t been for his careful listening. The sound he heard broke his heart in an instant for it was a barely strong enough to issue from the room and yet, he could hear it clearly: a sob, broken and half suppressed. His first impulse was to open the door and ask if he was alright. Then he remembered, he did not know the student. He did not know what had happened and why he stopped playing. The blatancy of his circumstances burned in his chest as he retreated, leaving his angel in the darkness of the music corridor and the solitude of the night.

It was only when he shed his work coat to drop onto his bed that he remembered his general lack of clothing. He thanked his guardian angel for preventing him from barging into the music room. There could not have been anything more embarrassing for him to do, no matter how much the other suffered.

He pulled his phone from the coat pocket and plugged it in. Maybe he could craft a playlist from the nocturnal private concerts he helped himself to.

Chapter Text

‘This is a bit loud, don’t you think?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Your music is too loud!’

‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. Music’s too loud.’

‘That’s what –‘

Grantaire paused the music playing over the speakers he had put up on his desk, and turned to face Joly who looked as sour as always, one hand still covering his left ear. He lowered it only after Grantaire had pocketed his phone again.

‘You are ruining everybody’s hearing, if you play your music this loud,’ the disapproving expression hardened, ‘even if you don’t care about your own well-being, there are others living in this house who might need their ears intact. All the music students –‘

‘- listen to a lot of loud music every day, most of which they produce themselves. It is noted, Joly, I will not insult your ears again.’

‘You don’t insult my ears, you ruin them. Do you know how easily one can cause severe hearing loss? It does not take much to –‘

‘Please, Joly, I’m working,’ Grantaire pulled a paintbrush out of his hair only to realise that not only it was the one he had been looking for it an hour earlier but also that it had held up the messy bun he had put his hair up in, ‘Fucking –‘

‘Cursing is considered a first sign of social degeneration,’ Joly chipped in helpfully.

‘Fuck off!’

‘Aren’t you a picture of fair-weather today. What crawled up your ass and died?’

‘Language,’ Grantaire growled and buried his face in his hands, ‘This is just typical.’

Joly stepped forward and looked over his shoulder, ‘Is this the painting Jehan won’t shut up about?’

He pushed past Grantaire to look at the canvas from up close. The tip of his nose almost touched the still wet surface, Grantaire pulled him back by the collar and pointed at the divan. Joly rolled his eyes and took a step back, lifting his hand like a character in a Western movie.

‘What is it? It looks remarkable, unlike anything you have painted up until now,’ he added with a smirk, ‘has someone finally caught your eye?’

‘Oh it is more than that,’ Grantaire cast a glance over a shoulder, ‘the things I would do if I could, and all the secrets I would keep from you and Jehan…’

Joly pretended to throw up but an amused twinkle had found its way into his eye. He watched him paint a few tufts of heather, finally using the brush he had stored away in his hair.

‘This person seems different from others you have painted. It’s more detailed than any of your other pictures.’

‘Thank you. Anything else you wanted to say?’

‘Yes, actually,’ Joly sat down on the divan, leaning his cane against the side of the table, ‘Jehan wants me to force you to join us tonight. We’re going out to celebrate Bahorel’s birthday.’

‘That’s tomorrow.’

‘Yes, but he has to go home tomorrow morning to see his family, so we’re having our celebration tonight.’

‘I’ll be there, if I can make it.’

‘You are going make it.’

Grantaire frowned at the canvas, ‘I need to work and make progress first.’

‘As far as I know, you started on this only yesterday. You have worked so much on it – I heard you come in last night, and the night before. Thanks for trying to be quiet, by the way. You come in after four in the morning and you get up at seven, just to come here and start working on this. I don’t have to remind you of the effects sleep-deprivation can have on the body, do I? You will work yourself –‘

‘- to death, into alcoholism or depression, I know. Are you done lecturing me? I will try and join you. Where are you meeting?’

‘The Musain. Could you please change into some normal clothes, if you’re at it?’

Grantaire looked down at his pyjama bottoms peeking out from under his coat and the paint splatters on his bare feet. Joly had a point, he had rushed to get to his studio, omitting to get dressed properly for the second time in two days. Instead of answering his roommate, he continued working.

‘Get Éponine to be there,’ Joly got up slowly, ‘and eat something before you join us. I have better things to do than dragging your drunk ass home.’

Grantaire threw him a lazy salute before returning to mixing paint together to obtain just the right colour he needed for his heather. The door clicked shut behind Joly. The brush found its way back into his hair as he put the speakers back up on the desk, plugged his phone in and restarted the playlist he had put together. The soft tunes of Chopin’s piano pieces helped his fingers bring life to what his head wanted to put on the canvas, soft strokes of a brush pieced together as plants, flowers, waves beyond the cliff. He was almost satisfied with the result by the time he thought about Bahorel’s birthday party again. Reluctantly, he cleaned his brushes and sorted his desk out. The young man in the painting seemed to watch him, piercing blue eyes never leaving his back whilst he worked in quick, efficient silence.

He skipped the music corridor on his way up to the flat he shared with Joly and Bousset. With no indicator for their presence, Grantaire could walk through the flat freely whilst looking for a clean shirt. When he found one, he was almost sure it was not his but he put it on anyway since he did not want to waste any more time. Shooting Éponine a message, he closed the door to his room and walked past the already closed kitchen door; Joly would not know whether he had eaten, anyway. After checking his wallet for cash and stuffing his keys into his pocket he left the flat and skipped back downstairs. This time, he stopped for a brief moment to listen to the multitude of melodies and instruments interweaving on the music corridor. He recognised a trombone, several string instruments, a clarinet and a flute as well as quite a few pianos. It formed a mess of tunes and melodies, bounded by the walls of the corridor. For a moment, he stared down the corridor, not daring to actually enter because there was no way he could stand in front of one particular music room without being noticed. Just as he moved to go on downstairs the door across from the spot he had returned to the night before opened. He saw a young man waltz across the hallway and disappear in his angel’s room. Grantaire gulped back the surprise that hit him when his brain recognised him. There had been a party, Jehan’s annual summer fête, if he remembered correctly, and he had spent some time discussing Synaesthesia with him. His name was Courfeyrac and he had claimed to know at least two people living with the phenomenon. Although Grantaire had not believed him he had admitted that the academy would be a place you would expect people who saw music in colours.

The Musain was full of students when he arrived. He pushed at the crowd at the bar to order a few drinks, looked at Éponine’s response on his phone and went on to look for his friends and join them eventually. They had secured a corner booth at the far end of the parlour and yelled loud enough to silence everybody around them. Grantaire sat down next to Joly and Bousset, reached across the table and patted Bahorel’s shoulder.

‘Éponine had to work. You’ll get your hug at midnight,’ he grinned and downed the first of his drinks, ‘What have I missed?’

‘A whole lot of PDA,’ Jehan screamed, ‘Joly and Bousset must have pre-partied in your flat.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and shoved his roommate, ‘I knew I should have checked! If there are empty bottles all over the kitchen again –‘

‘Would that annoy you that much? You drink all the time.’

‘Point taken, but I do not leave empty bottles lying around. It’s always going to be this way, right?’

Joly gifted him with a drunken grin before turning to his other side to resume making out with his boyfriend. Grantaire tried to get Bahorel’s attention but remained unsuccessful. He had finished his second and third drink before he knew it, justifying it with the need to catch up with his friends. A hand was placed on his arm before he could down the fourth.

‘You seem distressed. What is going on, R?’ Jehan removed their hand once they had his attention, ‘I have seen you tense and anxious but this is new.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How long have we known each other?’

‘Two years, why?’

‘Have I ever needed a reason to worry? Did I ever worry without reason?’

‘You were worried the caretaker’s dog may have been ill that one time. It was fine.’

‘Yes, and it died not a week afterwards. We have talked about this.’

Grantaire met his friend’s stern look, ‘Alright, you have your hunches and they usually prove to be true. What are your hunches telling you now?’

‘That you are miserable. And I can’t stand it. Is the painting messing with your head?’ they moved a plate of chips closer so that Grantaire could reach them, ‘Eat and spill. We have another hour until we’re toasting Bahorel, I want you in a better constitution then.’

Grantaire pressed a quick kiss to their cheek and stuffed a few of the chips in his mouth, ‘You know how I’m…gay?’

‘Yes, I think all of us are aware of that,’ Jehan sipped their beer, ‘Good start, R, way to make me feel like your parents.’

‘They never cared and anyway, it’s too late now.’

‘I know. You were saying?’

‘My gay ass found something. Someone. There is a music student who stays up about as late as I do. He practises until early morning and I have spent the last two nights in front of his music room to listen to him playing the piano. He looks like an angel and I know all the pieces he plays. Somehow, you listen to him and you feel the raw emotion behind the score. He plays Schumann, Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Liszt, the romantic ones. The sad ones. I don’t think he is happy.’

‘His choice in music doesn’t mean he isn’t –‘

Grantaire interrupted them, ‘I heard him cry last night. He was playing a Nocturne, Chopin, but all of a sudden he broke it off and stopped. I heard him, Jehan, he was definitely crying. Nobody that talented and beautiful should feel like crying.’

‘Is there a difference between your muse and other people?’ they stirred their cocktail with a straw, ‘Don’t give me that look, R. I’m not stupid, of course this is the person you modelled your painting after. If he looks half as good as you painted him, I can understand your infatuation, dear friend.’

‘You don’t – I don’t – he is good, you know? No wrong note, not one finger misplaced, the essence captured. I cry out of self-pity because I am a drunkard, a disappointment to anyone who knows me, because I cannot hope to ever be happy since I scarcely remember what it feels like. But he should not feel that way. He doesn’t deserve it, I’m sure of it. I would gladly take on his unhappiness, I am used to feeling the weight dragging you down as it is. A load more would not make a difference, if he could live without it then.’

‘Oh honey,’ Jehan pulled him into a hug, their eyes welling up, ‘we talked about self-deprecation. No use in it when you’re talking to me, I know your demons better than they know you. I am sure you taking on his troubles would make you happy for a moment, but imagine the following: you get to know him. Introduce yourself. Don’t go like a bull at the gate, tell him you heard him play and it moved you. Offer him your friendship. I know you think you don’t deserve it but as your friend I can say that you do. And anyone deserves your friendship, with all the idiosyncrasies. You can help people only when they know you. And believe me, even if he turns out to be straight as a pole, you will emerge a friend richer and in the position to have helped someone.’

Grantaire did not know what to reply. His head was swimming, tears obstructed his vision and Jehan’s arm around his shoulders burned. He rested his heavy head against their shoulder in attempt to calm himself down. Their hand moved, weaving into his hair and carefully scraping his scalp. Grantaire felt the strap around his chest as prominent as the night before, but it seemed to allow him to breathe almost freely. His skin crawled with the sensation of Jehan’s hand touching him, he felt his body relax and become putty in their hands.

‘You are worthy of love and adoration,’ Jehan whispered in his ear, ‘and I will not stop telling you that until you believe it.’

Grantaire found their other hand and gripped it tight, ‘You are without doubt masochistically inclined, if you volunteer to reassure me of something I cannot accept. It’ll be a long time before you give up, I am sure of it.’

‘Never give up something worth fighting for,’ their fingers massaged his head, keeping a headache at bay, although Grantaire doubted they knew about the lingering pain that waited for anything that would let his guard down, ‘and that you are, R. Worth it, I mean.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Joly slurred and tilted towards them, ‘are we building a cuddle pile for R?’

Grantaire shoved him off, ‘Jehan’s mine tonight.’

‘Shouldn’t Bahorel be the one getting cuddled?’ Bousset looked up from the empty glass in his hand, ‘Am I forgetting something?’

Grantaire checked his wrist watch, ‘Two minutes, then we shall cuddle him to death.’

Bousset nodded and returned to look at his glass. Bahorel turned out of the conversation he had had with some drama students who had seemingly asked him for a sculpture they wanted to use in one of their productions, only to laugh at the pile his friends built.

‘I really cannot take you anywhere,’ he reached over the table and patted Jehan, seemingly with the force of a bull since Grantaire could still feel it.

‘Happy birthday,’ he mumbled from under Jehan’s arms and cast a glance at his friend, ‘sorry about the lack of a hug but I seem to be preoccupied.’

A moment later, Jehan had pulled Bahorel into their pile.

Chapter Text

‘I meant what I said,’ Jehan gripped the lapels of Grantaire’s coat and straightened them, ‘Every single word.’

‘Thank you, Jehan. Have a good night.’

He turned away from the flat Jehan shared with Bahorel, intending to make sure Joly and Bousset had actually found their own room and bed before passing out. His head was still filled with thoughts he could not place. The door to their flat was open, as expected. Joly abandoned all care once he had gotten drunk, tripping and stumbling, forgetting his cane only to wake up in pain in the morning. It got only worse from that point onwards, the prospect on spending a night with Bousset made him almost carefree. The irony of Grantaire cleaning up after their drunken escapades went amiss amongst the many empty cans and bottles in their kitchen and living room. Instead of lying in bed, hearing the squeaking of old springs under the weight of two men, Grantaire opted for flight, took his blanket from his room and made his way downstairs. The divan in his studio seemed so much better equipped than the room adjoining the one Joly where was making all sorts of noises. What made his studio even more appealing was the presence of his painting and the possibility to work on it for a bit longer before falling asleep.

Since he started on the painting, he had taken to actually locking his studio. None of the other art students seemed to do it and he didn’t either. Usually. But with the tall canvas in his room and everything it meant to him already he felt safer with the door bolted and locked whenever he was not around. Unlocking the door to enter felt like opening up a treasure trove each time, seeing the painting propped up on the easel filled him with pride. He dropped the blanket on the divan and got to work. He had not yet figured out what mood the picture would be set in; all about his young man demanded a calm, light sky but the emotions he tried to convey screamed and tugged at him to give them dark, threatening clouds, a storm brewing in the distance. As it was, his young man would not see it approach since he was half-turning to evade the spectators glance, hiding behind his hair and arm. Lost in thought, Grantaire put up his hair with a brush and sat down on the divan to look at the picture. He took his phone from the bag he had taken from his room and plugged the speakers in. There was a time for melancholy Chopin and Schumann and it was after midnight in a dim art studio, with no other soul around to hear him or complain about the volume. Not that anyone upstairs heard what happened on the ground floor.

He hummed along to the Song Of A Lark, wincing only slightly every time the memory of his mother tried to push past the carefully constructed shields he had put up to avoid these moments. So far, fifteen years had proved to be sufficient enough. Whenever the tides washed up a piece of his past, he pushed it back down. The liquors he kept in a cabinet in his studio helped whenever he felt their power grow too strong for his mind. He uncorked a decanter of his favourite brandy and took a swig from the bottle, relishing the way it burned in his throat. His phone’s shuffle mode picked something by Schumann next, he hummed along as he mixed a few greys, black and white to get started on the sky, gulped down more of the brandy and washed it down with whisky from another bottle. A night when Joly got laid and he chose the studio over his bedroom was no night for wine and contemplation.

He got around to painting a few wisps of clouds before a yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. Reason demanded he lie down to take a nap before continuing the work on his sky. The divan seemed to grin at him as he washed his brushes and stored the paint away. His back was in for a bumpy ride, he knew as much from experience when he lay down.

‘Everything okay in here? I heard a noise…’

Grantaire all but fell off the divan in the hasty attempt to get up and turn to face the door. There, squinting into the darkness of the room, stood his pianist. His hair was loosely tied with some kind of ribbon but a few strands had still manged to escape their bond.

He cursed and scrambled to grab the linen sheet he used to cover his paintings when he was not around. In this case his heart had jumped into his throat, pleading that he may not yet have seen the picture. He managed to throw it over the easel just in time before the strip light at the ceiling flickered to life.

‘Oh goddammit, no one uses that,’ he tried to shield his eyes from the harsh light, ‘what’s wrong with you?’

He slammed his hand over his mouth to keep the words from getting out, thereby leaving his eyes unprotected. The blindingly bright light hurt them so much he stumbled back onto the divan to pull the blanket over his head that had covered him until moments prior.

‘I know all these stupid art students leave their studios unlocked all the time but you really shouldn’t be here,’ the sound of steps coming closer to the divan startled Grantaire, ‘even if you are just trying to prank whoever works in here.’

The blanket was pulled away. Grantaire, having anticipated it, kept his head low and tried to reach the lamp on the table that he had bought and placed there to have warmer and better light to paint during the late hours of the night.

‘This is not the best hideout I have seen,’ despite everything, he sounded amused, ‘Honestly though, what are you doing here?’

‘This is my studio,’ Grantaire found his voice somewhere underneath the blanket, sat up and fumbled for his phone under one of the cushions, ‘so you are the one who should answer that question, really.’

‘Pardon?’

‘This is my studio. I’m the stupid art student who doesn’t lock when he’s in here to work.’

‘You work in the darkness?’

‘Yes. No. Not tonight. I’m sleeping here.’

‘Why?’

‘My flatmate is getting laid. Well, both of them. Together. Sorry, I’m not making sense,’ he reached for the bottle of brandy on the table.

‘Let me get this straight: this is your studio and you work in here late at night but tonight you are also sleeping here because you fled your room?’

‘Yes.’

Having the person who had inspired his latest piece of art in his studio, just a few feet from said work of art, was rather unnerving and made him feel twitchy. Grantaire swallowed down another gulp of liquor before getting up and crossing the room.

‘This light is too harsh for the nights, that’s why I keep the other lamp down here,’ he switched the strip light off and buried his hands in his pockets, ‘why are you even down here?’

‘I don’t sleep well. Sometimes, I just wander through the corridors. It’s all better than listening to my flatmate snore. He snores off-key and it’s rather annoying.’

‘How does one snore off-key?’

The other blushed under the blonde hair covering his face. A restrained gasp escaped Grantaire, and for a moment, all he could think about was getting another glimpse at how his painting would look like if placed in the reality of the moment. Neither of them said a word. Grantaire tried to make himself smaller, he was not comfortable with having this unannounced visitor in his studio because as much as he liked looking at him, he preferred it to be through glass from afar, not from up close. In fairness, his visitor did not seem to feel at ease himself. He had mirrored Grantaire’s motion of stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looked around the room with the feigned interest of a person out of place.

‘Do you –‘

‘I’m –‘

They shared a careful smile, motioning for the other to start again.

‘I’m Enjolras.’

‘Grantaire.’

‘As in –‘

‘Yes.’

‘Your…’

‘Mother.’

‘No way.’

‘Every way.’

Silence. Enjoras smiled cautiously, wringing his hands.

‘You’re a music student.’

‘How did you –‘

‘You know my mother,’ Grantaire tried to hold his gaze but felt too nervous to keep it up, ‘plus, I think I saw and heard you in a music room the other night.’

He congratulated himself for getting something like the truth out eventually. Enjolras blushed again. Grantaire noted that he liked the sight.

‘Right. Makes sense. I practise at night sometimes when I can’t sleep.’

‘I paint when I can’t sleep.’

Silence.

‘I did not know anybody else worked during the night,’ Enjolras pushed a strand of hair behind his ear; it slid back the second he removed his hand.

‘Me neither. Hearing you was a welcome surprise.’

‘Really?’

‘I liked it. I like the Romantic era and you play brilliantly.’

‘Thank you. I haven’t seen any of your paintings but I’m sure they are brilliant, too.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Grantaire gawked at him.

‘You got one of the bigger studios. One of my friends studies art and he always says you get assigned rooms by talent.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised, if it was like that. It’s a disgrace.’

‘Agreed. I will henceforth have to accuse you of somehow cheating to get this room,’ a slight smile was hidden in the corner of his mouth.

Grantaire shrugged, ‘Is there anything I can do to keep you from saying that?’

‘You could show me something you painted to prove that you deserved the room,’ he pushed his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and gave him a challenging look, ‘I promise to remain impartial.’

‘You already admitted to having an art student friend who most certainly has one of the smaller studios on this corridor. Your argument is invalid. I should have to call you a bad friend or at the very least a liar, if you now professed your admiration for my work.’

Enjolras’ eyes began to gleam whilst Grantaire spoke. Something about his stance changed, his slightly gangly limbs seemed tenser and his face set.

‘I assure you there will be no reason for you to dismiss my judgement like that. I am capable of remaining unbiased, even when someone I happen to know is involved in some wider context.’

‘Well then,’ Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest but he smiled, mirroring Enjolras, ‘they put one of my pieces up in the staircase.’

‘You mean to say that I have been walking past something you created without ever knowing I might get to know the artist,’ Enjolras seemed to consider his next step, ‘Show me, then. I am curious to see which of the paintings is yours. Which floor are we heading to?’

‘Oh I will not show you. You have a good look at all the paintings on the walls and tell me which you think is mine. It shall make the ordeal more interesting for me.’

For a moment, Enjolras looked like he was about to refuse. Then, he crossed the room only to turn back around at the door, ‘You coming?’

Grantaire scrambled to his feet, abandoning the brandy on the table. He made sure to lock the door this time and followed Enjolras in the hallway. They switched the light in the staircase on and Enjolras cleared his throat as he approached the first painting. He cast a glance back over his shoulder, to him. Grantaire felt his heart miss a beat. His palms were clammy and he felt the sweat on his forehead. He brushed his hair back with one hand, his fingers were shaking as he watched Enjolras take in the picture. A crease appeared between his eyebrows as he focussed on it.

‘Not yours. I doubt you would paint a poodle.’

‘Not yours either, too much yellow.’

‘Who deems this worthy of a spot in the staircase? It looks like a child painted it with crayons.’

‘I would be deeply disappointed if you turned out to be the sad soul that paints the dean in his birthday suit.’

‘Please tell me you know who painted this. It’s hilarious!’

‘I know this one. The friend I talked about made it.’

Grantaire made a mental note to remind himself that Enjolras knew Feuilly. He had met him once in a seminar and still admired his capability. Feuilly had made a name for himself by drawing on fans, combining paper and silk work.

They had almost reached the music floor when Enjolras stopped mid-complaint. His gaze turned soft as he nodded and pointed at the wall, ‘This one.’

‘How do you know?’ Grantaire climbed the last steps to stand next to him, ‘You are right but I’m interested in your thought process.’

‘It breathes you,’ Enjolras replied, ‘It’s full of unspoken secrets and hidden emotion. I figured it suited you.’

Grantaire had painted the place he associated most with whatever he would call home. His Playroom looked as if the child occupying it had just left, leaving a few toys and a board game on the floor. A cuddly toy oversaw the colourful disarray from its post on the windowsill. He had tried to recall what the room had looked like immediately after he was called to dinner, when he had left it, abandoning his toys to run downstairs, and before Nanny had tidied up. The room he had painted had a purpose, it was light-filled but abandoned in the moment and shadows cast behind the chaos of just used playthings but no one there to play with the toys. A shiver ran down his spine and he wished for the brandy he had left in his studio.

‘Thank you,’ he rasped out and turned his back to the picture, ‘my tutor wanted to put it up. I still don’t know why. It’s nothing special.’

‘It’s better than the poodle,’ Enjolras shrugged, ‘you definitely deserve the big studio.’

An easy smile danced over his features, tempted Grantaire to blurt out something stupid and lit up the hallway. It did not reach his eyes entirely and Grantaire swallowed hard.

‘I have to get back to my easel, I had an idea. I should put it onto canvas,’ he rambled for want of an alternate idea, flaying his arms about whilst feeling the anxiety in his stomach build up.

‘Go then,’ Enjolras gifted him another smile, ‘and feel free to drop by my music room whenever you can’t sleep!’

‘Likewise,’ Grantaire choked out before he ran off, back to the safety of his studio and the painting hidden under a blanket.

Chapter Text

He slept in late until Jehan woke him up whilst trying to find out whether he was still alive in the afternoon. The divan had demanded its toll. His back and shoulders hurt, he could barely move his head, and the dark circles under his eyes had only darkened. Jehan had brought coffee and something to eat and they settled on the divan to dip croissants in their coffee mugs and eat the soggy pastry. Grantaire needed twenty minutes to wake up before he talked about the previous night. He knew Jehan tried to appear calm but they squealed with joy once he had reported back to them.

‘He discovered your painting after taking one good look at your brooding self? This is magic, R, don’t you see it? He likes your art, you like his music – what else is there to be said?’

‘A lot more,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘it all appears so different by daylight. Maybe we were never meant to meet and talk, maybe I should have been in my room with a pillow over the head to drown out Joly and Bousset. Maybe I ruined it all. I was good with listening to him play and watching through the window –‘

‘- like a creep,’ Jehan interrupted and bit down on their croissant, ‘Stop second-guessing everything. I’m sure it is alright, give it time. Nothing really important like that happens just over night. Also, there’s a rather big elephant in the room, I’m afraid.’

They motioned over to the painting Grantaire had finished after running off the night before. The grey to black tones of the sky complimented the fair appearance inspired by Enjolras. He had not yet been resigned to having a name to go with the figure he had attempted to catch on canvas.

‘There is something hidden in this,’ Jehan sighed heavily, ‘If only I could figure it out. You have hidden both question and answer in his expression but neither you nor I know him well enough to judge.’

Grantaire stared down at his hands in his lap. He had awoken feeling the strap around his chest more prominent than ever and every fibre of his body seemed to yell at him to do something about the feeling that made his skin crawl. As always, he did not dare to act on it. Instead, he talked a little more about Enjolras and the time they had spent together throughout the night. He told them about being accused of pranking himself, Enjoras blushing and him admitting to have listened to him play before. Jehan squealed again and dropped their croissant onto the table to reach Grantaire for a bone-crushing hug. They patted his head in the process but as always, the hug ended long before Grantaire had been able to absorb the feeling it presented him with for a moment. He smiled shyly.

‘I’ll have to hand it in, don’t I?’

‘Is it finished?’

‘Yes. The paint had plenty of time to dry.’

‘Then, I’m afraid, handing it in is what you need to do to receive a mark. I’m sure you’ll finish top of the class with this one. No one else can come even close to this.’

Grantaire swallowed, ‘I don’t want to, I think. This is even more personal than The Playroom. Or the portrait of Joly I had to paint for my portrait class. And that was painted whilst I thought I had a crush on him.’

‘Didn’t that crush turn out to be focussing on the shade of his waistcoat instead of himself?’

‘Pearl green, yes,’ Grantaire blushed with the memory coming back to him, ‘Listen, I still have the time to paint something different. I could just…’

‘What? Any inspirational ideas coming to you? Even you have to meet deadlines eventually and I doubt your professor would appreciate a desultorily painted picture of something you don’t care for. Remind me of the unofficial academy slogan?’

‘Whatever you do, do it with passion,’ Grantaire rubbed his forehead, ‘I know. But this painting…I will have to transport it over to the offices.’

‘I’m sure Bahorel would love to help, he should be back by now. I could help. Ask Joly and Bousset. Wrap it up and ask your angel of music, for all I care.’

‘Nice reference,’ Grantaire looked over to the easel and sighed again, ‘tell me one thing, Jehan, I beg you: do you think I overdid it with this painting?’

Firm hands were placed on his shoulders, his head forced down to meet his friend’s stern gaze, ‘Grantaire, that’s enough! You painted something so eerily beautiful that I snuck a photograph of it to make Bahorel cry tonight. If it wasn’t yours and of a person you obviously admire, I would ask you to sell it to me after you get it back from marking. Because you get it back, R. You won’t lose it forever, that’s not how grading works!’

Grantaire moved slightly under their hands. Jehan scrutinised him, one thumb rubbing the spot where his shirt ended and his sore neck became visible.

‘Today is a bad day, isn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘Slight change of plan: I’m going to call Bahorel. You wrap up that painting and we’re going to deliver it to your professor. Afterwards, we take you back to our place, you change into something comfy and we’ll watch movies for the rest of the day. We can invite Joly and Bousset. Sound good?’

The prospect of a movie marathon with his best friends seemed the best imaginable alternative to hiding under a pile of blankets without feeling a real effect. He nodded weakly and pressed a kiss to Jehan’s wrist before getting up. They already had their phone in the other hand, he could hear them talk to Bahorel as he fixed the sheet over the canvas and fastened it with packthread.

Jehan gave him a thumbs up. They waited for Bahorel who could have transported the painting easily on his own but Grantaire was not going to let him, and Jehan tagged along for the fun of it. The walk to the lyceum took them ten minutes, waiting for Professor Lafayette another ten.

‘Grantaire, I see you have brought me something? Let me see, my boy,’ the elderly man rubbed his hands as he walked towards them, ‘Good day, Bahorel. How are the chances to see you in another of my classes?’

‘Not high, Monsieur. I have taken the course on collages.’

‘A pity. I hope you still work hard without me breathing down your neck. And Prouvaire, how splendid to see you here. I have never seen a more convincingly melancholy Hamlet in my life!’

‘Thank you, sir. I modelled them on Grantaire here,’ Jehan nudged their friend, eyes glinting.

‘A good choice of model,’ Professor Lafayette laughed and unlocked his office door, ‘Come in, my boy.’

Grantaire followed him, carrying his painting the last steps. He set it down on the easel his professor kept opposite from his desk and untied the thread.

‘What will I be looking at?’

Every student of Lafayette’s knew the drill. Before he even looked at the painting, they had to summarise what they had painted and something about their intention and inspiration. Grantaire cleared his throat and fumbled with the linen.

‘This came to me in a dream, so to speak,’ his voice betrayed him and cracked, ‘I know it sounds cliché and kitschy but I don’t know how else to describe it. I tried to capture the feeling one might experience when looking at a sea in turmoil. Then, I added a person. No, to be honest – the person was first. The sea came later. I captured them in a moment, vulnerable and alone yet clear to see and shy under the look of the spectator.’

‘I’m intrigued, Grantaire,’ Lafayette clapped his hands, ‘Well then, my boy. Show me this piece of yours.’

Grantaire pulled the sheet off the canvas and stepped back to allow the professor a full view on it. He swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in his throat. It was one thing to show this painting to his friends who barged into his studio without doing as much as knock to announce themselves, quite another to show it to his art professor, a specialist in Realism and Impressionist Realism who would grade it using internationally canonical assessment criteria. Lafayette had schooled his face into neutrality, he got up and stepped closer to the easel. For a few minutes, he did not make another sound. Grantaire studied the posters on the wall, Lafayette had put up a picture of a piece of Doctor Who trivia at some point, a picture meant to be painted by Van Gogh in one episode. None of the freshmen ever expected the seventy-year old art professor to be a Sci-Fi nerd.

‘Good work, my boy,’ Lafayette stepped back, ‘Expect the official results sometime next week but hear me when I say, you have outdone yourself. I am proud to call you my student.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Remind me, how many of your paintings have found their way into the residence and the hallways of the lyceum?’

‘Four, sir.’

‘Four…four…that makes all your exam works? You are in your fifth term, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you have a title to go with that?’

‘Catch Me I’m Falling, Sir.’

‘Wonderful. And fitting, if I may say so. Well then, results sometime during the next weeks, I am proud of you and I have lost Bahorel as my student. An exciting day, wouldn’t you say?’

Grantaire nodded sharply and bowed before saying his goodbyes and leaving, something he had started in his first term. Lafayette had never complained about it, if anything, it supported his status as an eccentric original.

‘How was it? What did he say?’ Jehan jumped off Bahorel’s lap and in his face, ‘He loved it, didn’t he? Do I have to kill anyone?’

‘No, Jehan, everything’s alright. I’ll get the results next week.’

Bahorel got up, ‘Are we going home? Jehan mentioned a movie marathon.’

‘Apparently, yes.’

Jehan had furnished their and Bahorel’s flat with every string of fairy lights they had been able to find. The first thing they did after entering was not putting their keys away but switching on as many of them as they deemed appropriate for the situation. They had asked Joly and Bousset to join them and the giant corner sofa in the living room had been transformed into a monstrosity carrying every blanket and pillow they owned between the five of them. Jehan assigned Grantaire a soft toy, a grumpy looking teddy bear with a bow tie.

‘First movie suggestions?’

‘Disney,’ Jehan jumped onto the sofa after having Grantaire forced into the corner.

‘Star Wars,’ Bahorel joined them on Jehan’ side.

‘We haven’t seen Harry Potter in ages,’ Joly sat down on Grantaire’s other side, pulling Bousset next to him.

‘We’re watching whatever Grantaire wants to see, this is for him,’ Jehan scooted closer to the corner Grantaire was squished into.

‘As if I don’t know what happens when you sit around me like that,’ Grantaire smiled, ‘Can we watch Mulan?’

Jehan kissed him on the cheek and moved even closer as Bahorel put the DVD in and started the movie. They loved the movie and Grantaire, thankful for their commitment, sat under the pile of blankets and felt Jehan’s hand on his thigh. Joly had all but prescribed him the cuddle evenings to ease the internal pain that determined his everyday life and suffering. It did not heal and end it but it helped. They had sat together, a few weeks into their first term after Jehan and Joly had found Grantaire recovering from a panic attack. His friends had begun to do everything in their power to help him through the bad days. And even though blankets and pillows did not fill the void in his days, it helped to know that he had friends who would allow him to seek their closeness. It helped fight back the urge to drink himself into oblivion every time he woke up with a feeling of dread and nausea.

They watched the first movie in silence. Grantaire got increasingly entangled with Jehan’s legs under the blanket, Joly had wrapped his arms around his upper body and pulled him into his lap. Bousset held a box of tissues in his hands since one of them would cry at some point and Bahorel took it upon himself to distribute drinks and nibbles, being the one seated closest to the kitchen. Joly’s breath ghosted over Grantaire’s neck, he could feel his best friend mouth the dialogue against his skin and it sent shivers down his spine. Joly’s grip around him only got tighter in response to it.

‘You okay?’ he squeezed his shoulder and put his head on top of Grantaire’s, ‘You tell me when you need me to do something differently, okay?’

All of them knew that there were boundaries to what they could do. Since their usual group was made up of two couples and Grantaire, they switched it up quite a bit but in the end he would still long for more. There were things he wanted to feel and experience that would strain his friends too much.

‘Jehan mentioned you handed in your painting,’ they waited for Bahorel to change the DVD and Jehan to bring some cookies from the kitchen and Joly combed his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, ‘did Lafayette say anything?’

‘Said I’d outdone myself,’ Grantaire mumbled and cleared his throat, ‘I guess that’s good.’

‘Not only that,’ called Jehan from behind the kitchen island, ‘he met his muse.’

‘You talked to him?’

Grantaire shrunk back into the couch, ‘We met last night. He’s nice.’

‘Tell them his name!’

‘You got his name?’ Joly almost tore Graintaire’s hair out in the attempt to free his fingers quick enough to grab his wrist and force him to turn, ‘You didn’t even say! What is he called?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Unusual name, parents are really going crazy with imagination.’

Bousset choked on a gulp of coke and Joly had to give him a slap to the back. Grantaire used the distraction to slip into the bathroom. It all seemed so domestic. Sometimes, when the anxiety got the better of him, he imagined his friends having movie nights without him. The premise of double dates seemed perfect for Jehan and Joly who had actually talked about going once or twice.

Grantaire tried to calm himself down. He yearned for his brandy, for the short bliss of inebriety, for the way his head would stop rushing for some time before the destructive thoughts returned. Drinking was not a possibility for the situation he had gotten himself into, he knew that without Jehan’s reminder or the post-its Joly left for him around the flat. His friends were used to his brooding and ever changing moods but he still wished he could alter his being into someone more amicable to make it easier for them to be their usual selves around him. He knew they were treading lightly around him, always making sure not to stress him out or trigger him. They cared too much.

‘R, are you alright in there?’ Jehan’s voice was muffled by the door between them and Grantaire blinked away the tears that had gathered in the corner of his eye, ‘We’re ready for the second movie, if you are.’

‘I don’t think I can stay for much longer,’ he cleared his throat and opened the bathroom door to find himself face to face with Jehan, ‘I am tired.’

‘Sleep-deprivation?’

‘Long nights painting, yes.’

‘R, you need to take care of yourself.’

‘I’m trying.’

Jehan hugged him with all the force they could mobilise. Their expression mirrored Grantaire’s own restlessness as he pulled back.

‘You can always come talk to me, you know that, right?’

‘It’s nothing out of the ordinary,’ Grantaire turned back towards the living room, ‘still what I told you two years ago. There are boundaries and limits to what you can do for me. I need to find something that fills the gap.’

‘I stand by my words from back then, you know? I am sure a platonic relationship would do wonders for you. It’s all you crave but nothing more than your inner recluse could bear. Your terms, right?’

‘And I told you, how can I just do that? It would have to be a person I trust myself with, how am I going to find somebody like that? I can’t just try online dating again. Not after what happened last time, it scarred me for life. I can’t just go on a first date and tell them that I am in need of extensive grooming and cuddling. People like to separate partners from pets.’

‘You do have a flair for the dramatic, are you sure I can’t recruit you for my next play?’

‘Any idea what you might be doing next, Jehan?’ Joly reached across the sofa to pull Grantaire back into the corner, ‘Someone said you had borrowed every copy of every Christie book in the library.’

‘They were right,’ Jehan sat down and shoved a steaming mug into Grantaire’s hands, ‘I am looking for a Poirot novel I can adapt for the summer term. Drink your hot chocolate, R. What are we watching?’

‘Some French movie Joly had on his Netflix list,’ Bahorel answered and tucked his partner into his lap, ‘Do you have another mug of hot chocolate?’

‘Sorry, just for Grantaire. He needs it, he’s lovesick and stressed out.’

‘I’m okay,’ Grantaire shot Jehan a look, ‘Just haven’t slept very well.’

Joly possessed the decency to blush and hide behind Bousset. Grantaire rolled his eyes and shook his head, ‘Don’t worry, I slept downstairs. Contrary to what you might believe, I am quite good at assessing certain situations.’

‘You slept in the studio again? You know it’ll ruin your back,’ Joly frowned at him, ‘do you need a massage?’

‘Not tonight,’ Grantaire doubted he would last long under the touch of two hands on his back; he was more likely to start crying again, ‘I’ll get back to you about this offer though.’

Joly’s movie made Jehan cry, prompting Bousset to ball up tissues and throw them at them. Grantaire reached for the bowl of crisps on the table in front of them and took a handful before passing it to Bahorel. Feeding Jehan anything had proven to be an effective enough means to make them stop crying.

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Joly seemed to be half asleep by the time the movie finished, despite it having been one he had wanted to watch, ‘I still want to know about your muse. You know I’ll find out. I have connections.’

‘We know that all people you talk to at the academy are sitting right here in this room,’ Bousset kissed his temple and pulled him into his arms, ‘please don’t fall asleep, I can’t carry you over the hallway and you don’t walk right when you’re tired.’

‘R can help you.’

‘R is fidgeting around too much. He’d drop you.’

‘So will you, Bousset,’ Bahorel pushed himself off the sofa, ‘We should call it a day. Jehan, you need to sleep, Joly needs his bed and we have hopefully restored hope for Grantaire.’

He carried his partner into the bedroom, Jehan waved at their friends and made a soft noise before beginning to snore blissfully. Bousset rolled his eyes and tried to move Joly off his chest.

‘A hand, R, if you don’t mind?’

Grantaire caught both of them before they hit the ground. Manoeuvring Joly into their flat proved to be a task they needed four hands for, but as soon as he was safely tucked into his bed, Grantaire took off again. Too many thoughts filled his head and he hoped he would be able to clear them out with some time spent doing something that was neither watching movies with couples or painting something that would come back to haunt him. He packed his sketchpad, pencils, charger and earbuds into his messenger bag, took a water bottle from the fridge and grabbed his keys from the key rack. There needed to be one stop before he could even think about taking an evening stroll to find something to sketch, the bottle of Scotch in his studio tempted him enough for him to know that he would not walk past the door.

Bousset stuck his head out of the bathroom when he walked past, ‘Hey R, just…take care, okay?’

‘I will. See you in the morning,’ Grantaire tossed his bag onto his bag, ‘take care of Joly.’

‘Always.’

Chapter Text

Somebody had left a sculpture at the foot of the first flight of stairs. It happened all the time, sculptures and paintings were left for interested parties to take because the creator either had no space in their studio or just did not like the finished product. They never stayed out for long, someone always seemed to like the style. He had put something himself, a series of landscape and building sketches that he had rushed to finish for a professor. After one night without sleep, too much coffee and little to no idea what to work on, his only wish had been to never see them again.

Jehan had put them up in the hallway of their flat like the good friend they were. They also pointed out the sketches to anyone visiting, making sure they knew who had drawn them and that he was a friend of Jehan’s. In revenge, Grantaire had not drawn them the flowers they would have liked for their birthday. It had freaked Jehan out and given him the satisfaction he had craved.

As he passed the music corridor, he felt like he was missing an opportunity. The lamps in the staircase were still switched on, the time switch turned the light off at eleven. It was earlier than any time he had come even close to the glass door before. Just out of curiosity, he told himself as he pushed it open. He heard two melodies coming from the far end of the hallway. One seemed to be a solo piece played by a clarinet, soft and solemn, the other a surge of piano notes, waving towards him like a rousing storm casting a spell he fell under as soon as he heard it. The velocity of the successions of sequences, the raw power of the themes and the brute expression of anger, desperation and frustration washed over him, caught him unaware and lured him closer. Just by the way the piano keys were near destroyed he knew what sight was waiting for him. The emotionality he had so far heard only in melancholic tunes and romantic collectedness had erupted and made way for raw feelings Grantaire could taste on the air as he neared the door. He breathed it in like a drowning man taking the first breath after surfacing, salvaging the way it got caught in his throat. It was almost too easy to get drunk on the feelings he filtered out of the air, forgetting the booze in his studio and how he had wanted to wander off-campus to sit, drink and sketch without meeting a soul.

It all seemed to fade into nothing as he made his way towards the too familiar door, trying to compose himself into something that did not resemble an addict, no matter which substance caused it. Enjolras did not seem a person endorsing substance abuse of any form, not even getting high on his musical expertise. He straightened his loose shirt around the strap of his bag over his shoulder. A trembling hand tried to push his hair back and flatten it where strands stuck out, coaxed out of their proper place by the contact with Jehan’s sofa and Joly’s shoulder. Deep down he knew that any attempt of making him presentable would backfire and make it worse but he had to try, if he was going to take the last step over the edge that had kept him safe until Enjolras had barged into his studio.

He reached the door and stopped. The melody was still soaring and sweeping, rolling and raging against the closed door and beyond. The single ceiling lamp illuminated the figure sat at the piano. His long, slender fingers danced over the keyboard, hitting the keys with the accuracy of a trained eye and quick thinking. Not only that, his whole body moved along to the notes succeeding each other rapidly, swaying on the piano stool. He had not closed his eyes this time and there was sheet music on the rest in front of him that he was focusing at. The warm light let his hair shine and cast shadows on his face where it hit his cheekbones, vesting him with an air of the dramatic, almost ghostly. Others may have seemed like they were hacking the piano, Enjolras seemed to pass it off as effortless and entrancing, fingers carrying the tune and backing with ease. The force behind the notes did not harm his touch, it echoed back from the walls around him, filling first the music room and then, as it was not stopped, the hallway. Grantaire soaked it in and allowed the emotions behind the piece to take him over for a moment.

He knew it by heart, the one piece of classical music his mother had never wanted him to play. The hatred she possessed for it, caused by the unorthodox manner of style and open feelings throughout the composition had been enough for him to actually rehearse it. Beethoven had appeared a kindred spirit whenever he sat down at the grand piano in the salon when his parents were not around to hear him. He could easily pretend to have practised something entirely differently when they came back. However, even though he felt connected to Beethoven on a spiritual level, he could not will his fingers into playing the Sonata in C-Sharp Minor, Mondschein, Third Movement flawlessly. He got confused, his fingers hit all the wrong keys and he eventually stopped playing altogether.

Hearing Enjolras play the piece perfectly would have made him cry, if he had not been entranced by the sight in front of him. Instead, he marvelled at his style, how he hit the notes just right, either soft or hard, calm or with the might of a thunderstorm that just waited to break free at his wrist. There was a power hidden inside him that was at his beck and call, enabling him to channel whichever emotion he wanted to display.

The melody climbed high only to fall and pick up in pace a little before culminating in a flutter of trills and squiggles. A last chord resounded through the hallway and sent shivers down his spine. The silence following was deafening, his ears still filled with the melody. It took him a moment to regain his breath, as he stared through the small window pane and tried to think of something to say. Unfortunately, his hands seemed to respond differently to experiencing Enjolras play, knocking at the door before his mind caught up. The pianist turned around, saw him through the window and smiled, walking towards the door.

Grantaire said a quick prayer and braced himself for the unknown.

‘Grantaire, what a pleasant surprise. I didn’t expect you to drop by so soon,’ the smile spreading over Enjolras’ cheeks was perfectly radiant, blinding almost.

‘I wanted to take a walk but then I heard you play and I didn’t want to miss a single note,’ Grantaire combed his hair back and avoided the blue eyes watching his every move, ‘It’s a change. I hadn’t heard you play something so passionate.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Very much. You are talented enough to charm halls of elderly women into throwing roses at you,’ Grantaire winced internally at what had supposed to be a joke, only realising how stupid it came across once it was too late, but too stubborn to alter it or apologise.

Enjolras blinked at him, mouth slightly agape, ‘Thanks, I guess. Are you going to take your walk now?’

Of course he did not want Grantaire around after his comment on charming old ladies. He had just crossed a line, belittled his achievements and skills. He had insulted him with nothing but a heedless comment. He cleared his throat and took a step back.

‘I…I don’t know. I think, yes. There is…some whisky in my studio I was going to take with me. The night is still young and I might end up somewhere by the river. There is a bench down there I am quite familiar with –‘

‘Why –‘

‘You’re right, I don’t know why I am telling you all this, sounds pathetic. I should get going. Goodnight, Enjolras,’ Grantaire turned on his heel to leave.

A hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him from getting away any further. He looked over his shoulder to see Enjolras, illuminated by the light pouring out of his music room. Grantaire’s brain, sleep-deprived, lonely and sombre as it was, only came up with the picture of an angel on a stained glass window in a church to compare him with. He seemed flustered.

‘That is not what I meant. Do you always jump to conclusions? I wanted to ask whether you wanted to come in. I might practise for a bit but it doesn’t look like you have that much to do otherwise. We could even go for that walk together, later on.’

‘I don’t – I’m not good company. I don’t talk, I’m disagreeable and rude. I argue too much and I’m not good with people. You don’t want to invite me in,’ Grantaire shook his head, avoiding Enjolras eyes.

The hand disappeared from his wrist and he immediately mourned the slight contact they had shared. Enjolras’ palm had been warm and comforting against his skin that felt colder to him than it really was. It had helped to feel something on his skin. He could only imagine how Enjolras looked at him, standing in the hallway in front of his music room like the pathetic stalker he was. There was only one reaction imaginable, never seeing the betrayal and disgust in Enjolras’ eyes as he realised the mistake he had made when first talking to Grantaire.

‘Stop the pity party and get in.’

Enjolras went back to his stool. He sat down at the piano and rested his fingers against the keys, closing his eyes and struck one, testing the note for a long moment.

‘Close the door, will you?’

He hurried to get into the room and closed the door behind himself before looking around. The rehearsal room was bigger than he had expected it to be, based on what he had been able to see through the tiny door window. The blind spots had covered the huge, maroon velvet armchair, a small bookcase and a table with a kettle on it.

‘Help yourself to some tea,’ Enjolras smiled and played a short étude by Chopin, fingers dancing across the keyboard, ‘would you leave out a cup for me as well?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire looked through the boxes of tea bags and picked one that seemed to have been used the most, with only three bags remaining. It was a colourful Lemon & Ginger tea that smelled spicy and mouth-watering. He chose to make a cup of cinnamon tea for himself after discovering that Enjolras kept a box of the same brand as Jehan.

‘Smells delicious, mixed together,’ Enjolras leaned back, stretching before getting up from the stool, ‘do you have any requests?’

‘Requests?’

‘Yes, anything you would like to hear?’ Enjolras smiled, relaxed and calm, no sign of their conversation in the hall left as he took the cup of tea Grantaire had brewed for him, ‘Any favourite composer? Favourite piece? Favourite era?’

Grantaire swallowed, the memories of the nights he spent in front of the rehearsal room flooding back to him. He tried to shove them down again but a part of him wanted to know what it felt like to be in the same room as him when he played with the passion he had sensed throughout the nightly concerts.

‘I do like Beethoven, Tchaikovsky and the Romantic era,’ Grantaire took a sip of his hot tea, feeling the cinnamon smooth his throat, ‘anything remotely emotional will get to me.’

Enjolras did not break the eye contact as he cleared his throat and shifted on his stool, ‘This certainly strikes me as a Beethoven night, don’t you think?’

There was a smirk hidden in the corner of his mouth, as if he knew something Grantaire did not get. Whatever it was, it lit up his face. Enjolras set down his mug on the piano and cleared his throat. The first three notes he played sent the next shiver down Grantaire’s spine. The combination of a G, C sharp and E, etched in his mind like the memory of the shape of his favourite birthday cake, did not fail to impress him, the clear melody carrying on so little but resounding within his every bone. He knew from experience that the piece had a tendency to drag, if played without the right mode of expression and touch, both of which Enjolras not only possessed but deployed perfectly. The yearning tune did neither overshadow the sombre chords accompanying it, nor did it fade into the background. After having heard the Third Movement earlier, Grantaire had almost hoped to enjoy listening to the remaining parts at some time. He had not expected to get to hear the First Movement of the Mondscheinsonate that night, yet there Enjolras was, playing with the air of an actual god.

Grantaire opened his bag quietly and got his sketchpad out. There was an opportunity he could not allow himself to miss, not when it was staring him in the face. What harm could one pencil sketch cause? He tasted the raw desperation in the air again, the purest feeling he could think of, filtered out of the sheet music and transformed into beautiful tunes. It needed translation into applied arts. He made quick work, crafting a rough sketch with determined pencil strokes. The quick glances he took, eyes flicking over to the figure at the piano and back down to the slowly forming sketch on his pad. Every line, soft or strong, turned into a part of something bigger, more beautiful. It had nothing on the real thing, obviously, Enjolras looked too good in the soft light, hair obscuring his face slightly, eyes half-closed and focussed on the keys under his fingers. The scene was too perfect for Grantaire to be there. If he was to look for one word to describe it, Perfection would be the obvious choice. It was something he did not think of with himself in the picture. Having the chance to catch the scene and put it down in a sketch seemed too good to be true, so he hurried to get it done before it passed and left him wishing it back.

A knock interrupted him mid-line and Enjolras mid-bar. The door opened to reveal a curly head poking in. Grantaire, having looked up when the door swung open, pulled his legs up onto the armchair by instinct to guard himself and his sketchpad. He recognised the face frowning at Enjolras. It was the guy he had talked about Synaesthesia with.

‘What are you doing? Are you still here, plunking tunes? You promised to go to bed before midnight and you really need a full night’s sleep, you know, eight hours and everything.’

‘Courf, not now,’ Enjolras looked through some sheet music on the piano.

Courfeyrac, right. Grantaire was proud to have recognised him, there had been alcohol involved, after all. Too much alcohol, he had barely remembered to drink some water when he got home. So Enjolras knew him, too.

‘Now, Enjolras! You are acting like a child and neither Ferre nor I have the nerves to force you into bed. What are you even doing in here late at night?’

‘Having tea, practicing and probably staying up with the other nightowls.’

It was at this that Courfeyrac looked to the side and noticed Grantaire, ‘Hey, what are – aren’t you that art student? We talked at a party once, didn’t we?’

Grantaire nodded and pushed his pencil behind his ear. He did not know what response Courfeyrac may have expected so he chose not to say anything.

‘Make sure he gets to bed soon, okay? Anyway, I’m done for the night. Switch the light off when you leave,’ Courfeyrac slammed the door shut.

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire heard himself say, hands still holding his sketchpad, ‘Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?’

‘Hell yes,’ Enjolras turned to face him completely, ‘Courf is just a bit dramatic. We share a flat and both of my flatmates think they have to babysit me. Ridiculous, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Just because I like coffee and don’t need to sleep at ridiculous times they think I am a human disaster. Time is a construct anyway!’

Grantaire could not prevent the grin spreading over his face, ‘I’m sure you’re more eloquent with a good night’s sleep.’

Enjolras glared daggers at him, ‘You really should be careful what you wish for. I could talk you into the ground over a coffee.’

‘Probably not a good idea. I think Courfeyrac might kill me, if I tempted you with coffee,’ Grantaire returned his eyes to his sketchpad.

Enjolras huffed out a laughter and pushed a stack of sheet music to the side, ‘I had some Chopin somewhere. I’m positive I had this book with short pieces for training.’

He got up and came over to where Grantaire hastily closed his sketchbook, crouched down in front of the bookcase and perused the spines of the books and booklets he kept there. Grantaire tried to ignore the way he could almost feel the warmth radiating from him, choosing to lean back a bit to calm himself down.

‘Ah, there it is,’ Enjolras held out a booklet in triumph and got up, ‘The best thing about this is that I don’t really have to focus. The pieces are easy enough to have a conversation at the same time.’

‘A conversation? Why?’

The look he received confused him. Enjolras’ hand was lifted and he almost touched his shoulder before he obviously changed his mind and returned to the piano, setting the booklet down on the rest. Grantaire knew the piece immediately.

‘Prelude in E-Minor. Good choice,’ he said before he could stop himself, ‘I loved this one when I –‘

‘You do know your Chopin,’ Enjolras beamed at him, ‘Courtesy of your mother?’

‘Of course,’ Grantaire forced a smile, tucking his sketchpad into his bag. The topic was not one he would have liked to continue talking about with a sketch of Enjolras in his lap. He would have liked to stop talking about it entirely but Enjolras seemed too excited to even recognise the dread in his eyes.

‘This is great, you know? One of the first concerts I went to was one of your mothers’. I had just started to play and I wasn’t that good, I didn’t want to practise because I always felt like I was disappointing my parents with every note. But then my Dad took me to your mother’s concert and somehow got me to meet her afterwards. She gave me the sheet music for the evening and signed it for me. Of course, she had not used it, what pianist does…she also said not practising for a day isn’t a mistake, it relaxes the brain. I was in the seventh heaven when we came home and I put the sheet music on my piano and started to practise. I was six years old and I felt the urge to play Rachmaninoff –‘

‘Romantic Russians. She loved that programme,’ Grantaire chipped in, the memory of his mother’s smile as she was seated at the piano vivid in his mind, ‘she talked about you, unless there was a small angel after every concert she played.’

These were cruel words to say, he knew so himself but Enjolras laughed it off. How could he do anything else, not knowing what Grantaire felt in this moment? For him it was just another happy memory.

‘I got to meet her again, you know? Last year, she was here at the academy for the dean’s summer concert. She endowed a scholarship for talented students of the academy; music, art, sculpting and drama. I went up to her and asked her about the Rachmaninoff concert. I was overjoyed when she actually remembered me. I would have guessed she would have forgotten this snotty, fairly rude six year old from fifteen years ago.’

Grantaire forced a smile. His mother had had her personal assistant call him the year before to let him know that she would not be available to look at his part of the exhibition at the dean’s gala. He had delivered his pictures there and gone home again, not bothering to even look around. Jehan and Joly had cut their own time there short to get home before he could drink himself into doing something stupid.

He reminded himself that Enjolras did not know that. His mother had been kind to him, had helped and motivated him and the memory of the encounter seemed to have borne fruit. He could not allow himself to judge Enjolras on this account alone, he knew his mother’s faces best. She had been a presence looming over him for the longest time. In some way, he was glad she had been an inspiration to someone else.

‘She does value her fans,’ Grantaire managed to say, ‘I’m glad you were able to meet her.’

‘She’s my idol,’ Enjolras crossed his legs on the piano stool, ‘who’s yours?’

Grantaire felt his mouth fall open. There was a question he was not prepared for. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

‘I’ve always liked van Gogh,’ he eventually got out, ‘Monet as well.’

Enjolras nodded seriously, ‘I thought so. Your painting showed similarities to impressionistic techniques. They blend well with newer possibilities, don’t you think?’

Grantaire smiled, ‘I am trying to create new takes on old techniques. My paintings are supposed to look impressionistic at first but the longer you look at them, the more realistic they get. It’s hidden between the strokes and lines, it could be something exciting. I call it Impressionistic Realism, my professor thinks I should start a school.’

‘You should, it sounds amazing!’ Enjolras leaned forward, waving his hands about excitedly until he overbalanced and fell off the stool, ‘I wish I could see more of your paintings. I looked at the one in the hallway again by daylight and it looked even better. Did you paint your nursery from memory?’

‘It seemed a good idea at the time. The lighting is completely messed up, I would never paint it like that again,’ Grantaire lifted an eyebrow, ‘Are you okay?’

‘I think so, I might have bruised my hip but I’m fine. I don’t think I should sit, though. Do you still want to go for that walk?’

Grantaire nodded and took his bag, ‘I’ll still get that bottle of Scotch.’

Enjolras frowned and buried his hands in his pockets, ‘It’s a weeknight. The effects alcohol has on you are not to be underestimated; every gulp of it destroys your brain cells and you lose control over your movements, articulation and restraints.’

‘I’ll still drink it,’ Grantaire felt his throat close up. He did not know Enjolras well enough to admit that he needed the buzz to eventually fall asleep sometimes, to banish the demons waiting for him to go home only to slip into his bed, whispering into his ear about failure and desperation. He could not tell him.

‘Fine,’ Enjolras spat out and walked past him, coat slung over his shoulder, ‘get your booze.’

They did not talk until they had left the building, turned onto the road leading towards the river and crossed the main street. A single man came their way, walking his dog. He nodded a silent greeting as they crossed paths, his dog sniffing at Grantaire’s leg before moving on.

Grantaire took the first swig out of his bottle when they reached the esplanade. The familiar burn in his throat surged through his body, relieving him of the urge to do anything else but drink and enjoy the feeling of a growing haze. He gulped down another mouth of whisky.

‘Do you know how quickly Scotch will get you drunk?’ Enjolras’ voice sounded softer than in his rehearsal room, maybe even a little bit worried. It upset him that he might feel obliged to take an interest in his turmoil.

‘Don’t worry, I can hold my liquor,’ Grantaire smiled bitterly.

‘You drink regularly?’

He did not have an answer pat, instead, he drank more whisky and walked next to Enjolras in silence. A few ducks, awoken by their steps on the gravel, quacked tiredly before tucking their heads deeper under their wings. The river gleamed under the moonlight, silvery patterns projected onto the surface by the current. It seemed magical, a scene for fairies dancing or elves frolicking. Grantaire felt the prickling in his fingers that meant he wanted to capture the scene in a painting. His fingers started shaking with the urge to hold a pencil, draw up a sketch of the scene. He had not felt that way about painting since –

‘This looks beautiful.’

- Since he had painted Enjolras, his angel of music, the muse at the edge of a cliff, not seeing the storm brewing behind him. He knew his ways around greys, knew what reaction and sentiment they were associated with. One of his second term courses had been about the depiction of emotion and states of mind, Grantaire had been assigned Depression. The following three months had been made up of one grey fading into the next. No surprise, his thunderclouds had reflected the results of the studies he had conducted.

‘Hey, are you listening?’

Grantaire took another swig of his Scotch before shoving the bottle into Enjolras’ hands, ‘I need light.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Light, I need light!’ he rummaged around in his backpack, retrieving his sketchpad, ‘Where do I have it – where is my fucking –‘

‘Do you need your pencil?’ Enjolras looked at him, a smile lingering in the corner of his mouth.

‘Yes, goddammit.’

‘Let me help you,’ he leaned in, brushed a strand of hair to the side and plucked something out from behind his ear, ‘Is this the one you’re looking for?’

He held out the pencil he had tucked behind his ear before they left the academy building. Grantaire flinched, taking a step back in surprise and dropping his pad because his fingers refused to keep their grip around it. The whisky he had drunk suggested he had felt an electric shock but he calmed his troubled mind quickly. Scotch was tricky like that. He sucked in a breath and chortled out a laugh, a sad attempt to disguise the jolt that had gone through him.

‘Yeah, thanks. Hold my phone,’ he switched on the torch on his phone and shoved it into his free hand. He crouched down to pile the pages together that had slipped out. The rough sketch he had drawn earlier had landed a few feet away from him. A cold shiver ran down his back when he heard the gravel scrunch under a pair of shoes.

‘Did you draw that? It looks good,’ Enjolras picked it up and studied it before facing him, his smile a little more guarded than before, ‘Is that my piano?’

Grantaire grabbed it from his hand and shoved it back into the pad, securing it on his thigh, ‘Hold the phone, I need to see what I’m doing.’

Enjolras complied without another word. His arms and hands were steady enough to provide Grantaire with unwavering light for the quick lines he drew. It was going to be a rough sketch, a draft to be turned into a proper painting some other time. He felt himself exhale, easing into a more comfortable pose, as far as possible. His left knee protested against being propped up on the ground but he ignored it, making quick work of the draft before the moment passed. Drawing the last lines, marking where the moon made the water sparkle, felt like an initiation process.

‘Done,’ he was out of breath, just from sketching. On another day, he would have been embarrassed but he had created something that had the potential to be beautiful and carry the memory of the night, ‘Whisky.’

He held out his hand for the bottle to be passed along, his throat dry and yearning for the burn. It did not happen. Instead, he heard the gurgling of liquid sloshing. He looked up, squinting against the phone torch. Enjolras grinned down at him, lowering the bottle from his lips. A single drop of whisky ran down the bottleneck, Grantaire chose to watch as it made its way down over the label, instead of seeing how Enjolras licked his lips to chase the taste lingering in the corners of his mouth.

‘You didn’t just -?’ Grantaire gawked at him, mouth hanging open, ‘You scolded me for drinking just a few minutes ago.’

‘More like an hour,’ Enjolras sat down next to him, ‘You were in the zone, I didn’t want to interrupt. So, yes, I drank some of your whisky.’

‘Some? Half the bottle is gone,’ Grantaire laughed, nudging him in the side, ‘Did you like it?’

‘Tasted expensive. Do you always throw away the money other people have earned?’

‘I guess you mean the money I get from my parents to fund my studies,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘I’ll have to disappoint you, then. They pay one half of my rent, everything else is my business. The only money I’m spending is my own.’

‘Oh, so they want you to stand on your own feet?’

‘You could call it that.’

Enjolras made another grab for the bottle and threw his head back to swallow another gulp of whisky. His throat worked and his eyes fluttered close for a moment. It was a sight Grantaire would have liked to hold onto, commit it to memory or draw it. It felt like a frenzy when he was with Enjolras, his mind was overflowing with ideas, inspiration and themes. Every second seemed to be the outline for another painting he could do, he could not draw drafts of everything he wanted to commit to his memory to be finalised in his studio. It felt better than any drunken state he had gotten himself into but something still insisted on the booze.

‘Grantaire?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you want to do this again?’

‘Do what?’

‘Come to my rehearsal room, sit, talk. You seem like someone with a quick mind and I think we could have some inspiring discussions.’

‘I would only infuriate you,’ Grantaire chuckled, ‘I tend to have that effect on people. Well, most of them were too focused on their own opinion to see that they handed me the way to talk them into defeat on a silver platter. You wouldn’t like arguing with me.’

‘I beg to differ,’ Enjolras smiled, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, ‘I mean it. I rarely sleep more than four hours a night and spend more time at the piano than in my bed. Since you said you were up as well, we could just meet up, I’d practise and you can draw. It doesn’t sound too bad, does it?’

Chapter Text

It sounded like a brilliant idea, if he was being honest. He was contemplating it whenever his mind made a run for it, whilst he served luxury food to elderly couples, carried trays of wine and champagne glasses in between tables and smiled until the corners of his mouth hurt. Usually, his shifts at the museum ended when it closed to the public but with the opening of a new exhibition taking place after hours the curator had asked the guides to clean up and help out with the catering. Grantaire had tamed his curls begrudgingly with a scrunchie and some pins, put on a freshly ironed suit and walked around with a tray almost glued to his hand. He did barely listen to a word anyone said to him, making his way through the crowd miraculously without messing up or tripping. His mind was too busy contemplating shiny black wood, fair curls and twinkling eyes whilst also calculating the mixture of colours that would make a painting sparkle without using glitter or silver pigment.

‘Good evening, Grantaire, fancy seeing you here,’ an empty champagne flute was placed on the tray in his hands, ‘Did you enjoy yourself so far, still satisfied with the job?’

‘Good evening, Professor Lafayette. I do enjoy the exhibition openings a lot, thank you. Have you made your way around the gallery already?’

‘I have but I might have to return to be led through it again by a decent guide. There is only so much you get out of the descriptions. Any recommendations, my boy?’

‘There are quite a few guides who are deployed for the special exhibit in particular,’ Grantaire set down the tray for a moment, ‘I would offer my expertise but I am more at home at any time before nineteen-thirty. You know, the actual opening hours.’

‘Of course you are,’ Professor Lafayette watched him gather a few empty glasses from a nearby bar table, ‘Anything else on your mind tonight?’

‘No, sir, everything is alright.’

‘Any questions you might have, anything I should know about the exhibition before they let the public in?’

‘You got me the job here, isn’t the curator one of our better-known alumni?’ Grantaire blinked a few times as a thought struck him, ‘Are you…bored, sir?’

‘Out of my brains, Grantaire. Are you allowed to talk to guests for prolonged periods of time?’

‘I should think so. It is in our contracts that we may use these events to socialise. Plus, I filled in on short notice.’

‘Well then, socialise. Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘I was wondering how I could get a painting to sparkle like water under light would.’

Professor Lafayette thought for a moment before looking up at him, his wrinkly face stretching with a smile, ‘Diamond Dust, my boy. It’s not pigment in the traditional sense but can be used like glitter. It would certainly add a modern touch to any painting it is used on. What are you thinking of using it for?’

‘I went down to the river a few nights ago and the moonlight danced on the surface. Every ripple, every current left an imprint, not for much more than a second but in all its evanescence and fast-moving nature lay a beauty I had to try and catch,’ he coughed, trying to get rid of a forming lump in his throat discreetly, ‘I have been carrying around the draft, would you – would you mind taking a look at it?’

He glanced around the room but everybody seemed to have a champagne flute and nibbles at hand. His boss nodded briefly, allowing him to take off the tie he had been forced to wear in order to blend in with the other caterers. He took it off and handed Professor Lafayette the folded piece of paper he had kept in the pocket of his waistcoat. The old man unfolded it and looked at it. After a few seconds, he handed it back to him, his clear eyes following the careful movements with which Grantaire folded it up and out it back in his waistcoat.

‘Did you catch them?’

‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t seem to grasp what you are saying.’

‘I’m asking whether you managed to catch that beauty you saw by the river,’ there was a wink, small enough for Grantaire to think he’d imagined it for a moment, ‘It must be a wonderful thing to see so clearly what inspires one’s best work. The painting you handed in a few days ago is one of the best you have presented throughout your whole time as my mentee. I would very much like to put it up for the Dean’s Award. Now, is that Mrs O’Meara I spot over there? You will have to excuse me, my boy, this lady has a special air about herself that must be admired at any given opportunity.’

‘You will probably find that you are looking at Professor Mamarque, sir.’

‘My good boy, you are right,’ Lafayette patted his arm, ‘even better!’

‘Have a good night, sir,’ Grantaire took his tray back to the small kitchen where the caterers had found refuge, dropped it off and let his boss know that he would be going home.

It did not take him long to walk back to the living quarters, a few drops fell from the dark sky and burst open on impact with the asphalt of the street so he quickened his steps to reach the old building before the downpour could set in. Instead of heading upstairs, he turned into the art corridor and unlocked the door to his studio. He needed to calm his nerves, make sure that he had not left anything important out where it would possibly get damaged, see to his brushes and convince himself that everything was in its proper place. He lifted the sheet off the canvas on his easel, an attempt to catch the waterfront in its darkness, a reminder of a night he still thought might have been either a dream or too much whisky, somehow incomplete. Except, the bottle of his favourite Scotch was nowhere to be found and should be with Enjolras, if he remembered correctly. He had been going on about something like him not being responsible enough to handle alcohol on their way back to the academy. It still came to Grantaire through a gentle fog whenever he tried to remember exactly how he had gotten back to the house. All he knew for sure was that Joly had threatened to kill him if he ever stayed out for as long as he apparently had. His best friends had insisted he go to bed earlier for the next few nights, not succeeding of course, Grantaire did listen to neither him nor Jehan when it was about going to sleep at a normal hour.

He settled on the divan with a bottle of brandy and stared into the darkness of his studio. The quiet riot inside him died down with every gulp of alcohol he swallowed down. Professor Lafayette’s smile had been genuine, almost encouraging. Grantaire exhaled shakily. If he put him up for the dean’s award, chances were his mother would be invited to attend the ceremony again. If he won, she would have to see him and his work. A shudder ran down his spine. It sounded too good to be true. In fact, he was sure she would rather disappoint the dean than turn up to acknowledge that her son had done well with something that was not classical music. She had tried, he gave her that. He still could play several instruments, sight-read and arrange music. He may not have enjoyed it but it brought about childlike exaltation when he recognised a music piece and its composer just by walking past a rehearsal room.

Internally cursing, he pushed himself to his feet, grabbed his bag and switched the light off before locking the studio door. He had had an epiphany of sorts and he wasn’t sure how much of it was induced by the brandy in his blood, so he chose to seize the opportunity to follow through on it. The slim chance of failure was one he was willing to risk as he climbed up the stairs and shoved the door open. A few instruments were still being played, a clarinet, a string instrument, some timpani and a few pianos. He looked into the rooms whilst he walked past them; Courfeyrac practised Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, a student with his back to the door he believed to be Combeferre played something by Bach on his cello and a girl he had never seen before flailed at the timpani.

Enjolras performed Beethoven again. Piano Sonata No. 17, ‘Tempest,’ his brain supplied. He allowed himself a moment to watch his fluent movements, the way his upper body swayed in time to the music, the smoothness that seemed to ooze into his every touch. Grantaire felt a courage he had not felt in years as he quietly opened the door and slipped into the room. He managed to curl up in the armchair without Enjolras looking up or even opening his eyes. He took his sketchpad out of his bag and opened it to the sketch of the pianist he had started a few nights previous. Pencil in hand he got to work, trying to capture the easy nonchalance Enjolras conveyed when he performed. Beautiful successions followed each other, fingers slid over the keyboard, hitting the ivory carefully until a last scale ended in a clear chord. Grantaire held his breath and stilled his pencil but Enjolras, now with his eyes open, took a booklet from a pile on his grand piano, opened it and turned a few pages.

One short glance had been sent towards Grantaire in the worn armchair but he had missed it, trying to keep his head low. It proved to be a test when Enjolras hit the next notes – B, D, F sharp, another F sharp an octave lower, D, F sharp – his breath hitched in his throat and he tried to focus solely on his sketch. In this moment, he was convinced, Enjolras had read him like a book and picked the single piece of film music that was capable of bringing Grantaire to his knees. He had never mentioned it to anyone, maybe Jehan being the exception, but Once Upon A December may as well have been his Kryptonite. The irony was not lost on him, as he was constantly hunting the pale memory of times gone by, experiences that may have been dreams, turned indistinctive over long years.

Abruptly, the song ended, in the middle of an especially soft and careful part where it sounded like Enjolras had merely caressed the keys. The piano stool scraped over the floor and then, just a second later, Grantaire felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Are you alright?’

He had started to cry without noticing, as if there had been a plug that had been removed, allowing him to pour it out. Grantaire wiped at his eyes angrily; betrayed by something so small and simple he wished to both continue and stop at the same time. Some of the pressure that had haunted him for days, since he had first seen Enjolras sit at his piano, seemed to dissolve in the tears that trickled down his cheeks. He felt stupid for crying like this, without a sound passing his lips, drops falling onto his hands that were still holding on to his sketchpad and eyes blinking furiously against the veil of tears that obscured his vision. There he was, after sneaking into Enjolras’ room, crying over something he barely remembered, ruining everything.

‘Grantaire, do you want me to walk you to your flat?’ Enjolras sounded calmer than he had expected, not angry and disgusted, ‘I thought I’d play something entirely different today, I’m sorry if I hit a nerve with it. Let me get you upstairs, okay?’

The hand on his shoulder moved and patted him awkwardly on the back before wandering down his arm to grasp his hand and squeeze it, ‘I mean it, Grantaire, let me take care of you, you seem a little rattled.’

He pulled him to his feet, put Grantaire’s bag over his shoulder and budged him out into the hallway before locking up. His arm steadied Grantaire who leant onto him and tried to move his feet when required. Enjolras did not ask any questions as he scaled the stairs with him as deadweight by his side. Only when they reached the living quarters did he turn to ask softly, ‘Which flat is yours?’

Grantaire moved to open the door, only to be beaten to it by Joly who opened it from the inside. Apparently, Jehan had spent the evening at their flat because it looked like Joly had been about to see them off. When they saw Grantaire, eyes red and swollen, bag over Enjolras’ shoulder and tear stains on his skin, they moved to allow him to enter. Joly took over, managing to steer Grantaire into the living room. Jehan stayed behind with Enjolras.

‘What happened?’ Joly frowned at Grantaire as he made him sit down on the sofa, ‘I thought today was a good day.’

‘It is,’ Grantaire shuddered at the sound of his voice, ‘Enjolras played Once Upon A December. I couldn’t help it, Joly, I’m pathetic.’

‘Oh honey,’ Jehan came over to sit down next to Grantaire and hugged him, ‘You are not pathetic! You are incredibly smart and talented, you had to go through some shit but that doesn’t define you. I’m sure Enjolras didn’t know what that song means to you. Look at him, he’s paler than you are right now. Do you want to leave him hanging there?’

Grantaire wiped at his eyes again and looked towards the door where Enjolras still stood, hands deep in his pockets. He seemed to try and hide the glances he cast around the flat. His eyes rested on a few of Grantaire’s sketches and pictures Joly and Bousset had put up at the kitchen and living room walls for a moment. Overall, he tried to look inconspicuous. Jehan smiled at him and waved him closer, seeing as Grantaire still tried to get his breath back and stop crying.

‘Are you sure –‘ Enjolras started but Jehan just scooted over to make some space for him to sit next to Grantaire.

‘Just hold him for a moment, I need to do this according to the protocol,’ they got up and went into the kitchen to start on tea and hot chocolate, ‘It’s really just as simple, just hold him for a minute until he calms down.’

Jehan may have seemed like a fragile snowflake but their voice was able to fill anyone with fear and respect and had people answering his wishes without protest of any sort. It was something Bahorel called ‘natural authority that strikes anyone with awe’ and that none of their friends contested. No wonder that Enjolras sat down next to Grantaire and put his arm around his shoulders without saying another word of protest. Jehan waved Joly to help them with the hot drinks they needed to cheer Grantaire up.

For a moment, Enjolras’ arm around him felt like a lead weight and the way he sat next to him like a looming presence, stiff as a log. He felt his throat work to produce words, to tell him he did not need to feel obliged to follow Jehan’s orders. A small part of him wanted to explain himself, apologise for his behaviour and ask him to forgive him for the misery he had put on display, but the words did not come out.

‘You – you don’t have to –‘

‘Shut up,’ Enjolras toed his shoes off and put his feet up onto the sofa, leaning back and pulling Grantaire into his arms in the process, ‘I was told to hold you and that’s what I’m going to bloody do!’

Joly clapped his hands and turned back around, ‘Thank you, stranger that has Grantaire and Jehan figured out already.’

‘Oh sorry, I must have forgotten my manners,’ Enjolras bowed his head, ‘I’m Enjolras, I live down the hallway.’

‘Oh we know,’ Jehan grinned, ‘Grantaire has –‘

‘- mentioned you. You’re sharing with Courfeyrac und Combeferre, right?’ Joly glared at Jehan and smacked his arm.

‘Yes, we’ve known each other since before we started at the academy. It’s fun, we have movie and board game nights, discussions and Combeferre has founded a debate society in our living room – you should join us some time,’ Enjolras seemed to ease into the conversation, his face lighting up at the mention of the society.

‘I heard about that,’ Jehan poured steaming hot chocolate into the oversized mugs Joly had bought for Grantaire. They had been supposed to be a prank but he had taken to them, ‘Courfeyrac has tried to recruit me several times now after you moved to the Musain. I’m Jehan, by the way and this is Joly, he might be a bit sour but he’s a sweetheart.’

‘Yes, so are they,’ Joly rolled his eyes, ‘scoot over, I’ll get the marshmallows and sprinkles.’

‘Sprinkles,’ Jehan squealed, almost knocking over the mugs in front of them, ‘You know me so well.’

‘It really doesn’t take long to know that you will eat anything sparkly. Take the tray,’ Joly nodded the tray they had placed the mugs on and limped over to the sofa.

He threw a box of tissues at Grantaire who pulled one out and dried the tears on his face. Enjolras’ arm around him tightened and his hand patted him on the shoulder. Grantaire allowed himself to draw in a breath. It was less shaky than before.

‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked, moving slightly since he was starting to perceive his surroundings again, ‘You really shouldn’t have seen that. I have to apologise, Enjolras. What I showed back there was weak, pathetic behaviour that should not have been an issue in your presence. I hope you can forgive me for dragging you into the situation.’

He cleared his throat, took Enjolras’ hand and lifted it off his shoulders. Jehan, who had been watching him, rolled their eyes but handed him his favourite mug. Grantaire, in an attempt to further his apology, passed it on to Enjolras who accepted it, seemingly glad to have something to busy his hands with. Joly and Jehan sat down with them and for a moment, no one said a word.

‘Grantaire mentioned you play the piano,’ Joly cleared his throat, ‘Are you one of those music students who have recitals all the time?’

‘Not all the time, it’s like – do you perform a new play every week?’

‘Touché,’ Jehan grinned and licked glitter off his lips, ‘You should let us know when you have your next recital, though. We’d come. Definitely. I’ll bring Bahorel, Joly’ll be bringing Bousset, and we’ll force R to come as well!’

‘R?’

‘My nickname,’ Grantaire looked down into his mug, ‘You wouldn’t have to force me, though, I’d come anyway.’

‘You get to hear me play whenever you want,’ Enjolras gave him a faint smile, ‘Nocturnal practices and work hours, whenever you want to drop by.’

Grantaire felt himself blush, his cheeks felt hot, and he grabbed his mug tighter to hide the tremor in his fingers, ‘I will. Still, someone should come to your recitals with embarrassing posters and banners.’

Enjolras coughed, choking on a gulp of hot cocoa, ‘Remind me to never let you spend time with Courf!’

Grantaire, in a sudden brave moment, stuck out his tongue before returning his attention to his mug, tugging himself into the cushions. Joly asked about the recitals Enjolras had had so far whilst being at the academy and he eagerly provided detailed information about the how, when, where and why. Before long, their mugs were empty, and Jehan yawned, stretching like a cat. Grantaire, awake due to the lingering embarrassment the evening had brought him earlier, patted their hair and suggested walking them over to their flat. Jehan nodded, seemingly half asleep which prompted Joly to snicker as Grantaire pulled them to their feet.

‘See you, Enjolras, nice to meet you,’ Jehan slurred his speech, smiling and waving at Enjolras who waved back awkwardly, ‘You are fluffy, R.’

Grantaire fended off his friend’s hands that tried to weave into his hair. He knew Jehan’s antics and their preference for hair touching well enough to avoid his grabby fingers. Wrangling them could be fun but exhausting at the same time.

When he returned to his flat, Joly and Enjolras had been joined by Bousset. A steaming tea pot stood on the table and they were talking about a book both he and Enjolras had read. Grantaire made a mental note to look into it as he sat back down.

‘Are they in bed?’ Enjolras smiled at him, thus ending the argument, ‘They seemed ready to doze off on the spot.’

‘Handed them over to the boyfriend,’ Grantaire eased himself back onto the sofa, ‘I could do with a beer.’

‘Nope, not tonight,’ Joly patted his back, ‘you were at the exhibition opening. You can’t tell me you didn’t have your fill there. Didn’t you promise me to cut back on the booze?’

‘You promised both of us,’ Bousset knocked over an empty mug whilst attempting to get to the crisps they kept on the table, ‘and you’ve done well so far, it would be a pity to ruin the progress you’ve made.’

The question was plastered across Enjolras’ face.

‘My dear friends think I drink too much,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘I had rather drink myself to death but they made me promise not to do it and solve my problems the new-fangled way.’

‘New-fangled?’

‘Joly thinks pills and therapy, Bousset wants me to do sports, Jehan insists on braiding my hair. It’s all a bit meddlesome but they’d never stop teasing about it, anyway,’ He threw a pillow at Joly for good measure, too.

‘It actually doesn’t sound too bad,’ Enjolras interjected, ‘all of these are valid methods to battle mental health issues. Do you –‘

‘I do not talk about it. Joly diagnosed me and he diagnoses everybody with everything. A bit of a hypochondriac, if you ask me.’

‘Hey,’ the pillow was sent flying back at him, ‘I’ve read stuff.’

‘Yes, you’ve read books, my dear friend, and I ponder over a lot of things. That doesn’t make you a doctor and me a psycho,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes and ruffled his hair, ‘I definitely need a haircut.’

‘No,’ Enjolras toasted him with his cup of tea, ‘it suits you.’

Chapter Text

He was properly introduced to Combeferre and Courfeyrac a couple of days later. They had met out side the accommodations when Grantaire came back from his shift at the museum and the three music students had invited him along to their apartment for dinner. He had met both of Enjolras’ roommates before but seeing them in their flat was different from witnessing them at a party. Courfeyrac seemed unable to sit still for the first forty minutes of Grantaire’s visit and only Combeferre got him to calm down a bit. It reminded him of Jehan and Bahorel.

Combeferre had cooked for them and they sat down to eat at the kitchen table. Within minutes, Enjolras had started a discussion on local politics, entitled families and the destructive influence of their money on structures built to support less wealthy people. Grantaire followed the discussion for a minute or two, almost forgetting to chew his food. Courfeyrac who had settled and calmed down actively took part in the discussion and Combeferre whom he had thought to be a calm anchor for the other two, started to get rosy cheeks as he delivered a passionate speech on why the academy’s board needed to be held accountable for the disfunction of their entry auditions. It was common knowledge amongst the students that the selection process required a family background check of each applicant before they were even considered for the interview in  front of the dean and academy board, they had all been through it. Combeferre’s speech launched Enjolras into a fiery sermon on the arrogance the board members displayed whenever they met one of the students.

‘It’s their attitude, everything about their posture, countenance and words that make clear that none of the student body are on their level. Even years after starting, you still get the feeling you owe them something, they treat you with the same condescension one might treat their servant with! Students around the campus should not be exposed to this sickening behaviour!’

Grantaire followed his every word, his eyes glued to his lips. Enjolras seemed passionate enough to set a room ablaze just like that, his eyes radiant with the fire of a thousand suns and his hair glowing like a halo. The artist in him wanted to draw him as either a Greek god or an archangel, with flaming sword and shield, defending the peoples of Earth and punishing the sinners. The part of him that read scholarly journals and essays on society, economy and the fine arts, however, wanted to challenge him, to rouse him and voice some opposition. He met Combeferre’s eyes over the table. He had obviously watched him, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

‘What do you suggest then?’ Grantaire felt courageous for a moment and blurted it out.

‘No more nepotism, no more financial injections, no guarantee of selection for the spoilt brats of wealthy entrepreneurs, CEOs and bankers. Simple as that!’

‘Simple as that. How are the students from less fortunate families going to pay the student fees and rent on the accommodations when the financial injections are discontinued and both fees and rents increase? How will rental instruments be paid, how the canvases and paints? Where will the money come from that pays the tutors, professors and guest lecturers? What actions will you take to ensure that the quality of the education we get at the academy is maintained? As it is, less wealthy students are enabled to attend the academy without having to sell their soul to every devil and demon they can summon.’

‘Are you truly defending the corrupted ways that are treaded around the academy? Are you saying we should close our eyes to the talented young artists who are turned away because they simply don’t have the means to bribe their way into the academy?’

‘If you listened closely, you will have noticed that I did not say that. I merely said that there will be a struggle for those who do not have a nest egg to fall back onto. If you want to uproot the society on which you base your revolution, you need to secure the station of those who we should believe to be the first ones affected by it. A revolution needs to be built from the bottom, where it is supposed to gain a foothold. Otherwise, we will cause the deterioration of the target group’s living conditions.’

There was a brief moment of silence in which the three music students stared at him. Neither of them said a single word, Combeferre still held his fork in his hand, parked midway between his plate and his mouth, Courfeyrac’s mouth was hanging open and Enjolras’ bright eyes seemed to impale him with a single look. Grantaire cleared his throat and fumbled with his napkin.

‘I’m sorry if I overstepped –‘

‘Are you kidding?’ Courfeyrac slammed his hand on the table, ‘This is the first time in months that I have seen him speechless! You just – you hit back! This is glorious!’

Combeferre cleared his throat, ‘I have to say, it made for a nice change to hear someone argue back. It’s invigorating! I should love to welcome you at our next meeting.’

‘The debate society? I don’t know,’ Grantaire looked up to meet Enjolras’ stern face, ‘I don’t think I’d fit your ideal.’

‘Please,’ Enjolras nodded, ‘join us some time. If you argue against me like you just did, the discussions might get some life injected into them.’

Grantaire hid his grin behind his glass, ‘I’m warning you beforehand. I am a bitter sceptic. To convince me, your arguments have to be well thought-out, otherwise I’ll find the weak spot. Or I’ll start drawing in a back corner.’

‘He’ll tear you apart,’ Courfeyrac beamed with joy, slapping Enjolras’ back, ‘this is going to be so much fun!’

They avoided further discussions for the sake of the evening, Combeferre insisted. Once Enjolras had done the dishes, with Grantaire drying and Courfeyrac tidying everything away, they sat down in the living room to watch a few episodes of some show Combeferre had picked. Grantaire felt something happy pulse through his body as he saw the three friends next to him. His fingers searched for the pencil behind his ear and a piece of paper in his bag. He got to work quickly and drew a quick sketch of what he felt was important about the situation. Courfeyrac and Combeferre cuddling, Combeferre whispering something into Courfeyrac’s ear, causing him to crack up about whatever joke he had made. Enjolras sitting next to them, his arms wrapped around his knees, eyes glued to the screen. He had pulled his hair tie out of his ponytail and played with single strands of his hair. It filled Grantaire with an unknown delight to be a part of their small group and he imagined how lively society meetings could get, with Enjolras as the leader.

Combeferre nudged Courfeyrac awake after a fifth episode of the show. Grantaire had not been following the plot, he had been too preoccupied with his sketch. Only, when Enjolras lightly touched his arm did he look up.

‘Hey, fancy going downstairs?’ he smiled at him, ‘You spent so many evenings in my rehearsal room now, it feels like something was missing if we didn’t.’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire got up and tucked his sketch into one of the books on the table, ‘any plans?’

‘Do you have any assignments you need to finish?’ Enjolras opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

‘No pressing ones, but plenty of ideas. How about you, do you need to practise?’

‘Not today.’

They went downstairs, Grantaire opened his studio up and switched on his table lamp, ‘Make yourself at home. The divan’s yours, you can pick the music if you want to and I’ll just choose my idea according to it.’

‘Sounds interesting. Does it really work?’

‘Of course. Every painting conveys emotion, doesn’t it? If you can capture the emotion behind the thought you had when you started it, it will become something great. Big, obnoxious feelings are easier to catch; sadness, grief, depression, weariness. That’s easy stuff. Happiness, joy, satisfaction; that’s the real test. It’s always a test. One of my professors always wants to know what emotions were connected to painting a certain piece, and he’s right. It’s always connected to something.’

‘Isn’t yellow one of the happy colours?’ Enjolras leaned back, watching Grantaire lift a canvas on his easel.

‘Utter nonsense,’ he adjusted the canvas and turned back to the working table, ‘any colour can be a happy or a sad one, it depends on the painting. Look at van Gogh’s Sunflowers. It’s positively yellow but you still can’t shake the air of something deeper, a little depressing. Something is off about that painting and I haven’t managed to grasp it.’

Enjolras laughed from behind him, ‘Passionate about your field of study.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Grantaire looked through the sketchbooks on the table, ‘I have the drafts somewhere around here. Have you decided on some music?’

‘Your music library is quaint.’

‘Quaint?’

‘Found something!’ Enjolras pulled a CD out of the binder Grantaire kept in his studio, ‘Good, I take it back. Your taste in music is not quaint, it’s bloody brilliant. I mean, there are still some choices I just cannot comprehend but at least you have some of the classics. Is Chopin alright?’

‘Always,’ he started to work on the scaffolding, blending together pale yellow and using a slender brush to bring it onto the canvas, ‘Knock yourself out.’

‘Why are you starting to paint with yellow?’

‘It’s one of the lighter colours and, unlike pencil, it doesn’t filter through. You can build a structure by going light to dark,’ Grantaire pushed a brush behind his ear and tried to blow his hair out of his eyes, ‘It all comes together in the end.’

He put down line after line, stroke after stroke, yellow on yellow. It came easy, with Chopin’s Nocturnes blaring from the speakers on the table. The brush flew over the canvas, drawing up structures on the white nothing of the canvas, trees, stones, a path, one distant lantern and the biggest test, the water surface.

‘Isn’t that the one you drew by the river?’

‘Yes. It’s actually the second attempt, the first one was just off. It didn’t have the right feeling to it, not like when we were down at the river. So, I have to redo it.’

‘Sounds like a lot of work.’

‘Don’t you work hard? Don’t you practise a piece until you play it perfectly, without a single misplaced finger? Don’t you craft your arguments for the society carefully to be convincing and persuasive? It’s all hard work and our course of studies is to work hard for little recognition. We are studying the fine arts, after all.’

A rustling of paper suggested that Enjolras got up from the divan, disturbing some of the sketches Grantaire had placed there, ‘Are you sure we shouldn’t trade places? You seem more than capable to lead a debate group.’

‘No, Enjolras,’ Grantaire laughed, ‘You are doing better in front of a crowd than I ever could. It is a gift you possess, you can use it at your convenience. I am more the babbling idiot kind.’

‘Ferre and Courf were right, you know?’ Enjolras crossed his arms, ‘It is going to be invigorating. And fun.’

‘What, me getting a rise out of you?’ Grantaire gave him a smile, ‘I’ll probably like that. Will it work though?’

‘Of course, I have one of the shortest fuses out there,’ there was no edge to their banter, Enjolras leaned onto the table and grinned like a cat dipped in honey, ‘This will be fun.’

‘I’ll hold you to that when we clash again,’ Grantaire finished the structure of one of the riverbanks, ‘pass me my sketchbook?’

‘How long until you finish that?’

‘A few days. It needs to dry before I can continue with the different stages. And then, in the end, I need to apply a last coat of something my professor said would give it this little extra.’

‘And what’d that be?’

‘Glitter.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Glitter, I’m going to dust the water surface with glitter to make it look real,’ Grantaire explained, ‘It’s a little experimental.’

‘Sounds like something Jehan could enjoy, right?’

Grantaire nodded, ‘Right.’

He continued to bring the paint onto the canvas, every stroke of the brush a dedicated promise. Enjolras watched him closely, arms propped up on the table, his legs crossed at the ankles. Whenever Grantaire turned around, their eyes met and he got to see Enjolras’ smile, directed at either him or the painting.

‘This is going to look marvellous,’ at some point, he stepped around the table and stood close to Grantaire, ‘I really hope I get to see the final product!’

‘You will, promise! I’ll come by your room –‘

‘Nonsense!’ Enjolras held his hand out, ‘Give me your phone, I’m going to give you my number. You will call or text me as soon as you’re finished.’

Grantaire nodded silently and handed him his phone. Enjolras punched his number in, saved it and gave him the device back. He pocketed it and turned back to the canvas. The scaffolding assumed shape, its yellow structures promised to turn out more satisfactory than the first attempt.

‘Enjolras?’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell me something about yourself.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What’s your family like? Where did you grow up? When did you realise you wanted to become a musician? I would like to hear the little things about Enjolras.’

‘There’s not much of interest to be told,’ Enjolras furrowed his brow, ‘my parents raised me in the countryside, I had piano lessons and liked the sound of it which made me quite bratty because I insisted on learning and practising more, going to concerts and buying more sheet music than they had ever planned to buy.’

‘Liar.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Never ever in a million years did you grow up as a simple country boy who was taken into town to see some piano concert. I was there often enough to know that my mother’s engagements aren’t cheap. Spit it out, Enjolras, it will not burn your throat.’

‘Are you sure? You are definitely smarter than you look, R. If saying it kills me I will blame you, just so you know.’

‘I’ll risk it.’

‘Good, here goes,’ Enjolras cleared his throat, scrunched up his nose and exhaled carefully, ‘my father is a big landowner. I grew up in a mansion. My mother has more expensive evening gowns than plates in the kitchen.’

‘So tell me, Enjolras, how did you get into the academy? Was there a background check? Did your parents support your application in any way other than accompanying you to the interview? Did your name raise eyebrows amongst the board members?’

Enjolras huffed out something inaudible, ‘Of course it did, whom are we kidding? Hell, they must have been delighted to see your name on their list! Doesn’t mean it is right! Knowing what is wrong with the system means that there is a chance for those people who are willing to change it. The question is, who will take on the fight? Les Amis de l’ABC? Definitely. Combeferre’s freelance student paper? Partially. Me? Yes. You?’

Grantaire laughed, ‘Pinned down like a virgin at a black mass. I like your style, I’ll give you that.’

He turned to the small basin in the corner to clean the brushes he had used for the scaffold. It was easier to deal with the situation without looking at Enjolras whilst delivering something that would without doubt offend him.

‘Your scathing humour won’t always protect you, R,’ Enjolras sat back down, according to the diwan’ springs groaning, ‘You will have to face the choice one day.’

‘Fortunately, there is enough brandy in this town to help me forget if I make the wrong one. Don’t you think I should start hoarding bottles of booze?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Enjolras’ voice tensed up, ‘This academy is a great institution that opens doors to worlds many artists would otherwise only dream of. Every student roaming these halls is a poster child of its cause, a walking billboard. Our recitals, exhibitions and performances all shine a light on everything we do around here and we are indebted to the organisation. We are supposed to show our gratitude for everything that is offered to us by the gracious gods of fine arts education. Once you enter the academy you discard your ideals and agree to follow their brainwashed indoctrination. We have brains to use them and we will not stop until we have accomplished the change of circumstances that we, the student body, deem proper in order to ensure everybody, student, applicant or tutor is treated even-handed.’

Grantaire turned around to face him. Enjolras watched his every move as he came back to sit at the foot of the divan, one pillow next to him. He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees. The lamp made him blink against the light a few times before he focussed on him properly. His hair seemed to shine in the darkness of the studio.

‘I admire your strong-minded stubbornness, Enjolras, I really do. You possess the same flair for the dramatic as Jehan and his drama pals – but you really mean it all, every little detail. Of course you do, you are not one for hypocrisy. I would laugh at you if I got as much as an inkling you didn’t back the projects you bring into being.’

Enjolras kicked him in the shin for that and Grantaire laughed, ‘Ow – okay, I deserved that.’

‘To accuse me of hypocrisy! I can’t believe it,’ Enjolras grinned at him, a perfect, shit-eating grin that showed a spark of that burning passion Grantaire had seen earlier.

‘I didn’t, actually.’

‘Pardon?’

‘I didn’t accuse you of hypocrisy, I didn’t accuse you of anything,’ Grantaire could not hide the smirk that wanted to break out over his face.

Enjolras smiled and leaned back into the divan, resting his head on his hand, ‘I heard you, loud and clear.’

‘And you just chose to kick me instead of using your words,’ Grantaire giggled, ‘what a show of manners, esquire.’

‘I shouldn’t have told you about my family.’

‘Yes, you should have. It honours you to defy your own status and fight against the expectations your family without doubt carries for you. It also means you constantly tread a very fine line between accomplishing your biggest goal and leaving your family’s society completely, breaking all bonds. I’m sure you can get by on your own. For a certain time, right?’

Enjolras shook his head, smile clinging to his lips, ‘Is that not hypocrisy? You’re good at deducing the tiniest change of nature, R.’

‘So I’m told. I call it ‘an artist’s eye’ and paying attention to every tiny detail that repeats itself, thus indicating a habit or conviction. You don’t speak about your family but you don’t keep it a secret either. You are aware of the advantage you have by birth and you seek to actively undermine it. That is brave but I guess we have something in common in that.’

‘Choosing art over music doesn’t count as undermining your privilege.’

‘Again, not what I’ve been saying,’ Grantaire scrunched up his nose.

‘I might not be hiding my family and treating it as a secret – but you do. You might think I didn’t notice but there is something in your eyes that tells me differently. Do you want to talk about it?’

Grantaire shook his head, the smile plastered on and his fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his forearm, ‘There is nothing to talk about. I tried my hand at music, I painted, I was better at the latter, I decided to try and make a career of it.’

‘And you most certainly will. Do you have exhibitions or something like that?’

Grantaire eyed Enjolras wearily, not sure whether his question was genuine and why he had changed the subject. He cleared his throat and nodded.

‘We are given the chance to exhibit our work several times throughout the term. The academy organises them in a gallery in town, sometimes students sell them there, and sometimes they get picked for bigger venues. Some put them outside their studios and rooms for others to take.’

‘How often have you been part of these exhibitions?’

‘A few times,’ Grantaire reminded himself to tear his fingernails out of his fingers. He had successfully grounded himself back in the moment, ‘I don’t tend to stay at openings for more than a few minutes.‘

‘The next time you have a part in an exhibition, you have to tell me, agreed? You have my number and I want to be one of those obnoxious people who stand in the middle of the room to proclaim that they know the artist.’

‘You’d fit right in,’ Grantaire said dryly. He did not want to imagine Enjolras standing in front of one of his paintings in a gallery, dressed for an exhibition opening, maybe in a turtleneck or a waistcoat over a neatly pressed shirt. It seemed too good to actually come true.

‘It’s done then. Next time, I will be there.’

Chapter Text

The next days were bad ones. He slept a lot, cried even more and only left his room in the night to go to the bathroom and refill his water bottle without waking Joly and Bousset in the process. He was in constant pain, a condition he had never gotten used to, not at any of its occasions. It was no physical pain; no wound, no injury had been inflicted on him, no one had even gotten close to him in twenty-four hours by the time the first symptoms appeared. He had spent them like always when his episodes started. Once the dull, pounding headaches set in, he pulled the curtains shut, locked his door from the inside and lay down with his earbuds firmly tucked into his ears. He picked the first of the playlists that was recommended to him, almost feeling relieved when the soft sound of a piano tune set in. He dozed off in the middle of an orchestra piece, about an hour later.

As expected, he woke up with a raging headache, a swollen throat and the feeling that he had better not move. He knew better than to even try and get up. The crippling sluggishness that had befallen his bones made him feel as if his insides were made of lead. The bedsheet and the pillow under his head were soaked and damp with the same cold sweat that made his curls stick to his forehead. He lay there, in the middle of a bed, too big for him, not daring to move in anticipation of what would follow inevitably at some point. Trying to put off the evil hour only made it worse, he knew that from experience and yet, he hesitated, frozen in his curled up position. It was one of the things he forgot after every episode, his mind attempting to shelter him from the memory of his torment by gracing him in drawing a thin veil over his consciousness.

He had to move eventually, or rather, moved involuntarily when he heard a sound from the other side of the door. Joly or Bousset must had gotten up since the room adjoining his was the communal area and no other sounds were usually audible in his room except for when they were in the l´kitchen. The noise, however, of them setting down their coffee cups on the counter made him flinch.

The effects rushed at him in an instant. Although he had merely moved an inch under his duvet, it felt as if he had rolled onto a bed of nails. Within a second, his skin felt like it had been burnt; the duvet and bedsheet against his body were enough to have him writhing in pain. His breath hitched in his throat, no sound left his mouth as the tears sprung to his eyes and poured over. Every square inch of his skin hurt, needles seemingly pricked into him without drawing blood, but the sensation was enough to let him forget the effects movement would have and curl in onto himself. The pain spread, from his skin into the depths of his body, cauterising his insides and making him want to scream until the world knew his agony. His tears left marks on his pillow, streaming from his eyes without meeting resistance as his lips pressed against the cover, strained with the desperation of the trapped sound.

He managed to grab his phone, pushed the earbuds back into his ears and pressed play on the first thing his convulsing fingers could reach before slumping back onto the mattress as a whimpering pile. There was nothing he could do, anyway. The pain would lessen at some point, he had to hang on until then, trying to remain calm whilst his mind told him to scratch and claw the skin off his bones to get rid of the stinging, irritating sensation that almost felt like somebody stroked him the wrong way with a wire brush. During his first episode he had drawn bloods with his fingernails. After that, he had managed to contain the self-destructive feelings for just about long enough to pull himself together, granting himself the two minutes he needed to take his pills.

Grantaire sobbed but the dry air hurt even more in his throat, trapped within. The small box containing the only possibility to control the urge to make the pain end was in his bag, under the desk in the opposite corner of the room. He would not manage to reach it, he would not be able to take his medication and it scared him senseless. The next sob announced itself, he tried to gulp it back, attempting to avoid the next surge of hot pain in his throat. All for nothing, it still found its way when he gulped against the pressure building up in his lungs. He gave up, in that moment. The next sobs were allowed to spill from his quivering lips, shaking his body with pain in the process. They were muffled by the pillow under his head, as he found himself unable to move again; this time no reflex would disrupt his attempts to remain still. The next stage had set in, and he did not have his pills at hand. His muscles tensed up at this stage, until he had lost any control over them, unable to move as much as a finger with only unhindered tears streaming down his cheeks to soak the pillowcase. Almost no sound spilled over his lips, the short gurgling of wet sobs the only noise that filled his room.

‘R? Are you okay in there?’ Joly’s voice rang in his ears, along with a short knock on his door. Grantaire knew the sound of the silvered head of his cane on the wood, ‘You haven’t come out in a day.’

Grantaire tried. He struggled to open his mouth, urged his lips to form words and bring them out, but all that followed was more silence. His vocal chords denied him their service, leaving him helpless on top of his bed with no means to make a sound.

‘Grantaire? Can you please let me know whether you are okay? We haven’t heard from you,’ the door handle was pushed down, ‘Did you – are you – shit, Bousset, I think R has another episode.’

He wanted to tell them to go away, leave him alone and go about their days as usual but a moment later he heard Bousset join Joly outside his room, ‘Are you sure he’s not just in his studio? He left early a few times recently.’

‘No, no, I don’t believe he’s still obsessed with his painting. I think it’s the other thing again.’

‘We can’t really break down the door, and anyway, we know R has his meds in there with him. He’s probably sleeping it off right now. You can still go shopping and get him some groceries for when he wakes up, text him when you are on your way back home.’

‘I’m not sure we should –‘ Joly’s voice sheered off, he was probably steered away by Bousset.

Grantaire thanked him silently. His friends could not change anything about his situation as it was, he needed to fight his own battles, and upsetting them by allowing them to see him like he was during his episodes would do no good for any of them. He tried to get his body to relax but his tense muscles did not obey him. Once he had gulped down the breath he had been holding, he closed his eyes. If any entity beyond the stars had mercy, they would allow him to fall asleep peacefully. It took another hour of quiet and calm orchestral music until he finally fell asleep.

The headache and sore throat were gone when he woke up again. He got up slowly, biting through the pain that shot into his limbs. His eyes were dry and hurt with every blink. Every single muscle in his body ached after cramping for hours. He limped to the door, turned the key with trembling fingers and opened it, squeezing through the narrow gap without making a sound. No lamp was switched on, the darkness filing in through the windows suggested a time late at night. Grantaire chose to leave the flat in the darkness it was enveloped in. He reached the bathroom without disturbance, years of training in a drunk state paying off. The water bottle almost slipped out of his fingers a few times whilst he refilled it and he blacked out for a second as he relieved himself. A short bout of panic overcame him, he fumbled for the sink and held on to it. His way back to his room was only made possible with the help of furniture to both sides as support. It took him longer to get back to his bed without falling. He sat down on the edge and gulped down a bit of water. His throat wanted to complain for a moment but the cool water calmed it immediately. Still, every slight movement hurt and the cotton of his bedding felt harsh against his over-sensitive skin. The sensation would not disappear for a few more days, he knew he would feel irritated by the smallest touch and would feel on edge for most of the time but he knew several things that would help with both the pain and the irritation. Grantaire massaged his temples. His stomach almost revolted when he slid his arm along the duvet to find his phone. Of course, the battery had died at some point. He plugged it in, taking more time than he would usually need. The fingers of his right hand twitched, a last remnant of the cramps of the previous day. The pale light from the display let him know that he had slept for over a day and into the night.

He needed soft. His skin needed softness and cosiness. His soul needed comfort food and warmth and his rumbling stomach demanded his attention as well. Grantaire pushed himself to his feet. He could do soft, he kept his favourite clothes in a corner of his dresser for this exact reason. Ever since he had to deal with the effects of his first episode only to find out that there was only one combination of clothes in his wardrobe that would actually soothe his irritated skin and calm him down, he had kept them close by. It consisted of a soft, fluffy pair of black training trousers that fit him just right around the thighs and an oversized jumper of dark green cashmere or fine wool, he had never bothered to check the label. All he knew was that it made him feel better when he slipped it over his head. It caressed him, almost as much as a good, warm hug would. He added his favourite beanie, made of smooth maroon wool and hand-knitted by Jehan, their last birthday present for him.

The next thing he needed was his medication, now that he could move again, available, to fight off another attack. He swallowed the pills and pocketed them, not willing to risk lacking them another time. A few minutes later, he left the flat as soundless as he had snuck into the bathroom before, gliding into the drizzle outside that had begun to pour down at some point. His fingers had not been able to tie his shoelaces, he had opted to slip them into the upper and walk carefully instead of looking for different shoes that would support his feet less. There was a 24/7 café on the corner, not far from the academy and he needed at least chocolate and a hot drink to calm his nerves, his stomach rumbled and cramped again as he left the building. His friends would scold him in the morning, Joly would most likely call Jehan over to have them yell at him before insisting on feeding him with whatever they had in their pantry.

He had to pause three times on the way down the road, allowing the rain to soak through his light coat, holding on to street lamps and the odd bike stand for support. It was pathetic but nothing he did not know from previous experience. It all seeped into each other, one episode after the other, with all its effects and reactions, until he hardly remembered when he had been having them.

He opened the door to the café and slipped through the narrow gap he allowed himself to enter through, leaving the dark, wet night behind. There were only three other people in there, a couple in one of the booths by the window who were snogging their faces off over a cup of coffee and Éponine behind the counter. She wiped down the coffee machine and dried some cups before turning around when she heard the door close.

‘R, what are you doing here, it’s three in the morning!’

‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed,’ he walked up to the counter, ‘I need something to eat and a hot drink. Surprise me.’

Éponine frowned at him but turned around to get one of his favourite paninis to re-heat it and make him an extra big mug of Cappuccino, just as he liked it, with three shots of Espresso and a dash of caramel syrup. He shuffled through the café, scooting into the booth in the darkest corner. Once he had placed his bag next to himself on the seat and started to get his sketchbook and pencils out he browsed the pages he had filled so far, examining them with the cautious eye of an artist looking for inspiration. Éponine came by the table a minute later to set down the panini and Cappuccino.

‘Now spill,’ she slid into onto the seat opposite from him, ‘Late night coffee for you can only mean two or three things. Either you have been up painting and grew tired of it, or you ran out of inspiration and needed a break – or you just came out of an episode.’

‘Don’t pretend like Joly didn’t text you.’

‘He didn’t.’

Grantaire shot her a dirty look. Éponine squirmed for a moment before sighing out a breath.

‘Fine, Jehan did,’ she rolled her eyes at him, ‘Three days, Grantaire! You stayed in your locked room for three days without texting anyone or telling us you were okay, and I bet you didn’t even drink half of the water bottles you keep under your bed for these exact moments. You are a goddamn idiot, R, and I would kill you, if you weren’t fucking depressed and thinking about it all the time anyway. Why didn’t you tell Joly or Bousset when they came by?’

Grantaire stirred his Cappuccino and pushed the spoon behind his ear, causing Éponine to groan and huff out something that sounded alarmingly close to “disgusting slob.”

‘I didn’t tell them…because I couldn’t. I left my pills in the bag next to the door. Once the attack hit, I was on the bed. I just could not reach them when the muscular rigidity hit.’

‘And you couldn’t have taken them before it hit?’ Éponine smacked him on the head, ‘You have a fucking bedside table for this exact reason, to place your pills and a bottle of water on top of it, to keep them in your damn reach!’

‘I know, ‘Ponine, alright?’ Grantaire finished his coffee, ‘I was stupid to think that I could get through it without the pills, okay? I will never do it again and I will put up a sign on my door so that Joly and Bousset know whether to break in or not.’

‘I should hope so,’ Éponine got up, ‘we’ll get Jehan to hound you, otherwise.’

Grantaire winced at the idea and ducked his head over his sketchbook, opened on the half-finished sketch of Enjolras in his music room. Éponine huffed out another, undoubtedly annoyed remark before turning away to return behind the counter. He watched her wipe down the counter with quick, energetic movements. It took him a moment to get his focus back on the book in front of him. He wanted to finish the sketch, a thought had entered his mind during his episode and he wanted to see it fulfilled. Sketching with stiff fingers, however, proved to be more difficult than he remembered. The pencil slipped from his fingers a few times before he could grip it properly. He placed the tip on the paper and drew a few test lines along the piano. It worked until his fingers twitched again and the pencil skidded over the table only to drop to the floor. Grantaire groaned and bent down to retrieve it.

The couple left the café at about four, giggling and holding on to each other as they pushed through the door. Without doubt, their night was far from finished. Grantaire shuddered at the thought. He returned to his sketch, paying no attention to the door opening and closing a few times, the nighthawks made way for the early birds who came in to collect their first cup of coffee. Grantaire still sketched when the first rays of sunlight fell into his dark booth, rigid fingers disobeying his will every few minutes. It took him longer than usually to finish the rough draft, he tried to rub his hands against the fabric of his jumper but his overstimulated nerves protested against the tiniest friction.

‘Hey stupid,’ Éponine slid back into his booth, ‘my shift’s over, do you want to get breakfast at a proper place? Or do you have other plans?’

‘I don’t have any other plans but I’m also not very hungry.’

‘You haven’t eaten properly for three days!’

‘Exactly,’ Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair, ‘my stomach’s not used to food now.’

Éponine kicked him in the shin and pulled the sketchbook from his hands, ‘Who’s that?’

‘A guy from the academy. I saw him play the piano and just had to draw him.’

‘It looks different from the other stuff you’ve drawn,’ she skimmed through his sketchbook, raising an eyebrow at some of the drafts he kept in there, ‘You’ve drawn him a few times. Your lines are softer when you draw him.’

Grantaire grabbed the book and stuffed it in his bag, ‘Don’t care. He’s a nice person and a good pianist.’

‘And?’

He shrugged. There was no point in telling her what hadn’t left his mind throughout the previous days. There was no point in telling her that he felt like drowning, like he did not deserve Enjolras’ attention, even when he allowed himself to bask in the warmth he radiated. Éponine knew half of what he thought of himself and the people he loved, anyway.

‘I’m just saying, you draw him with feeling, with passion, if you will. You know I don’t know anything about that stuff but it’s nice to look at it,’ Éponine cleared her throat, ‘and you should sleep. Your muscles will only get sorer, if you don’t.’

‘I have been sleeping for over a day, the last thing I could do now is sleep. No, I should get back to the studio and continue working on a piece I started recently. It’s another landscape.’

‘I love your landscapes and still lives. They are the pieces that actually get exhibited.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You know what I mean,’ Éponine slid her coat on, ‘I’m going home. Are you coming? I’ll walk you back to the academy. We might even get there before Joly and Bousset wake up to skin you. Oh, if you try really hard, you could sneak into Jehan’s.’

‘What are you, crazy? Bahorel does his combat yoga thing in the morning, he would take my head off if I tried to sneak in.’

‘Jehan’s breakfast, though. That has to be an upside.’

They left the café and walked back up the street. A few cars passed them but it was still too early for the real commuter traffic and the pale morning light made everything seem fresh and rosy. The pink glimmer on the shop windows and streets, single rays hitting the flower pots on the corner store’s steps.

‘They would love this,’ Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks, ‘the sight of it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Jehan. They would love to see what the streets look like early in the morning, bathed in pale pink sunlight. Unfortunately,’ he slipped his bag off his shoulder, pulled his sketchbook out and flipped through the pages, ‘they sleep until noon and haven’t seen a sunrise in ages. Lots of sundowns, of course.’

‘So what are you going to do? Draw them a sunrise?’ Éponine’s lips twisted into a grin, ‘Oh right, you are.’

Grantaire sat down cross-legged in the middle of the pavement, sketchbook on his knee, pencil in his hand. He pulled his left jumper sleeve over the hand to keep it from smudging the pencil lines he put on the paper.

‘I have a pink somewhere in my bag, could you try and find it for me?’ he waved towards the bag next to him, ‘Probably at the bottom. I need it to accentuate a few spots until I can get it in water colours.’

His pencil flew over the page, outlining houses, streets and flower pots. There were dew drops caught in the petals of the flowers at the corner shop, he could see them glint in the early sunlight and tried to include them in the draft.

‘Ponine! The pink!’

‘She left about ten minutes ago,’ a voice said to his left, ‘I took the liberty of looking for it, though. Is it this pink?’

Grantaire scrambled to his feet, taking a step back from the house entrance next to where he had sat down. On the steps leading up to the door sat Enjolras, a coloured pencil in his hand. He grinned up at him, his eyes darting over his appearance.

‘What are you doing here?’ Grantaire stuttered and pulled at his sleeves again, ‘Where’s Éponine?’

‘Oh, she saw me, called me over and told me to look after you so that no one would steal either you or your stuff, I didn’t pay attention. She said she needed to take her brother to school?’

‘Oh shit,’ Grantaire buried his face in his hands, ‘I forgot about Gavroche. It’s Monday, isn’t it?’

‘Uhm, yes? What other day should it be?’ Enjolras frowned and cleared his throat, ‘What are you doing out here, sitting in the middle of the street? Sit-in?’

‘Nah, just drawing,’ Grantaire closed the sketchbook and pushed the pencil back behind his ear, ‘I thought Jehan might like a sunrise. They never get to see a real one because they need their beauty sleep, so I wanted to show them one.’

‘You’re a good friend, Grantaire.’

He hid a chuckle, ‘Enjolras, I know only a few things but the one thing I know for sure is that I am not a good friend. Everyone I know will confirm that I am the worst person to be around.’

His hands moved back into his pockets, fingers stiffening again. He cleared his throat and tried to relax his posture into appearing laid back. Enjolras did not protest. He still held out the pink pencil for Grantaire to take.

‘Have you finished your drawing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really? You sounded like you needed this pink pencil pretty urgently.’

‘I’ll finish it at the academy. Do you want to head back?’

He took the pencil and stuffed it together with the sketchbook into his bag, wincing only slightly when the strap felt like it cut into his shoulder. Enjolras’ sharp eyes sized him up before he nodded.

‘It’s Monday, don’t you have any lectures today?’

‘No, at this point of the term we have mostly consultations. The theory lectures are all later in the week. And optional,’ Grantaire adjusted his beanie over his curls and looked up at him, ‘I can just paint most of the time, and I don’t even have to hand in anything.’

Enjolras walked next to him for a few yards without another sound. Grantaire stole a glance at his company. His hair had been tied back loosely but a few strands fell into his eyes. He was wrapped in a coat and carried a stack of papers under his arm.

‘R –‘ he stopped him in front of the building, ‘What has been going on?’

‘What do you mean?’ Grantaire avoided his look, fixing his eyes on the cast-bronze door handle instead. It was shaped like a lion’s head and polished where hundreds of hands touched it every day.

‘You weren’t at the meeting.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The debate society? We have meetings on Fridays, your friends were there but you weren’t. I waited.’

Grantaire’s head snapped back up, his eyes searching for any sign that Enjolras mocked him. He met his look and wrinkled his forehead, but there were no indications for him to have joked. The intensity of Enjolras’ gaze grew too much for him to meet, he turned around and climbed the stairs to the door.

A hand around his wrist stopped him, ‘Grantaire, I’m serious! If anything happened, you can tell me. I thought you would turn up at the meeting, that’s all. Neither of your friends were able or willing to tell me where you were or what you were doing, they all got very quiet instead.’

‘Did they have a good time?’ Grantaire hated his voice for how shaky and insecure it sounded when he finally managed to get the words out, ‘Did they enjoy the meeting and the society?’

‘They did,’ Enjolras nodded, ‘Jehan and Bahorel seemed really interested. I would have liked to have you there, we had a challenging topic to discuss.’

‘Shall we take this to my studio?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

Grantaire felt the wobble in his knees and the tremor in his hand, his arms and legs hurt and he was craving his stash of alcohol. The calming effects of his medication had worn off at some point and he just wanted to take the edge off everything. Enjolras still held onto his arm but did not resist when Grantaire opened the door.

‘Studio.’

Enjolras followed him through the atrium where a group of students had gathered around the bulletin board. The first lectures of the day were bound to start within an hour and more and more people seemed to come out of their rooms.

‘Hey, Enjolras!’ Courfeyrac waved at them, ‘they will put up new paintings in the staircase. Have you seen the list?’

‘Later, don’t care,’ Enjolras yelled, ‘Grantaire, wait!’

He slipped into the studio just before Grantaire could slam the door shut. The light needed a moment to flicker into life, then the room was bathed into the harsh light.

‘Didn’t you say you don’t like the light?’

Grantaire shook his head, he felt his knees give out and flopped onto the divan, ‘Today I don’t even mind.’

Enjolras sat down at the foot of the sofa. He looked at him, his forehead still wrinkled and put his fingers to his temples, ‘I don’t get you, Grantaire. One day you are the life of the party, quick-witted and unstoppable once you start talking, and the next you lie here like a shot duck. It’s seven in the morning and you behave like you’ve been up for a lifetime. It wouldn’t be so bad if you stopped drinking all the time, you must have a constant hangover. When have I seen you without a bottle? It’s not healthy! Is that why you didn’t come to the meeting, because you were drunk? It would explain why Jehan got really squirmish when I asked them.’

Grantaire knew exactly why Jehan presumably reacted like a cat on a hot roof. His friends had sworn a holy oath to never tell anyone about the true repercussions of his condition. Only Joly, Jehan and Éponine knew everything, anyway, and even they only knew because of their special qualifications. Joly had been his first contact point to find out how he could afford his medication, Jehan had experience with being in therapy and Éponine had worked the night shift when he had first walked into the corner café after the first episode he had after joining the academy. They had found out because he actually needed them or because they were at the right place at the right time. He felt a shaky breath leave his lungs, it sounded wetter than he had hoped for and had him bite down harsh on his lip to keep it in.

‘Grantaire?’ the cushions under his body dipped as Enjolras crawled next to him, ‘Hey, R!’

‘Pathetic,’ Grantaire threw his arm over his eyes to soak up the tears that stung at the still irritated red rims of his eyelids, ‘I’m a pathetic, wimpy –‘

A harsh cough interrupted him and forced him back into the cushions where he curled in on himself and tried to hide it behind his arm. He tried to choke back the next sob, remain calm and lie quiet.

Don’t let on about how you feel, hide what it looks like, don’t tell anyone who doesn’t know you like we do, trudge through the whole mess, his parents’ words echoed through his ears and had him shiver with a sudden cold, If you can’t, just leave the room you’re in and find another to bawl your eyes out. She won’t know.

‘I’m still fucking it all up, I just can’t get it right, a constant mess,’ he pulled the beanie off his head and used it to wipe away some of the tears, ‘I still – I can’t –‘

The hiccups took over. Afterpains, Jehan called them, because these crying fits were easily triggered and only happened on the days after the long night. They had tried to find out whether there was a scientific explanation for his behaviour but all they came up with was a state of general sensitiveness after the strenuous episodes. It did not help.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras’ voice had lost all edge, he sounded wrong to Grantaire’s ears, ‘Please tell me, if there is anything I can do for you! Should I call Jehan or Joly?’

An arm was wrapped around his shoulders, a hand lifted his head off the pillows and something warm came up to hold him. The wet mess of tear-soaked, sweaty curls was pushed out of his eyes and replaced by a hand.

‘Hey, R, deep breaths. Come on. Can you breathe for me?’ Enjolras propped him up against his shoulder, head in the crook of his neck, ‘Easy, R, easy. No one here is thinking you are anything but a brilliant person, a good friend and the best artist I have met at this academy. I don’t know you as well as I would like to but I will make sure to get to know you better. I feel awful about what I said earlier, about the meeting, earlier. I mean, a quick text would have been enough but I get it. If you’re still not entirely back to good health –‘

Grantaire did not have the energy to correct or even explain where Enjolras had assumed the wrong thing. It seemed to him that a cold, fever or even the flu was a good enough excuse to get out of any further discussions about his absence at the debate society meeting and saved him the trouble to destroy whatever ties he had with Enjolras by explaining what really had been going on. Instead, he tried to calm his breathing, control his tears and relax his muscles that had begun to tense up again.

Enjolras gave him a brief summary of what the meeting had brought up in his absence. He managed to keep a calm tone, although Grantaire could tell that the discussion had ended with passionate speeches and an argument. It calmed him down, however implausible it seemed to him. Enjolras’ voice, back to normal with the slight edge that made his hair stand on end, lulled him into a state where the tears dried and his limbs felt like they would support him again. He cleared his throat and patted the arm holding him, signalling that he was ready, he did not want to cause Enjolras any discomfort, after all. For a brief moment, he regretted his decision, missing the reassuring closeness he had been able to indulge in.

‘I have a sunrise to draw,’ Grantaire busied himself with his canvases, brushes and paints, careful not to look back where Enjolras reclined on the divan, his marble features without doubt fixed at his back, ‘I’m sorry. For all this. You should not have witnessed that, I will be the laughing stock for all our friends for weeks.’

‘I don’t think so,’ an easy smile, only a hint too bright to be convincing, spread on Enjolras’ lips, ‘I’m not one to comfort and tell, don’t worry.’

He got up and clapped him on the shoulder, ‘I’m happy to be there for you, if you ever need someone to talk to. Oh, and my offer still stands, come by my music room whenever you feel like it!’

Grantaire smiled for a long time after he had left the studio, drawing and humming under his breath. He knew by intuition that he was out of the woods for this time.

Chapter Text

Jehan loved the sunrise Grantaire had painted, so much so that they took one of the older sketches he had left at their flat off its nail and swapped it for the pale pink tinted picture of the narrow cobbled street leading up to the academy building. They gushed over the different shades of pink Grantaire had used, the way the sun seemed to flow down the gutter in the rain water and sparkled on the rain wet tarmac.

‘Can you see the flowers R painted? There are actual drops on them, like dew or rain drops, can you see?’ they climbed over the sofa to pull Bahorel closer to the picture they had put up on the wall, as if he was a visitor to the flat, not its permanent occupant.

‘I see it. And you need to calm down before you hurt yourself,’ Bahorel wrapped his arms around Jehan and rooted them to the spot, ‘Thank you for the painting, R, it brings a little light into our otherwise so dark flat.’

‘What are you talking about, I bought new fairy lights the other day!’

‘Yes, and they are by no means a sufficient light source,’ Bahorel piggyback-carried them across the room, back to the sofa where they had gathered for a round of cards and a new recipe Bousset had found, despite not being allowed into the kitchen himself.

‘They are, tell him, R!’

Grantaire looked up from his hand of cards, he had not followed the conversation since Jehan had announced they would put the painting up on the wall. In his defence, he needed to keep an eye on Joly who did try and cheat, feigning a cough to bend over and steal a glance at his cards every now and then.

‘Pardon?’

‘Fairy lights are proper lights,’ Jehan crossed their arms over Bahorel’s, appearing more like a monkey hanging from a tree than an aspiring director and actor.

‘I don’t think so,’ Grantaire grinned, exchanging a quick look with their boyfriend, ‘They will hardly light up one corner of a room whereas a lamp will give you visibility of the whole room.’

‘Thank you, R,’ Bahorel set Jehan down, ‘I appreciate your sacrifice.’

He whipped back around but he barely saw Joly pocket his handkerchief with a satisfied grin before leading a card. Bousset giggled as he drew one, as did Grantaire with a stony glance at his friends. They finished their round quickly; Joly won, to no one’s surprise and bagged the games profits, jellybabies and wine gums. Grantaire finished the beer Jehan had handed him when he had first entered the flat and set the empty bottle aside.

‘Do you have any more?’

‘Bahorel bought a six-pack,’ Jehan chipped in, ‘I’ll get you another one.’

‘Not all at once, Jehan. R’ll finish them in no time and we can take care of him when he’s tipsy,’ Joly sighed, ‘God only knows how he knocks back drink after drink without any real effect but he gets pissed after a couple of beers.’

Grantaire toasted him with the bottle Jehan handed him, ‘I will never seize to build up my tolerance for whatever you offer to me, be it liquor or beer.’

‘That’s something to drink to,’ Bahorel clinked his beer against Grantaire’s, ‘ever thought of building up a tolerance against grape juice?’

‘Nope, and I doubt I ever will.’

‘So wine is the one drink to bring you down?’ Jehan pulled their feet up on the sofa.

‘You know me too well,’ Grantaire winked at them, ‘I have tried for years but it’s still the one thing to actually give me a headache on the morning after.’

Jehan threw a pillow at him, ‘Stop it, you don’t get to joke about that, we do. Next time we go out, I’ll make you drink wine just to laugh at you the day after.’

‘Please don’t,’ Joly frowned, ‘he gets so needy when he has drunk wine.’

‘You turn into a slob whenever you drink,’ Grantaire retorted, ‘and you don’t even tidy up the next day. Neither does that boyfriend of yours.’

‘He doesn’t have to.’

‘Has the administration office even noticed that there are three people in a two people flat?’ Bahorel pulled Jehan into his arms and started braiding their hair, ‘Or even that he isn’t paying rent anymore?’

Grantaire grinned proudly, ‘Not for one second. All they know is that a flat got damaged in a fire a year ago and that the student occupying it moved out. They don’t know where he went, and why would it concern them?’

‘Do they even know how the fire started?’ Jehan curled up between Bahorel and Grantaire, ‘Wasn’t there something wrong with the kitchen?’

‘The stove, to be completely honest, was just outdated,’ Joly explained, ‘a fire hazard and health risk.’

Bousset hid the aggressive blush on his cheeks behind his boyfriend’s shoulders. Before Grantaire could add another quip, however, a knock on the door interrupted their merry round of teasing.

‘Do we expect another guest tonight?’ Bahorel knit his brows together and peered at his partner, they all knew Jehan’s tendency for surprise invitations and additions to their gatherings.

‘Not to my knowledge?’ Jehan detangled themself from Bahorel’s arms and got up, ‘I’ll check. No one touch my gummy worms.’

They skipped away to open the door and Grantaire shoved a handful of gummy worms in his mouth as soon as they were out of sight. The pale gleam of the hallway lights illuminated the living room and they could hear Jehan greet the person at the door.

‘What are you doing on this side of the hallway? I haven’t seen you in ages,’ they sounded happy enough to allow the eavesdropping group in the living room to exclude a few people on their hallway.

‘Not much really, wondered whether you guys were up for some academy internal stuff. You guys are the not-musicians who play instruments, right?’

Grantaire rolled his eyes when he recognised the voice, Bahorel began to chuckle and Joly sighed deeply. They all had met Marius Pontmercy during their first term when he had sat in several of their art, sculpting and drama classes although he was in fact been a music student. He played the trombone like a god and doubled in the trumpet. Grantaire had taken notice of him again when Éponine had confessed her crush for him, unrequited, since Marius and his girlfriend Cosette, a badass harp player, were the model couple of the academy. Marius was also known to have founded numerous bands, house music circles and choirs by going around the apartments asking for hobby musicians. Every once in a while, he tried to enlist their group since half of them played one or more instruments in their spare time.

‘Do you want to come in, Marius?’ Jehan offered, ‘All of us are here, you can just ask what you want.’

‘Thank you, Jehan, that is very kind,’ they came through the hallway, Marius waved awkwardly, ‘hi guys! How are you?’

They murmured something in response, Jehan brought another cup over from the kitchen and pressed it into Marius’ hands. Grantaire collected the cards and shuffled them for another round.

Marius began after he had won the first game, ‘There is a new house music group. It is very new and promising. They are in need of some participants, though.’

‘Who is part of this group?’ Bahorel demanded to know. He had been part of a group once that had treated non-music students like their slaves and lesser people. After this experience, all of them had been careful not to rush into things like the house music groups.

‘What instruments are they looking for?’

‘They would love a contrabass, Bahorel,’ Marius gleamed, almost sure of his success now that they had put forward actual questions, ‘also a flute, Jehan. It’s going to be a classic group. Grantaire, you could just join in with whatever instrument you feel like playing!’

‘Who’s part of that group then, Marius?’

‘Oh some of my best friends, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Cosette –‘

‘We know, Pontmercy,’ Joly snuffled into his handkerchief, ‘your girlfriend is the best part about you.’

‘You know, I second that,’ Marius grinned, ‘Well, I forgot Enjolras. He started the whole thing.’

‘Is Feuilly part of this group as well?’ Grantaire lifted an eyebrow, ‘because you would have saved time if you just said the group members are essentially Les Amis de l’ABC, that debate society.’

‘You could say that, yes,’ Marius nodded carefully, ‘it wouldn’t have to be the whole group at all times. With the instruments and talent we have among us we could actually form several smaller groups that get together to practise. Doesn’t that sound good?’

‘It does,’ nodded Jehan, their eyes glinting, ‘what do we say?’

They looked around and found everybody’s eyes for a moment. It took nothing more than that. Grantaire saw the resolution crumble in each of them.

‘Okay, let’s do it then. We are giving up our house music abstinence to help out.’

‘Before you go, Marius,’ Jehan jumped off the sofa and took his hand, ‘come have a look at this beautiful sunrise R painted for me!’

They tugged Marius towards the wall, pointing at the newly added frame. Grantaire had never questioned Jehan’s seemingly endless supply of right-sized frames but they always produced one for whatever picture or sketch he gave to them.

‘Not too shabby,’ Marius whistled appreciatively, ‘You did a good job with this one.’

Grantaire grinned, evading his look.

‘Look at him, you’ve broken him,’ Joly sighed and shoved Grantaire to the side, ‘he’s gone all bashful and shy now.’

‘And all of us know how rarely that happens,’ Bahorel grinned and leaned back into the pillows, ‘Our very own starving artist.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Bousset yawned, ‘you’re up with the groceries. We’re out of both oatmeal and pasta.’

‘Oh it must be bad,’ Jehan giggled and turned back around to face them, ‘if you don’t even have that left in your cupboard.’

Grantaire groaned and got up, ‘Okay, I’ll get the groceries. Nice to see you again, Marius. When does your new house music group rehearse?’

‘We haven’t decided, yet. Knowing Enjolras, he will want to start with a chamber group. What would you prefer, R?’

Grantaire huffed out a breath, ‘Marius, you are the one who has to be specific for me to be able to say something. Which of my talents would you have?’

‘Which are you offering?’ Marius seemed amused about Grantaire’s way of thinking, ‘You never told me which instruments you play exactly.’

‘Tell him!’ Jehan yelled, throwing their hands in the air, ‘Amaze us, honey. This only gets better with time because the more time he has, the more can he play.’

‘That’s not true,’ Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest, rushing through his list, ‘Violin, viola, piano, guitar, oboe and a little flute and recorder. I just had too much time as a child.’

Marius swallowed hard, ‘Why on Earth didn’t you study music?’

‘I’m heading out, the store’s closing soon,’ Grantaire grabbed his coat and beanie from the pile on the chair next to the door, ‘See you. Text me, Marius!’

He knew it was the cowardly way out. The shop closest to the academy would not close until ten and a glance at his phone told him that it was not even eight. It made no difference, of course, if it provided him with an excuse to leave the conversation that had once again turned to a topic he would rather avoid. His friends would forgive him again for walking out on them. Jehan would most likely try and talk to him about how he could not continue burying himself and everything he did not want to remember.

Joly, Bousset and he took turns paying for their commonly used groceries. Every one of them bought their own sweets, alcohol and whatever else they wanted especially. Grantaire usually added a bottle of booze to the shopping basket, sometimes two, depending on the day. He forced himself to think of the storage in the studio as he walked past the aisles with all the liquors and wines and beers he sometimes wanted to try so bad his throat closed up around the gulp he swallowed. There was no need for more booze in his storage, he knew that. Instead, Joly had asked him to get something for their next movie night.

Grantaire put the groceries away before he went to his room and closed the door. He did not want to see Joly or Bousset’s questioning looks and worrying faces, hear them ask about his emotional status or feel them move around on their tiptoes. The evening was still young enough for him to get started on the dreaded theoretical work he had to do for his courses. His desk was too messy to provide the room he needed to work there, so he lay down on his bed, opening his books and sorting through his pens until he had found one to do his assignments with. Even Professor Lafyette had his students writing essays about inspiration, technique, method and choice of paint and canvas.

The sound of his phone vibrating somewhere in his bag made him look up after a few hours. He leaned over the edge of his bed to grab it and look at the message he had received.

Enjolras was surprised. Violin and piano? A duet to get back into it? – Marius

Grantaire let his head fall back onto his pillow, knocking a breath out of his lungs. Of course this was bound to happen. He did think about sticking a frog in Marius’ boots in revenge because of course he would run and tell Enjolras about all the instruments his friends played.

His phone buzzed again.

Why didn’t you mention you played? – Enjolras

Yes, why had he not told Enjolras, who was so passionate about his piano playing, that he played but hated it? Why had he not told him that his mother had been so set on making him a professional musician that she had all but ruined playing for him? Why had he not told Enjolras, who looked contend and magically beautiful at his piano?

Didn’t come up. – R

Would you like to meet up and try some duets? – Enjolras

Sure. When would it suit you and which instrument? – R

Thursday? There are really nice duets for piano and violin. We can use my room. – Enjolras

Ok. – R

He stuffed his phone under his pillow and read on about Minimalistic art. Five pages later he had no clue what he had just read.

***

It had been some time since he had played the violin outside of his room and even when he did, he had played in the safety of his four walls. He made sure Joly and Bousset were out. No one had heard him play in years which only surfaced when he got his violin case from under his bed and grabbed the stack of violin sheet music he kept next to it and left the flat. Joly and Bousset cooked when he crossed the living area, probably a bake of sorts. They were pressed up against each other, almost missing him slipping past them.

‘Are you off to make music now?’ Bousset waved at him with a spoon, dangerously close to Joly’s face, ‘Have fun!’

Grantaire waved a goodbye before slamming the door shut. It occurred to him that one of his friends had to have been speaking about Enjolras and his plans for Bousset to know about it. He could not bring himself to care. An anxious flutter of his heart, half panic, half excitement, took over his thinking when he reached the stairs. It had been ages since his last attempt to play with someone. His mother had insisted on accompanying him at his last music school recital with violin, viola and oboe. It had gone well, or so he thought, until his mother had called him out on his emotionless playing. That was when he had put an end to recitals, duets and playing anywhere but his own room.

Enjolras’ music room door stood open when he entered the corridor and its occupant was across the hall, leaning against Courfeyrac’s doorframe. He was holding a stack of sheet music, filing through some loose pages. It looked like they were conversing, Enjolras knit his brows together as Grantaire got closer and he could hear something about booking rooms and the unfairness of the process.

‘Hey Grantaire, there you are,’ Courfeyrac grinned and waved when he saw him approach, ‘promise you’ll annoy Enjolras for me. What will you play?’

‘Don’t know yet,’ he set down his violin case, ‘I haven’t really played with anyone in ages.’

‘We’ll just see how much we can get done together,’ Enjolras chipped in and turned to face him, ‘maybe we just try some Etudes for a start.’

Grantaire wanted to point out that he was no beginner but did not dare whilst Courfeyrac listened. It made a difference whether he called out Enjolras on his hypocrisy or tried to convince him that his own shortcomings were less significant than he assumed. Of course this made him the hypocrite but he would not admit that to Enjolras’ face.

‘Are you ready?’

They crossed the hallway with a small wave back at Courfeyrac. Enjolras sat down on the piano stool, swivelling around to face Grantaire. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he set down the sheet music.

‘So, duet? Any ideas what we could play?’

Grantaire set down his violin case on the grand piano and opened it up, ‘The obvious choice would be the danse macabre, right?’

‘Ambitious,’ Enjolras nodded and filed through the music books, ‘Are you sure we can get together on this?’

Grantaire did not blame him for doubting. It was the obvious to do whenever anyone saw him touch any instrument. His fingers were not as nimble and soft as Enjolras’ or Courfeyrac’s. His broad frame did not say musician at first glance. Instead, he had more of a construction worker’s form and he had been reminded of that fact often enough to never again forget it. He let his art speak for him and played music in the small spaces he chose for himself. There was little else he could do, even as he busied himself with his bow and strings.

He set the violin against his shoulder and lifted the bow to tune the instrument.

‘Do you want a tuning –‘

Grantaire stepped around him and hit the standard A. He closed his eyes and listened to the single note he coaxed out of the wooden body. Tuning was easy enough for him as it was from there on. Touching the bow to the strings and getting the instrument to sing brought a relief he had not known he craved. Often enough it felt like an unwelcome obligation. It took him a moment to get through the shiver that ran down his spine as he drew a first melody out of his instrument, daring the tones to rearrange themselves into scales and arpeggios. He allowed the rhythm to take over, fuel his movements and the scaling heights of the melody he followed, hunting it to find the perfect harmony. He held in a breath that threatened to get the better of him, disrupt the flow of the music. He held it in until he could no longer deny himself the air his lungs screamed for and he exhaled as he dove into a crescendo that had his last note ringing in his ears.

‘R, this was beautiful!’ Enjolras’ voice made him flinch, he had forgotten about the other person present, about their duet that still loomed over him and the way it made him feel.

He looked up. It was the first time he saw Enjolras in the full light of day, he realised with a twang of panic. He had seen him at night under the dull light of strip lights, in the cosy darkness of their flats and in the morning sun, but never at midday standing in a golden ray of sunshine that fell through the window. Enjolras, with his hair untied, eyes ablaze and cheeks red. Grantaire could barely stand the sight of him.

His old book on Greek mythology prodded its way to the front of his mind offering the relief of an allegory with the illustrations of the gods in particular coming back to him. The sun god had always been depicted with light hair that curled around his head like a halo, his features sharp as if cast in marble. Enjolras certainly looked like a younger, slimmer version of the picture in what had been his favourite book as a child.

‘Well, I try to keep it up,’ Grantaire finally remembered what words were as he relaxed the arm that carried the violin, ‘do you think we can make something of this?’

Enjolras nodded cheerfully, already filing through the sheet music again, ‘I have a whole stack of piano and violin duets somewhere around here. Do you want to help me search?’

Grantaire set the violin down and turned towards the bookshelf, crouching down in front of it, ’One should think you know your music books.’

‘I do,’ Enjolras threw a balled up paper after him, ‘it just gets a little messy if I don’t sort it every few days. I go through a lot of sheet music.’

‘I can imagine.’

They carded through the stacks of sheet music, books, booklets and loose pages in silence. Enjolras was bent over the piano, hair falling into his face, shielding him from Grantaire like a curtain. He was busy looking through the music Enjolras kept on the shelf but whenever he looked up he saw the soft, gleaming curls and a hint of the features they were hiding. The sun was still illuminating him and Grantaire thought about his sun god again.

‘Got it, danse macabre!’ Grantaire held the sheet music up and waved it at Enjolras who had jumped at hearing him shout, ‘Wow, you really need a better filing system for your sheet music.’

‘Thanks, R. Very helpful,’ Enjolras took the book from his hands, ‘feel free to come in here and sort my music, if you ever have an afternoon off.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Grantaire shook his head laughing, ‘so you’re promoting slavery in the hidden backrooms of the academy?’

It was too easy to tease Enjolras given that he could not leave such a comment unfollowed. His cheeks burned the brightest red, his eyes darkened and his brows moved together until his stare seemed to want to pin him to the ground. Grantaire grinned, overall satisfied with the flustered anger caught in his eyes. He had put that there, the righteous fury that threatened to throttle whatever was put in its way was result of him pushing the right buttons.

He was sure Enjolras knew that as well, it was all that kept him from going on a rampage. There was a rant about inappropriate jokes lodged in his throat, Grantaire could almost hear it break out. He was sure that he would have loved to scold him for his comment, run him into the ground and make sure the lesson was learned but Enjolras just pressed his lips together in the attempt to keep any sound in. Not one word was uttered and Grantaire almost succumbed to the possibility to needle him even more.

‘Are you quite done?’

He could not hide the giggle for longer, it ploughed through his careful set expression and burst out. Enjolras looked hurt for a moment before stepping around the piano to shove him in the shoulder. They shared a look, one annoyed, the other teary-eyed with laughter. The moment passed as Enjolras poked him in the side, causing Grantaire to double over in a fit of laughter.

‘Don’t,’ he gasped for air, ‘don’t do that!’

Seeing Enjolras’ face light up at the plea, he knew that he had handed him the ultimate weapon against himself. Grantaire stuck his tongue out at him and finally got up from where he had crouched in front of the bookshelf. He took the violin back up and settled it on his shoulder, waiting for Enjolras to open the booklet. His eyes scanned the sheet music. Some long forgotten memory pressed against his temples and pulsed through his brain, urging him to give in and take a look at it.

Enjolras sat down at the piano and watched him play. Grantaire could feel his eyes on him, warm and appreciative, not like the eyes that had usually watched him, if at all. He tried to ignore the way his heart fluttered at the mere thought that there was somebody in the same room as him who did not seem to regret their presence as he did his best to avoid squeaky tones.

He joined in at some point, hitting the keys with the precision of someone who had played the tune before. Grantaire realised that he was likely to have had a recital with the exact piece they played. Just like him. He had not forgotten the recital his mother had forced him to. The suit he had worn had scratched and choked him, and his fingers had shaken enough to make him drop the sheet music he had not been allowed to use, anyway. His mother had watched as he scrambled to collect the loose pages, nose wrinkled and chin turned up before fastening his tie to the extent that he could barely breathe. The lack of words from her had stung more than the tears in his eyes as he got ready to walk up to the stage to play the piece in a duet with his teacher, and when he tried to find her face in the crowd she had been busy with her calendar. He had played the whole danse macabre, tears in his eyes and sniffing to keep them from spilling. It had been his last recital playing the piano, instead he had started to play the oboe, hoping this instrument would possess the ability to capture his mother’s attention during a concert. It had been in vain, she had always looked somewhere else, spoken with someone more important, complimented kids that were cuter and more put together in their performances than he ever could be. He had played the danse macabre once again, on the violin, at a school concert. His mother had not even shown up that time, too busy organising a summer school, or a charity orchestra or something of the like.

He had not expected to ever be able to feel joy as he played and yet, when he opened his eyes and actually looked at his surroundings, bow stroking the violin softly he felt content. Enjolras smiled up at him from the piano stool, a cautious little thing that warmed up the room as he played the last bars. It left Grantaire’s skin tingling and wishing for more. He reminded himself of how quickly a moment could turn and become something cruel and disappointing and how often he had experienced it. One smile was not enough for him to let anyone in, even if they looked like a Greek god reincarnated. Especially when they looked like a Greek god reincarnated. He lowered the violin and nodded, almost satisfied with himself. The feeling bubbled in his stomach, a trace of what could possibly be something he could get used to.

‘That was wonderful, R,’ Enjolras got up and patted his shoulder, ‘we should really keep that up, it is wonderful to finally have a duet partner again.’

‘What, you don’t duet with Combeferre or Courfeyrac?’ Grantaire knew he sounded ridiculous, ‘Did it really never cross your mind that you can duet with your friends and they might enjoy it?’

‘I am duetting with friends.’

‘Sure you do, Apollo,’ he laughed and closed his violin case, ‘with whom do you play, then?’

‘Are you for real, R?’

‘What?’ Grantaire knit his brows together as he realised that the name he had given Enjolras had slipped out, but he could not bring himself to care about it, ‘You must have seen yourself in the mirror at some point, right? Ancient Greek gods have nothing on you!’

‘That is…flattering but not what I meant,’ Enjolras shook his head, ‘let me know when you figure it out. I’ll be waiting.’

It came to him just as they called it a day, right between door and frame. The revelation rooted him to the spot as he looked back to where Enjolras stood next to the armchair, one eyebrow cocked at him in expectation. He was almost embarrassed by the soft ‘oh’ that got out as he pinpointed the exact moment Enjolras saw the realisation break out all over his face.

Chapter Text

Professor Lafayette stayed true to his promise. Two weeks after Grantaire had handed in his painting, he received an email containing an invitation to come by during his office hours to discuss the grade for the work. He let Jehan know where he would be before work since they had asked him to sneak them and Bahorel into the museum for an early date night. They had not been able to resist the lure of the newest exhibition that presented some of Oscar Wilde’s private correspondence, enough to get Jehan to forget every trouble he gave Grantaire by asking for admittance. None of his colleagues said a word about his friends anymore, most of them could just walk in the main door, throw a ‘Grantaire knows’ towards the till and were waved through, by this point. Jehan was the only one – beside Joly – who still asked for permission. He stopped working on the riverside he still had to finish since he was waiting for the special pigment to arrive. Instead, he grabbed his bag, packed his uniform, sketchbook and journal and sent Joly a message, telling him not to wait for him at lunch since he would simply get something on the way to the museum to wolf down in the breakroom in between tours.

It was raining when he left the building with a brief look into the mailbox, but nothing had been delivered for either him or his flatmates. The rain was a certain sign of the nearing cold weather, the maintenance team had put of leaflets informing all residents that the electricians were about to switch on the heating for the whole building. He pulled the hood over his head and hurried down the road towards the art department. A few students came towards him from one of the cafés within the university premises, one or two lecturers greeted him with a sharp nod and continued their conversation without further attention directed at him as he slipped onto the bench in front of Professor Lafayette’s office.

‘There you are,’ the professor opened his door a few minutes later and waved him inside, ‘come in, come in. I just finished a new brew, would you like to try a cup?’

‘Sure, why not,’ Grantaire closed the door after himself and sat in the visitor chair in front of Lafayette’s desk, ‘what have you mixed together today?’

‘My very own flavoured tea, with just a dash of lavender,’ Lafayette poured two cups of tea and held one out to Grantaire, ‘To good artwork, neverending inspiration and this esteemed academy for providing us with everything we would not have received two-hundred years ago.’

Their cups clinked together. Grantaire took a cautious gulp of the steaming drink and pulled a face, ‘A dash, sir?’

Lafayette bore a similar expression as he set down his cup of tea, ‘I seem to have miscalculated. Would you like something to wash that taste out of your mouth? A brandy maybe?’

Grantaire nodded, left breathless by the strong flavour the flower had left in his throat, ‘You keep brandy in your office?’

‘Just one bottle for occasions out of the ordinary. Exceptionally good grades, gallery openings, exhibition worthy pieces, and the odd foul taste left by one of my experiments,’ he got a bottle out of his desk and set it onto the surface, ‘help me out with some glasses out of the cupboard over there, lad.’

Grantaire bent over the arm rest and opened the dark, wooden door to take out two of the filigree glasses Lafayette kept there. His tutor filled the glasses and toasted him.

‘Now, lad,’ Lafayette leaned back in his chair, ‘how is your work coming along?’

‘Didn’t you want to discuss my mark, sir?’ Grantaire blinked in confusion.

‘Well, yes but if that is the only reason that lures you here into my humble chambers I may as well make use of the time, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I’ll have you know how this sounds to external ears, sir,’ Grantaire grinned and sipped his brandy, ‘if it was my pleasant company you were to seek, all you needed to do was ask.’

‘You see, lad, this is where you are wrong. I cannot be accused of favouritism by having you come in for a drink and a chat every now and then.’

‘I am sorry for putting you in such a predicament,’ Grantaire leaned back, ‘I’ll have to sneak in then.’

Lafayette gifted him a small smile and cleared his throat, ‘Well then, your painting. I must say, it is the best you ever handed in. it shows excellent command of colour, brush and technique. The choice of imagery you put forward is an unusual one but it works. Given that you did attend my courses on both Impressionism and Realism, I assume you want it credited as your merger?’

Grantaire huffed out a laugh, ‘I should like to know the grade first before I decide what I will have it down for. I can easily hand in another realistic piece within days. Or impressionistic.’

‘I am more than sure of it, lad. But there is no need for it, Grantaire. This painting is exceptional,’ Lafayette nodded towards the great easel he kept near the window, ‘what did you call it?’

‘Catch Me I’m Falling,’ Grantaire provided immediately, ‘I first wanted it to be the working title but it seemed more than fitting to accompany it as a whole.’

‘Falling for what, my dear lad?’ Lafayette’s eyes glistened in their deep sockets, the wrinkles he bore when laughing dug deeper into his skin than before, ‘There is something going on beyond this painting, a question is raised but not answered. Which raises another question, for me, and I wonder whether you know the answer.’

‘Which question?’ Grantaire realised that his painting was propped up on the easel in front of the window, for everybody to see who entered the office.

‘Do you know what he is asking?’

Grantaire felt himself draw in a breath, ready to give his tutor a quick, witty response – only to realise that he did not know what he could say to it. He shrugged, catching himself quickly and laughing it off as he tore his eyes off the face he had set on canvas.

‘Whoever could assume to know every meaning and implication a painting brings before the beholder’s eye,’ he said and ruffled his hair.

‘Truly spoken, my dear boy,’ Lafayette nodded, ‘First honours of eighty-five percent.’

‘Eighty-five?’ Grantaire cried out, his feet twitching as if they wanted to carry him upright.

‘You can’t expect me to give you a full hundred, can you?’ his tutor was laughing at him now, eyes sparkling, ‘I have a reputation to uphold, can’t just hand out full marks!’

‘An A star would have been nice,’ Grantaire sulked and crossed his arms.

‘My poor lad,’ Lafayette laughed, ‘An A star? Have you ever heard of an artist who had A stars and got their art into museums?’

‘Don’t you have to die before your paintings are put in a museum?’

‘Don’t you go nit-picky on me, lad,’ the professor wagged a finger at him, ‘there is no need to look so stern and disappointed, it is not like you.’

‘It is not like you to say that a painting is good and then give out eighties.’

The corners of his tutor’s mouth were tugged upwards in a smile, ‘No worries, dear boy, your old professor won’t obstruct your career with insufficient grades. The teaching body of this academy is a lot more modern than they used to be, no one of us will any of our promising students go without what they deserve. A colleague of mine, Lamarque, over in the music department, goes to every concert or recital any of his students put on, even if it is not part of the final grade. He wants to make his mind up about what they do outside of his lessons, and if they do well, it will influence his verdict.’

Grantaire knit his brows together and nodded slowly, ‘Makes sense for the music students, not so much for us, given how little gallery space there is around town.’

‘You’ve had showings, by boy, didn’t you?’

Grantaire nodded, ‘Few. More than some but less than those who can buy the space in galleries with money.’

Lafayette nodded and grabbed his pipe from a pile of books on his desk, ‘No one suggests that the society is quite as fair as we would imagine it to be. If there was only something that could be done about it.’

The thought stayed with Grantaire as he left the academy. He needed to get something to eat before he showed up at work, there was no way he would stand through six hours, three guided tours and Jehan’s never seizing questions about the exhibition. Bahorel would not be able to keep them occupied for long once they saw something they liked. The flood of questions that would roll against him was nothing he had not experienced countless times before.

He slipped into one of the coffee shops that lined the streets leading towards the old building that housed the museum. The que was longer than he would have liked but by no means too long to make him late for work. The barista nodded as she saw him and turned away from the cup of coffee she had been preparing to get started on another one. Fluidly, another member of staff took her place and continued what she had been doing. It took him a moment to realise what she was doing. Guilt bloomed in his guts, his memory recalling her trying to give him her number a year before, cheeks rosy with quiet admiration. It had taken him a few weeks to catch up on her feelings for him. She had looked hopeful when he addressed her and he had that crushed that hope by telling her the five words that had wiped her sweet smile off her face after she had politely asked for his phone number, ‘Thank you, but I’m gay.’

She still made him his coffee and gave him a sandwich on the way when he was in a rush to get to work, a woeful smile on her lips, even though he had never officially learned her name. The tag on her apron read Azelma. She sometimes reminded him of Éponine.

He had five minutes when he slipped into the break room in the museum basement. One of his colleagues sat at the small table, phone pressed against his ear. Grantaire received a short nod but no further attention as he changed into his uniform of white shirt and livre before rushing to the front desk to collect his first group for a tour around the exhibitions. A chattering bunch of pensioners awaited him, all ready to go on a trip through the different epochs and eras of paintings they were to experience. A quick introduction followed by a few questions allowed him to gather a brief understanding of what he was dealing with. Six married couples, a few elderly ladies – old friends on a cultural trip – and two men with glasses and books they brought to read for background information. Grantaire held back a sigh. These two would be the ones to look out for, they would be the ones questioning everything he was going to say, would assume to know more than him just because they had read some books.

He managed to get through the first room without disruption, giving his prepared little speeches about single pieces, artists and techniques. It was in the second room that he first realised the reason why the group of ladies that had fallen back by a few paces, giggled every few moments. Grantaire sighed before starting his little speech about a Dutch still life. Sometimes, the booksmart people were not the worst about his tours. Sometimes, the eternally single ladies with their hungry eyes and lingering handshakes were worse. It happened whenever one of his curls slipped out of the careful mess he styled them into. Just after he pushed them back, out of his eyes and behind his ears, the bunch of women would snicker, hiding their amusement and quick glances behind their hands. There was something about the way they looked at him that reminded him of wolves circling their prey. He pushed a few curls out of his eyes that obstructed his view on the masterpiece he was going to talk about, earning another round of hysterical giggles from the back of his group.

He concluded his tour in front of the van Gogh, displayed under the golden light of small, cleverly hidden lamps in an otherwise black room. There were quite a few people scattered around the room, some with audio guides, some with leaflets. Grantaire waved his little group towards one of the corners, the one from where he felt like they would have the best view onto the painting. Three sentences into his explanation he was interrupted by one of the booksmart men in the front row.

‘Are you sure about when he painted this piece? I read that –‘

‘Yes, it has been argued that van Gogh began the set this painting belongs to at least ten years before his suicide,’ Grantaire sighed and tried to remember why he had agreed to give guided tours, he had been perfectly fine behind the counter selling tickets and trinkets, ‘however, it is dated in the lower right corner.’

He continued with his speech, only interrupted twice by the know-it-alls and three times by the old ladies who did seem to voice more interest in his shifts and phone number than what he had to say about the painting in front of them. He brushed them off with the sorry glance he had perfected over time. The tour ended at the front desk, where Grantaire wished them a pleasant stay in town before turning towards the break room to gulp down some water in between tours.

‘R!’

He did not even make it to the break room. Jehan stood at the main entrance, they waved enthusiastically and jumped on the spot. Bahorel, broad face mirroring a certain shame at his partner’s behaviour, stood next to him, rooted to the spot. His cheeks were cherryred, tinted with the embarrassment of their childishness.

‘R, we are here!’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Grantaire pulled them past his colleagues, at least two of them snickered and wolf-whistled as Jehan skipped past, ‘come on now you bloody fool.’

Bahorel patted him on the back and draped his arm over his shoulders, ‘It was either the museum or wandering in the woods. It felt safer to be here, where they cannot run off chasing fairies.’

‘That only happened a few times,’ Jehan mumbled.

‘Twenty times are decidedly more than anybody would deem normal,’ Bahorel steered Jehan off, towards the exhibition, ‘Thank you, Grantaire. We owe you.’

‘That you do,’ Grantaire nodded and hugged Jehan, ‘let me know when you’re leaving. I’ll be here, working.’

His friends turned towards the exhibition entrance, fingers intertwined. Jehan’s head rested against their boyfriend’s shoulder as they walked in step, swaying with the obvious bliss of a healthy relationship. The love between the two seemingly contradictory people had so often inspired not only him but their entire group of friends.

It gave him hope, sometimes. If Bahorel and Jehan were able to be happy together, truly happy, there was a chance that other people who seemed to defy what was considered the norm could find their happiness as well, somehow. He had often dreamed of the kind of relationship Jehan and Bahorel had, two minds thinking the same, hearts beating in step and hands finding to each other, no matter how far apart. When the pain inside grew too strong, he tried to imagine what it would be like. He dreamed of warmth, intimate whispers and late nights in companionable silence. He dreamed of coffee dates, walks through exhibitions and a family home. At some point, he wanted to be able to feed a family with his art, have his own gallery or work for a museum, full-time and with all the benefits the job would bring. It was an idle fantasy but he enjoyed dreaming about it from time to time.

Bahorel and Jehan were out of sight when he found back to himself. He turned and walked back to the front desk to gather the next group for his tour, leaving all thoughts of intimacy and bliss behind a sculpture by Rodin. His thoughts were not suited to accompany him on his job, no matter how much it hurt to look at his friends. Their happiness was to be admired, even if he could not hope to reach anything comparable by his own means as long as the heavy darkness was threatening to wash over his thoughts at any time.

His second tour was about as regretful as the first. He was in the company of fewer old ladies which meant that fewer hungry eyes were on him but their number was evened out by the number of booksmart know-it-alls. Three of them wore jackets with patches at the elbows, two had brought the books they had read before entering the museum and one filled every moment that Grantaire remained silent with additional knowledge and facts, most of them straying slightly from the truth. He ignored it all and allowed them to lecture their fellow art fans about what Grantaire had forgotten to say, according to them. No one paid attention to them since the majority of the group was still made up of old ladies that hung on his every word.

It ended with a hand a little too close to his belt and an only half suppressed squawk. As a result of the unexpected closeness to one of the older ladies, Grantaire made his way to the break room slightly more annoyed and agitated than usual, cursing under his breath and looking back over his shoulder with a sour expression. The group had been a birthday party, as it had turned out and the grabby lady the birthday girl, dared to get handsy by her friends.

‘I hate this job,’ he said to no one particular in the break room as he threw himself onto a chair and slumped over the table.

‘Doesn’t everybody?’ Jehan leaned against the doorframe, one hand tangled in their hair, ‘sorry, I would give you a hug but the door says Staff Only.’

Grantaire pushed himself off the table, hair flopping into his face as he grabbed his bag, ‘I didn’t know you were still here. Where’s Baz?’

‘Well, the party-pooper went home after we had seen everything three times. He has no stamina whatsoever,’ Jehan held their hands out for Grantaire to hold as they walked through the entrance hall towards the main door, ‘you look pale, R. Are you taking care of yourself?’

‘Yes, mum,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes and opened the door for them, ‘are you sure that you have not adopted some kids by accident? You seem awfully parental.’

Jehan laughed into the chilly air, dusk settling in as they walked down the road. Their hair was tinted red by the last rays of sunshine that poured through the gaps between the houses, dancing like a veil in the soft wind that made a few fallen leaves dance on the pavement. Jehan danced as well, skipping next to Grantaire who had a hard time keeping up with them. They hummed under their breath, a melody sweet as much as lugubrious.

‘How’s your play coming along?’ Grantaire tried to keep them grounded next to himself, ‘Last time you talked about it, you mentioned casting a few of your drama pals?’

‘Oh yes, I managed to fill all the roles,’ they beamed at him, eyes sparkling with the joy of a well-planned project, ‘we started rehearsing a few days ago.’

‘Brilliant, Jehan! Remember to send me an invitation once you know when you open.’

‘Obviously’, Jehan tugged his arm over his shoulders and slipped closer to Grantaire’s broad form, ‘Can you keep me warm until we get back?’

Grantaire wiped his nose with his sleeve and slipped his arm closer around them, ‘So that is the reason you keep Baz around? To keep your tiny bones warm?’

They laughed loud and clear, snuggling into Grantaire’s side, ’He has his advantages. Have you ever fallen asleep on his chest? He is like a loud snoring space heater, very comfy and squishy.’

‘I doubt anything on Bahorel is squishy,’ Grantaire pulled a face at the thought of what options there were for their conversation to continue, ‘and before you say anything, I can imagine how you found out. I see enough of Baz when I spar with him.’

‘Oh come on, you haven’t sparred in ages. And before you say anything,’ they threw him a dirty look, ‘I am the first person who sees his bruises.’

‘I was assured you take good care of him,’ Grantaire tousled their hair and grinned down at him, ‘we can all tell when –‘

Jehan kicked him in the shin. They made their way down the road, walking in step next to each other towards the academy. Once they reached the towering building, Jehan pressed themselves up on their toes and kissed him on the cheek, their lips pressing softly against his skin.

‘You probably crave your paints and brushes now. Don’t stay up for too long, chèrie, no matter what your brain wants you to do.’

‘I’ll try. Thank you, sweet poet of my lonely hours,’ Grantaire pressed a kiss to their temple, relishing in what little touch and warmth he could extract from this moment, ‘give Baz my regards.’

Jehan turned around, waved and skipped towards the main staircase, leaving Grantaire alone with his thoughts. He opened his studio door but did not switch the lights on. Without the pigment, it would not be possible to finish the river painting according to what he had imagined it to be like or what he remembered of the evening.

He remembered Enjolras, light hair unruly and his throat working to gulp down Grantaire’s whisky, a picture of a Greek god in the wrong surroundings. His eyes had hidden something, guarded something deeper and darker than what he would have guessed Enjolras was burdened with. It was almost intriguing, if not self-destructive, to find out what it had been that still had him shuddering when he thought back to it. A part of his mind was convinced to have seen something similar to what he himself felt constantly, whenever the grey feeling crept up on him. It was his companion, consolation when nobody else was close or the memories grew too strong to control them. The tempting thought that Enjolras was guarding an equally terrible knowledge held its fascination. He could almost imagine himself asking the other what it was. Enjolras would deflect it, of course, would probably ask what Grantaire hid in response to distract him.

No question would ever burn as much as this one, he was sure of it. Grantaire opened his cabinet and took out a bottle of brandy. He chugged down a third of its contents and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. It burned its way down his throat and settled in a warm knot in his stomach. The moment of relief washing over him was brief enough but it helped him calm down a little as he threw himself down onto the divan.

‘Grantaire, you are a goddamn idiot,’ he sighed and rubbed his eyes with the hand that was not preoccupied with the bottle the other was still holding.

He dozed off an hour later only to wake up at four in the morning, gulp down more brandy and stagger up the stairs into their flat. As soon as he had reached it, he scuffled into the bathroom, pushed the door shut and made to kneel in front of the toilet. The violent retches that convulsed his guts with pain exhausted him so much that he fell asleep next to the toilet, sitting on the mat.

Joly found him in the morning and poured a litre of coffee down his throat before shoving him under the shower to soak him to the bone, clothes included. Once he was dripping wet and wrapped in one of Bousset’s towels – the one’s they washed with fabric softener – his friends sat him on the sofa, shoved another cup of coffee in his hands and slipped onto the armchair facing him.

‘R, this is an intervention,’ Bousset crossed his legs, ‘you have hit an all-time low.’

‘What happened?’ Joly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, ‘I thought you were alright? Jehan said you seemed happy…or at least content?’

Grantaire groaned and buried his face in his hands, searching his memory for whatever had led to the disastrous circumstances of his collapse in the bathroom. A faint memory of hands on his backside and giggles behind his back had him gag. Joly threw him a worried glance.

‘Shit,’ Grantaire felt the blood leave his cheeks, ‘yesterday was Friday, right?’

‘Yes,’ Bousset wrinkled his forehead, ‘Why?’

‘Enjolras’ debate society had a meeting! I forgot to tell him that I would not be able to attend. Again!’

Chapter Text

He spent the day throwing up a little more, cooking lunch for Joly and Bousset and finally mustering up the courage to ask Bahorel for a sparring session. Bahorel, always ready for a fight, agreed immediately and deflected any of Grantaire’s attempts to set a date a week later. He insisted that they would only lose time if they waited, given that Grantaire had not entered a gym in a long time.

‘What changed your mind?’ his friend taped his knuckles with the rainbow-coloured medical tape Jehan had given all of them for Christmas, ‘We haven’t sparred in months.’

‘Maybe I need to occupy my mind with something that is neither art, happy couples nor depression.’

Bahorel nodded, adding another layer of tape to his fingers. His broad face was serious as he pulled his gloves on but his eyes sparkled. They were in the gym behind the academy, a place both of them had seen more of than their classes during the first terms. Bahorel had made room in his planner for regular sessions as soon as Grantaire had asked for a session; according to him, set dates would Grantaire make feel obliged to keep the training up.

 ‘You’ll be a little rusty after all this time without training. Are you sure you want to start against me? I have shown Jehan a few moves, if you want to bite the mat after a few soft strokes. They have a talent for martial arts but don’t like to punch people.’

‘Baz, I thank you for your concern but it’ll be alright. Muscle memory, you know, I’ll still be able to kick your ass.’

‘You never kicked my ass, R,’ Bahorel rolled his shoulders, ‘you talk too much, that’s always been your problem. You want to fight, fight! You want to box, box! But you shouldn’t talk when you want to fight. That doesn’t work out.’

Grantaire pushed past him and climbed in the ring, mouth guard in place, ‘Come on then, prepare yourself for defeat.’

It took Bahorel less than five minutes to get him onto the mat, unable to move.

‘Oh come on, man,’ Grantaire tried to wiggle out from under his friend’s knee, pushing his hands into the mat, ‘let me go.’

‘Not so confident now, are you?’ Bahorel grinned down on him and put more of his weight on his knee, squeezing a breath out of his lungs, ‘you should give up now, before you pull a muscle trying to run away.’

Grantaire fought against the weight on top of him, eventually rolling out from under his friend. He jumped to his feet and returned to a fighting stance.

‘Up you get then, or are you tired already?’ he watched as Bahorel pushed himself back onto his feet, his friend was leering at him out of dark eyes, rolling his shoulders, ‘I expected more of you!’

Bahorel shook his head, a smirk promising more pain and tricks sitting in the corner of his mouth. He brushed off the dust on his knees casually and walked over towards Grantaire, who grinned in response and wiped his mouth with the glove.

‘You really are confident,’ Bahorel started to move around him, eyes never leaving, he watched his every move, ‘even though you move slower than an old woman.’

Grantaire did neither respond, nor did he allow the tease to get to him. They concentrated, focussing on the person in front of them, waiting. They knew each other’s tactics well enough, had spent more time working them out together than they had on their own and unlike Grantaire, Bahorel had trained even without his friend as a sparring partner. It came down to the first move and who made it, both of them had their experiences with rushed attacks and flatfooted attempts to make the other trip and fall. Bahorel had caught him off-guard during their first round, he would not let it happen again. He had his guard up as much as Bahorel, he was still strong enough to keep up with him. His only disadvantage was the embarrassingly fast rate at which his legs decided to get tired. Having stopped training after a particularly bad attack, he had let himself go more than usual, resulting in a soft belly and breathlessness after only little exercise. He hated himself for it, almost as much as for everything else he did to his body.

‘You won’t be able to keep this up,’ Bahorel held his head low and his fists up, ‘why not end it now? Wouldn’t that be easier? More comfortable?’

Grantaire made a swipe at him, just catching his body. Bahorel jumped back, surprise written all over his face. He always needed a second to recollect himself before he was able to counter. Grantaire knew that as much as Bahorel himself since he counted on using it against his friend. He let a quick succession of blows directed against his upper body follow the first punch, Bahorel stumbled backwards and shook his head in disbelief as Grantaire stuck his leg out to trip him. At some point, both of them had accepted that they would unavoidably play dirty and use whatever chance they got to fell their opponent.

‘Bastard,’ Bahorel grinned up at him from the mat, ‘suits you to go for the legs instead of playing it out.’

Grantaire let himself fall onto his friend, sprawling out like a starfish on top him, ‘It’s my only advantage in this situation. Why should my legs be the only weak ones to be exploited? You are on the ground, I’m on top of you and I can’t go another round without black spots dancing in front of my eyes; doesn’t that sound like a successful training session?’

Bahorel rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement a moment later, ‘You should come down here more often. I’ll get you back into shape in no time, just you wait.’

The prospect of getting Bahorel to drill him back to what he had called the one thing he was proud of was somewhat appealing to him. He had not necessarily missed the sensation of hard muscles where he now was mostly soft but he had been going about his life with close to no exercise, clearly less than advisable for his age. The effects had become clear to him when Bahorel had thrown him to the mat after only a few minutes. It had taken him rounds and rounds just six months previous to get as much as close to Grantaire. A fight like that was out of the question for the time being, not when Bahorel was able to march through his defences like a bullet through a piece of cloth.

‘We’ll call it a day, then,’ Grantaire agreed, ‘I look forward to defeating you again, Baz.’

He felt better once they had showered and changed into normal clothes in the small changing room the gym provided for the students and were on their way back to the academy, both smelling like the lavender shampoo Jehan used and that almost all of their friends had found incredibly relaxing. The nausea that had clung to his guts, even as they entered the gym, had finally left him and his head was clearer, as much as his stomach empty. Bahorel had promised him something to eat at his flat and Grantaire, knowing that Jehan used Saturdays to bake whatever ridiculously difficult recipe they had found in a dusty bookshop, could do nothing but try and laugh his rumbling stomach off.

As they entered the flat, the bake of the day turned out to be raspberry tartlets. Jehan was still in the kitchen, pink, frilly apron wound around their hips and hair piled up in a bun that Bahorel loosened with gentle fingers, prompting them to tilt their head back to meet him. Their kiss seemed too chaste and pure for anyone to see and Grantaire felt uncomfortable looking at it, so he busied himself with a few plates that he put on the table before turning back to the kitchen. Jehan and Bahorel had detangled themselves and were now smiling knowingly at each other. A whole conversation seemed to have passed between them within nothing but a look and the smile hidden in the corner of Jehan’s mouth. The content of this conversation remained unspoken in front of Grantaire.

‘How did it go?’

‘R is a little out of shape,’ Bahorel grinned and sat down at the table, ‘but nothing I cannot bend back into shape.’

Jehan patted Grantaire’s back and set down a plate with tartlets, ‘Don’t listen to him, you look great. Have a tartlet.’

‘That is a lie and all of us know it. I have more of a walrus than a boxer now,’ Grantaire took one of the tartlets, ‘Stop me if I eat more than this one.’

The twinkle in Bahorel’s eye resembled something he had seen multiple times in the boxing ring when he looked forward to attacking his opponent for the first time. Jehan cleared their throat and nodded towards the plate.

‘Eat, Baz. Stop scaring R.’

‘I’m not scared.’

‘I know, chérie,’ Jehan took his hand, ‘I’m stroking his ego. He needs it from time to time. Also, you are allowed to eat nice things, even if you’re trying to get back into shape. You could talk about it with Éponine or Joly, they know stuff about proper nutrition.’

Grantaire kissed them on the cheek, ‘You are a treasure, I hope Baz tells you that often enough. If not, just come by our place, we’ll make sure you get to hear all the compliments you deserve.’

‘I am perfectly capable of complimenting my partner,’ Bahorel mumbled and took another tartlet, ‘don’t tell me you’ve come here to stir things up.’

‘I only came for the baked goods,’ Grantaire lifted his hands in defeat.

‘Are you still spending your nights with Enjolras?’ Jehan asked a moment later, mouth stuffed full with raspberries and cream.

‘Depends,’ Grantaire sighed and sat back, ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘There were some late night concerts in the music corridor, right? And you showed him your studio!’

‘He invited you to his meetings,’ Bahorel chipped in, ‘and he kept looking to the door when you didn’t show up.’

‘Really? Et tu, Baz? He invited all of us, and I have missed the second meeting in a row, now. I doubt he’s inclined to forgive that, if he ever meant anything by it.’

‘He invited all of us but he meant you, trust me on that,’ Jehan’s smile had something eerie about it, Grantaire had never been able to grasp its meaning, ‘and you were working last night, I’m sure he’ll understand if you tell him.’

‘I also got drunk beyond reason without being triggered or upset. I have come to the conclusion that I got drunk out of boredom,’ he gave up denying what was undoubtedly true, ‘Imagine being so bored that the only thing you can do to occupy yourself is to drink until you don’t remember you were bored in the first place.’

Jehan shook their head, ‘I can’t imagine, chérie. The only thing I can think about this is how sorry I am that you experience this. I wish I could come up with something that helps you in these situations but I think by now all of our friends know how unrealistic that is. The only thing I can really offer is a friendly ear and baked goods to distract you. Did you know that I am no longer limiting baking to Saturdays? I have something here at all times now so you could have something to eat instead of a drink.’

‘You can call me at any time,’ Bahorel provided, ‘we can go to the gym and punch each other until every thought of drinking and alcohol has left your sorry little brain.’

‘Baz!’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Bahorel squared off with Jehan, another look carried another wordless conversation and Grantaire realised how much he envied both of them for what they had, even though he did not begrudge their relationship.

‘Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you get to call him stupid,’ Jehan winced, ‘sorry, that did not come out like I wanted it to.’

‘And you claim to be a poet, playwright, wordsmith,’ Grantaire could not hide his laughter, ‘Great work, Jehan, I am proud of you.’

‘Don’t mock me, sir,’ Jehan went a little red, their fingers trying to keep a strong hold on their fork.

‘Never,’ Grantaire sighed, feeling his throat relax a little, ‘I’ll head out in a minute, no happy couple should spend a whole Saturday with me moping about their flat.’

He stayed true to his word and left them a little later. With some of the remaining tartlets wrapped in foil to share with Joly and Bousset. He left them on the kitchen table, his roommates were not in and the note they had left on the fridge read Date Night!!!! – At the Musain. Of course they were gone; everybody but him seemed to have their lives planned out, after all.

He grabbed his soft, green jumper from the pile of clean laundry and pulled it over his shirt. Even though he dreaded another night in his studio, it seemed like it all lead him back to it, even if he was merely staring at empty canvases before his brain demanded to be dulled. His friends would have scolded him for thoughts like these but they were not around, Joly and Bousset happily dating and Jehan and Bahorel already too much of a couple of babysitters for him. He was a grown man after all, a grown man with the ability to keep himself entertained. The academy was silent, given that it was still early enough for people to have gone out for dinner. The paintings along the staircase looked down on him as he walked past them, even the ones without living subjects or eyes. His feet carried him downstairs, over worn steps and treaded carpets, all in a manner he knew too well without thinking about what he was doing.

And then, before his brain had even processed what his feet were doing, he was back in the music corridor with its compartments and posters for concerts and recitals. The door to Enjolras’ room at the end of the hallway was closed. Grantaire slipped through the glass door and snuck up to the room to peak through the small window. Enjolras sat at the grand piano, his head resting on the music stand. His eyes were closed and he looked tense, shoulders pulled up to his head, whilst his arms hung loosely at his sides. Grantaire swallowed heavily. The only light illuminating Enjolras’ face was the pale blue light of his mobile phone display in front of him. He seemed to have pulled up some sheet music but his overall posture suggested either resignation or tiredness. His posture did not fit the Enjolras Grantaire had met; the angry pianist and the late night concerts were nothing but a faint taste on his tongue, almost as if they had not happened. He almost contemplated entering the room to offer him a hug when a movement had him stop in his tracks.

Enjolras straightened himself up, lifted his hands and placed them on the keys. He seemed to focus even more than usual on what notes he needed to play, even before he actually hit one. Grantaire watched as he inhaled deeply, studying the phone display on the stand before pressing the first keys.

Grantaire had heard him play Schubert, Chopin, Beethoven, Schumann, Liszt, Tchaikovsky and Brahms. Enjolras undoubtedly had a soft spot for the Romantics, their manner, music and expression. It seemed to fit him, the whole idea of romantic forlornness and desperation seemed to bleed into his music, offering his emotions without a spoken word. Played by a near angelic figure, Grantaire had almost started to believe in the power of music. Listening to Enjolras had shown him what it meant to catch an emotion through music, an insight that came to him through the nightly listening more than years of playing multiple instruments and listening to his mother had allowed him to realise. On the contrary, she had been the one to point out that music, the popular classics that was, ensured he had food to eat and clothes to wear. Music had been a means to earn money, not something played for fun late at night to calm a lonely soul in need of company. He thought about how Marius had founded multiple chamber music groups that practised and played for fun, how he had agreed to practise with Enjolras. He still was not sure whether he would enjoy their duets, sometimes it seemed like a waste of time and, in Enjolras’ case, waste of talent. There was nothing Grantaire could offer him when they played, he doubted they were good enough to perform and Enjolras was better advised to play with other music students, people on his own level of skill, rather than him, the washed up remains of a promising inheritance. He was wasting his time with a halfbaked hobby-musician like Grantaire. Even, if they played together, the difference between them was obvious. Every time he looked at Enjolras, he saw everything he hated about himself so much clearer. The brilliancy and grace with which Enjolras held himself seemed too bright, too perfect for anyone to compete with. Almost like the sun, Enjolras shone with radiating heat and whoever got close enough could either feel the warmth he granted them or burn. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, both stars in their own right, were able to coexist in close proximity to him but everybody else was in danger to end like the unfortunate Icarus, tumbling to their demise. Grantaire was sure that his wings had started to melt when he had first heard Enjolras play. Now, that he knew what a kind, passionate human being was hidden behind the musician, combined with how composed he seemed, he was more intimidated by Enjolras than when he had only known his piano play. Something about him demanded respect and compelled anybody looking at him to follow his words. A dangerous gift, Grantaire thought, as his mind seemingly raced. Enjolras would be able to raise an army just by standing at its front and speaking of the world to come. He was sure that Enjolras knew it as well, the way he moved, spoke and argued made it seem likely. It probably was the only thing Grantaire would not gladly accept about him, too much could potentially go wrong if Enjolras ever used this gift in a way other than the idealistic, future-making way he used it for at the moment, judging by what Jehan, Bahorel, Joly and Bousset had told him about the debate society.

All in all, Enjolras intimidated him. And the way his slim fingers caressed the ivory keys was almost ghostly. He had played his fair share of Paganini when his mother had forced him to learn how to play the violin and he knew enough legends about the supposed pact the violinist had made with the devil. His soul for a never before seen talent. It seemed highly unlikely that Enjolras, out of all people, would sell his soul to be able to play the piano like he did but Grantaire was inclined to review almost every explanation for the way his play seemed to reach into the darkest corner of his soul and bring forth something he had deemed long forgotten, leaving it bare and vulnerable, for the world to see and hurt.

Was it therefore implausible to see Enjolras’ talent as something he could have easily acquired through a shady deal over a pile of burning herbs with a hooded figure in the back corner of a cemetery? The longer he thought about it, the more could he imagine Jehan don a cape to lure interested parties to the graveyard. They liked giving private readings at night, after all. In fact, Grantaire knew only one other person beside Jehan who spent time at the grave yard unironically, and he had not seen Montparnasse in years.

Enjolras probably went to graveyards, too. It would fit the repertoire he seemed to have gathered. Grantaire liked the Romantics, just about as much as Enjolras, apparently. He seemed to play nothing else, after all. And yes, Chopin’s soft piano compositions had helped him sleep a great deal better since he had first heard Enjolras play them. Between the different composers of the romantic period, Grantaire was willing to place a bet that he would play even more Chopin.

The first key Enjolras had hit snapped back up, sending a tone into the room. Hearing it knocked a breath out of his lungs. He had heard him play Schubert, Chopin, Beethoven, Schumann, Liszt, Tchaikovsky and Brahms.

He had not expected Bach.

Chapter Text

Bach’s Praeludium No. 2 in C minor had comforted him through some of the darkest moments of his teenage years. It had been the one thing he played when nothing else had been able to comfort him. Its fast-paced rhythm, the scaling highs and lows of both melody and accompanying hand, and the piece’s overall tune had seemed both accusing and retreating to him. Its duality had kept him sane whenever his mother demanded More, more, more, faster, sooner, right now! It had never been easy to meet her standards, so he relied on things he knew and Bach had been coming to him as easy as painting. With the Praeludium, it had been the steady rhythm of quavers, almost resembling a pulse that had helped calm him down. No matter how distraught and confused he was, how messy and unpleasant his thoughts had been, their steadiness had gotten him through it. He had almost forgotten about the effect the piece had had on ten year old Grantaire. Once again, Enjolras had, unknowingly, picked something that made his silent audience’s heart sing in the highest notes, had his stomach churn with memories long buried and managed to get him to smile through the pain, just like he had learned to do. It did occur to him that the small glass window in the door was ringing with the force of the music played, it seemed to vibrate in its frame. Enjolras played the Praeludium with raw force, almost as if he was angry at the world for letting him down; he all but hammered onto the keys and made the piano give up its notes to him. His face mirrored what went into his playing, the mixture of anger and desperate sadness plain to see in his eyes.

Grantaire felt like an intruder. Clearly, Enjolras had not meant for anyone to see his moment of vulnerability. The realisation came with the tear that slipped over Enjolras’ cheekbone. His heart stuttered at the sight of Enjolras crying over the piano. A sob reached his ears and Grantaire wished himself at any place other than the cold hallway outside of Enjolras’ room, wished he was anything but the silent onlooker. He seemed distressed, bitterly fixating the phone display in front of him whilst his fingers maltreated the keys. Grantaire had to look away, his mind unable to come up with a solution that did not include wrapping his arms around Enjolras until he stopped crying in the solitude of his room.

The melody stopped suddenly, its last tone still echoing through the corridor. Grantaire looked up to find out why Enjolras had seized to play, only to see him look right back at him, eyes wide in shock. A part of him wanted to turn around and run away before Enjolras could do as much as get up and open the door but his feet decided to rebel against his flight instinct during that exact moment, leaving him to watch as Enjolras pushed himself off his stool, rounded the grand piano and stormed towards the door, an expression akin to distress contorting his usually soft features.

‘What are you doing here?’ Enjolras hair had slipped out of the tie, framing his face as he stared him down, ‘It’s too early!’

Grantaire wanted to say something, anything, to respond to what Enjolras had just said but the words did not make sense in his brain. He blinked at Enjolras, mouth gaping open, not entirely sure what he had heard come out of his mouth.

‘Too early?’ he repeated, a sad choice of words as they caused Enjolras’ eyebrows to knit together, ‘What do you mean?’

‘You never come by here before midnight and we didn’t have a rehearsal planned, that is what I mean,’ he pushed a strand of hair behind his ear, Grantaire’s look following his hand because his brain still had not processed a word of what they were talking about, ‘are you okay?’

‘You – am I okay?’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘Are you okay?’

His voice sounded too worried to pretend he had just stopped by, he realised. He cleared his throat and ruffled his hair, ‘You seemed a little distressed.’

Enjolras avoided his gaze as he mumbled something unintelligible before turning back into his room, switching the light off and grabbing his coat, ‘Do you have anything planned tonight?’

‘No, inspiration has avoided me,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘Why are you asking?’

‘I need to get out,’ Enjolras pulled him towards the staircase, ‘I know it’s bad when I play Bach. I don’t know why but something about his music calms me down when I can’t see a solution anywhere. Bach’s music can be so powerful, yet soft and comforting at the same time.’

Grantaire nodded and opened the door for them, ‘I used to listen to the Praeludium you just played when I was really upset. I played it, too, sometimes.’

Enjolras gave him a small smile, slipping one arm into his coat, ‘Do you need a coat?’

‘Blood runs hot enough.’

They passed by the notice board in the main hall, a new colourful piece of paper had been put up. Enjolras tugged him closer to study it with a wrinkled forehead.

‘Have you seen this? It’s a call for artworks to be displayed in the hallways and staircases before Christmas, you should give them something to put up.’

‘No, I’d rather not,’ Grantaire winced at the thought and stepped back from the board, Enjolras followed a moment later, ‘I’ve had my fair share of embarrassing pictures on these walls, I don’t need that again. Others get their chance as well and I don’t get hounded about inspiration and technique, I like it better that way.’

Enjolras looked at him from the side but did not say another word until they were out on the street, walking towards one of the student bars close to the academy. It was only when the Corinthe came into view that he cleared his throat, something clearly on his mind.

‘Are you going to drink something tonight? I could do with a drink.’

Grantaire was not entirely sure whether he meant it or was winding him up. Bahorel might have been joking about him toeing the line to being a functioning alcoholic but there was a grain of truth in it he did not want to think about.

‘I shouldn’t. I’ll keep you company though, if you want to,’ he shuffled down the road, fists shoved into his pockets, ‘haven’t been to the Corinthe in ages. Are you going there regularly?’

Enjolras shook his head, ‘A friend of mine works there some evenings, we might get a discount, if he’s in. It’s not often that I go to have a drink, though. Alcohol does not really agree with me.’

‘Well then, let’s see what the pub looks like now. Last time I checked, it was a dark, dingy hole where gangs met and junkies got their fix.’

Enjolras nodded, ‘That was before the new owner took over. The gangs have been taken care of, it was renovated and refurbished and the new owner is proud and confident.’

He pushed the door open and Grantaire stepped through it, not entirely willing to believe what he was saying. The Corinthe had been notorious amongst the late night drinkers, the desperate souls looking for something to satisfy their needs and the lost ones that were looking for trouble. Grantaire expected the sticky, mismatched tables, old, stained wallpaper and unmotivated bartender that had thrown him out for pointing out the drugs being sold in the hallway leading to the toilets.

Instead, he was bathed in warm light coming from a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The half-timbered walls had been whitened, the floor boards polished and the tablecloths were shining white. Grantaire felt his mouth fall open as Enjolras pulled him further into the room. There were real, framed pictures and posters on the wall, the glasses behind the bar were sparkly clean and the bottles on the rack had actual wine in them. Even the customers had changed; instead of hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and dark shadows, Grantaire saw elderly couples, groups of students and families. A beautiful woman manned the bar, her dark hair the only unruly thing to be seen in the whole wide room. Her eyes were watching over every movement at the tables, seemingly giving the waiters orders without words.

‘That’s Musichetta,’ Enjolras grinned, once he noticed Grantaire’s stare, ‘she owns the Corinthe now. The grand reopening was three months ago.’

‘How did you get involved?’ Grantaire tried to focus on Enjolras instead of the restaurant that had taken over where blind mirrors and dirty corners had been common.

Enjolras’ grin was blinding as he waved at Musichetta, ‘I played at the opening. Chetta asked me to come back every weekend. I have played here every Saturday since.’

‘Enjolras, you’re a day early,’ Musichetta had stepped out from behind the counter and came towards them with her hands stemmed on her hips.

‘I know, Chetta,’ Enjolras winked at her, ‘today I’m here to have a drink like a lowly peasant, crawling through your door.’

‘You are a lot, Enjolras, but never a peasant,’ Musichetta nodded at Grantaire, ‘and you are another academy student come here for the discount I give this scoundrel?’

‘Never, ma’am,’ Grantaire said hastily before taking a closer look at her, ‘Fuck, you are young!’

Enjolras dissolved in giggles next to him whilst Grantaire cooked under Musichetta’s stern gaze, blood rushing to his head. The embarrassment nailed him to the spot, even as her face lit up with a wide grin and Enjolras grabbed his hand again.

‘I’ll always have a table for you, Enjolras, I promised you as much,’ she led them into the backroom, a place Grantaire remembered to be the setting for illegal gambling and Poker nights. Now the place was lit up by candles and resembled a nineteenth century palace, with heavy dark red curtains shielding customers from curious views, ‘enjoy your evening, I’ll send Feuilly round.’

‘Feuilly?’ Grantaire asked as they sat down. Enjolras grinned like a Cheshire cat again.

‘I told you a friend of mine works here sometimes.’

‘Yes, but Feuilly? He’s a legend around the academy, especially art students – and you’re friends with him?’

‘He certainly is friends with me. Although, if he should bring somebody here just to see them flustered out of their good senses ever again, I will have Musichetta seat him with everybody else in the front,’ Grantaire’s head snapped up to meet the disgruntled look on a young man in the waiter’s uniforms he had seen other busy people wear in the front room of the restaurant.

He had seen him around the academy a few times before, Feuilly was a scholar who produced delicate paintings using a most uncommon canvas: silk fans. His work looked vibrant and colourful, bursting with the liveliness of the subjects whilst carrying the elegant shimmer of the silk. The difficulties of silkpainting were immense, Grantaire knew as much. No wonder also, that every art student and professor around the academy spoke highly of Feuilly’s innovation and creativeness and he remained the student who had been exhibited the most around the art department.

‘It’s an honour to meet you,’ Grantaire stuck his arm out, ‘I loved A Picnic In the Park.’

‘Thank you,’ Feuilly handed him his menu, ‘Enjolras, I mean it! Stop it, this one has deserved better! You don’t have many polite friends.’

‘I have Combeferre!’

‘The fact that you are not even trying to include Courfeyrac is telling me everything I need to know,’ Feuilly smacked Enjolras lightly over the head with the second menu, ‘I’ll be back with your drinks.’

‘But we didn’t order anything,’ Grantaire said as Feuilly walked away.

‘Don’t worry, Musichetta assumes the right drink for you,’ Enjolras smiled, ‘she’s a genius with tastes and combinations.’

When Feuilly returned, he brought a wonderfully mellow white wine for them. Enjolras seemed to like it, even though Grantaire was careful not to drink too much. Wine would force him to his knees anytime.

‘Have fun tonight, and if you’re ever fed up with him, just come by my studio. We should collaborate some time, I’ve seen the paintings of yours Lafayette put up.’

‘Thank you, I would love to do that,’ Grantaire could not hide the blush brushing over his cheeks.

Feuilly left them to their drinks and the search for a conversation topic. Enjolras fumbled with the artistically folded napkin, something Grantaire was quick to describe to the departed waiter and his rebuke.

‘Why were you playing Bach earlier?’

‘I had a bad day.’

‘Tell me about it?’

‘What is it to you?’

Grantaire recoiled, lifting his hands in defence, ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. I’ll drop it, we can talk about anything you want to.’

‘No,’ Enjolras wrinkled his forehead, ‘no, that was rude of me. I always play Bach when I feel down or wronged, simply when my brain cannot escape the seemingly overpowering disasters of the world.’

‘Why, the revolutionary weary of his revolutions?’ Grantaire leaned back, bounding back into teasing Enjolras immediately, ‘How does Bach help you with it? I used to listen to his music when I didn’t want to talk to people.’

Enjolras cocked his head and looked at him, ‘You listen to Bach regularly, then?’

‘As a kid,’ Grantaire nodded, carefully sipping his wine, ‘the power behind his melodies calmed me down whenever I felt lost to the world.’

Enjolras’ clear gaze remained trained on him. Grantaire felt sweat break out on his forehead. A thought drilled itself into his conscience, reminding him that he was not made for evenings out, restaurants or educated conversation. He felt like the imposter revealed, his interaction with Enjolras nothing but a dream that should end before long, leaving him nursing a hangover in his studio, having lost a friend because of his unsuitability. It suffocated him, and the part of his brain that was still trying to fight against the paralysing feeling of crippling self-doubt reminded him that he could not allow himself the luxury of sliding into the pathetic calmness he felt whenever he retreated from any social interaction. He was not cut out for these events, second-guessing every word that came over his lips and determined to see his own failure before there could be as much as a chance to prove himself. His inability to carry a conversation had been pointed out to him often enough for him to stay away from them and retreat before he could put his foot in his mouth.

‘Your mother’s music course for children,’ Enjolras cautious voice made him look up, ‘I got it for Christmas and I read it in a few days. There was a CD that went with the book and it had all the recordings to the pieces mentioned. The Praeludium No. 2 in C minor was part of that and I fell in love with it instantly. For some time, my father had to put on the CD before I would go to bed. He also got me the sheet music for so many of the pieces featured. When I first heard her play, I felt like I had found the secret to celebrating Christmas and my birthday on the same day. Your mother managed to show me how music could carry emotions, what passion meant and how people would be connected and understood through music. I still have my copy of Musical Crash Course, I wanted her to sign it but every time Dad took me to a concert, I forgot it at home.’

Their food arrived, Enjolras thanked Feuilly and pitched into it. Whilst he dug in like a famished animal, Grantaire felt nauseous. His mind kept him on his toes, and thinking about the rapid change the night had brought hurt. He tried to remember when he had last been at ease but it seemed clouded by a throbbing in the back of his head. Bahorel, he remembered, boxing. He remembered Enjolras, playing sad pieces but looking content, not masked and distressed, as if Grantaire had not seen him cry in his music room earlier. Something had upset him and Grantaire was unable to find words to voice everything that went on in his head, sat staring at his food.

‘Are you alright?’ Enjolras tried to get his attention by waving a little, ‘You’re not eating.’

Grantaire shook his head in an attempt to get rid of the thoughts that wanted to be voiced but would lead to something worse than nausea. If he voiced as much as one of the thoughts bustling about in his head, Enjolras would think him a lunatic and stop talking to him, he was sure of that.

‘Grantaire, you look worried,’ Enjolras put his knife and fork down, ‘Is it something I said? Did I do something wrong? I know we might not always be on the same page and I can go like a bull at a gate, people just don’t tell me when it happens and I just wonder where they go – if I pressured you to come, if you had plans tonight and I forced you –‘

‘You didn’t force me to do anything, I came here because I did have no plans at all,’ Grantaire was not sure whether the words had actually left his lips but the sudden change in Enjolras’ face was him evidence enough, ‘Initially, I just wandered in the music corridor because I hoped to hear you play. It helps me sort my thoughts, sometimes.’

Enjolras seemed to listen to him and Grantaire, finding that his tongue seemed to have been loosened by the wine, allowed himself to continue for a little, ‘I find it easier to draw and work with music playing in the background and for the past few weeks it has been a playlist made up from all the pieces I heard you play. Now, I know what that sounds like but I actually got to finish a painting! It’s all down to hearing you play, even though I could never assume to reach a level on which I would feel comfortable around you. You are like the fucking sun, I really hope someone told you that before! That rehearsal we had? Did you ever think about that it was the first time we met during the day, in the sunlight? Apollo reincarnated, I say!’

He broke off, biting his tongue before more could slip out. Enjolras stared at him in biding disbelief, a crease between his brows. His hand on the table twitched and he leaned forward, light eyes pinning Grantaire to his chair.

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Grantaire,’ his voice sounded collected and controlled but Grantaire could sense the tension underneath. Just as he realised that something was off, Enjolras leaned back again, removing himself from his personal space, ‘I’m sorry you are so uncomfortable around me. If I had known, I would have made sure not overstep and keep to my boundaries. You needn’t mock me for the enthusiasm I try to show for the cause I pursue.’

‘I did not intend to mock you,’ Grantaire rubbed his temples, ‘I was merely saying –‘

‘I did hear you,’ Enjolras seemed impatient enough to start bouncing his leg, Grantaire opted to remain silent.

They ate but the conversation remained stale. Feuilly came by their table again, took one look at them and smacked Enjolras lightly up the head again.

‘I told you to be nice, bloody idiot,’ he turned to face Grantaire, ‘do forgive him, he runs off at the mouth without a filter. He’ll handbag anyone who dares arguing against him but it tends to make conversing with him difficult.’

Enjolras went bright red as Feuilly spoke, he seemed close to exploding. Grantaire shook his head, hands buried in his lap.

‘It wasn’t him. I said something stupid. We don’t seem to be able to talk without disagreeing or arguing about something eventually. It’s sad, isn’t it,’ his wine glass was of more interest to him, he examined it closely, ‘knowing that so much is keeping me from behaving like a decent person? As it is, I can only wish and imagine to be worthy of a person like him.’

Feuilly patted his back and took their used plates. Grantaire looked at Enjolras, gathering all his courage and finished the thought, ‘Worthy of being your friend.’

Enjolras’ look grew questioning as he looked up and met Grantaire’s eyes, ‘What?’

‘I know it is presumptuous of me but I have found your company to be the best thing that happened to me in quite some time,’ Grantaire lowered his gaze and focused on his hands that he had cramped around the hem of the table cloth, avoiding even looking at Enjolras, not prepared to be confronted with the disgust and rejection on his face.

‘You think you are not – you think we are not friends? Grantaire, I must insist you look at me right now!’ Enjolras forcefully set down the glass he had held, ‘We are friends, R! You are allowed to come into my music room whenever you like, we are trying out duets, whatever gave you the impression that we were not?’

‘We are?’ Grantaire felt his feet slip from where he had perched them against the table leg, his knee bumped against the top and made their glasses clink.

‘Yes, we are,’ Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘God, Grantaire, do you have any self-confidence?’

‘I don’t, actually,’ Grantaire grinned carefully, ‘you will have to pinch and remind me every day.’

He was almost ready to swear that a mischievous grin tugged on the corners of Enjolras’ mouth. Feuilly came back and handed them the dessert menu, a pleased smile on his lips, ‘So you did talk a little more?’

‘Thank you,’ Enjolras exchanged a quick glance with his friend, ‘did Chetta say anything about next week?’

‘Oh next week is a week off for you,’ Musichetta appeared next to the table, ‘we have this band coming in, they are from around here and one of my waiters knows them and got me an exclusive acoustic concert in here. It is good publicity for the restaurant.’

‘Exciting and probably the best publicity!’ Enjolras nodded and smiled at her, ‘What band are we talking about?’

‘Only the most important group that had its beginnings here and went on to become stars! They left the city as soon as they could, no one knows what they did before the band and they prove to be a colourful array every time they are on the radio or the TV! You must come and have a look, Enjolras, and bring your new friend all the same, we’ll have a space for you,’ Musichetta produced a flyer in green, pale brown and red and fanned herself with it, ‘Well, yes, we managed to get the only group that got out of this neighbourhood: Patron-Minette!’

Chapter Text

Grantaire did not feel like dessert. He browsed the menu Musichetta had left for them but the mere thought of sugary sweets made him feel sick to his stomach. Enjolras looked little more inclined to order something than him, there was a deep crease between his eyes and his hands gripped the menu tight enough to wrinkle it. Grantaire could think of only one reason why their conversation had died down again.

‘Enjolras?’

‘Mhm?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What are you apologising for?’ Enjolras looked up and shook his head, ‘You have not crossed me.’

‘I must have, I cannot explain your sudden gloominess in any other way, and I am sorry.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘I missed another of your meetings, didn’t I? Your anger towards me must thus derive from my absence despite your invitation and you remembering it now as you thought of how I disappointed you.’

‘Grantaire –‘

‘You are right to do so, you know, I told you that night; I am a disappointment and no good friend, a functioning alcoholic if anything and in no right sense despite being sceptical of anything that comes in my way. There is no passion left in me to be brought forward for any cause.’

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras set his menu down, ‘Grantaire – I had no friends left to support me, if I cut ties with everybody who missed a meeting. Courf and Combeferre have missed meetings in favour of date nights. Feuilly works late shifts here. Marius and Cosette spend some evenings a week at her father’s place because he makes a point in feeding them. Marius can’t cook for shit and Cosette forgets to eat. You see, R? I am not angry with you for any reason you can think up. Actually, I knew what I was getting into when I invited you along.’

It seemed too easy. Grantaire wanted to tell him how unlikely it seemed that he would willingly agree to such an undertaking. He seemed too invested in whatever course he followed to forgive absence that easily.

‘Listen, Grantaire, I don’t think we are in the mood for dessert. Should we call it a night and walk back to the academy? I need to get something out of my system and I know just the piece for it.’

‘As long as it isn’t Bach,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘I bawl like a baby when I hear his music.’

‘I’ll be sure to use that information against you some time,’ Enjolras got up and waved Feuilly, ‘the bill is going to be reckoned up with my payslip for next week.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Grantaire looked back to the table they had just left behind, ‘How much do I owe you?’

‘There is no way I’m letting you pay for tonight,’ Enjolras pocketed his phone and made his way towards Musichetta who stood behind the bar.

Grantaire followed him a moment later, if only just to compliment her and tell her that all of his friends would get to hear about the reformed Corinthe. Musichetta smiled when he told her whilst Enjolras rolled his eyes.

‘Can I get you to give him back half of whatever you’re going to subtract from his payment? He wouldn’t let me pay my share and I cannot accept that,’ he got his wallet out.

‘And would he not have a reason for treating you like that?’ Musichetta lifted an eyebrow.

‘Maybe because he thinks I’m a starving artist, but I will not have him sacrifice his pay check,’ Grantaire shoved a note into her hands, ‘keep the rest but pay him back, for god’s sake!’

Enjolras stood outside, reading the headlines of the newspapers through the window of the shop next to the Corinthe. His face showed the displeasure Grantaire had almost gotten used to in the short time.

‘Look at that, the world goes to shit and what is on the front page? The announcement that Patron-Minette will play in a sold out venue. As if anyone gave as much as a single fuck about them or what their concerts are supposed to be like!’

Grantaire huffed out a breath and stuffed his fists into his pockets, ‘So what have you got against the band that makes your ears rot off as soon as you actually start listening to their music?’

Enjolras tore his gaze away from the headlines, ‘You don’t like them either, I assume?’

Grantaire shrugged, ‘Bad memories. What have they done to get you all railed up like this? Seems like there is bad blood as well?’

‘I have never bothered to waste time listening to their music. Some of my friends listen to it, I think Courf has all their albums and listens to them from time to time; I leave and practise for a few hours, estimating the amount of time he will spend listening to their weird screams and whiny texts. It will take him about three hours to get everything out of his system but it will calm him down for a few weeks. That doesn’t mean I approve of his taste in music, especially not when the lead singer of these upstart-wannabes isn’t shutting up about what he deems important information online. I have read more announcements about the senselessness of fine arts and the academy in our modern time than actual promotional posts for his own band! Have you ever read through his texts and realised that he is questioning everything we ever posted on our Les Amis-blog? As if we were click baiting without being involved, as if our fight for equality and human rights was nothing as long as we are still studying – just because he never set a foot into an academy and dropped his piano lessons as soon as humanly possible,’ Enjolras’ voice grew louder and red patches appeared on his cheeks as his eyes shone with anger, ‘But now he thinks he can taunt me on social media –‘

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire interrupted, fists balled together tightly in his pockets, ‘what are we talking about?’

‘The arrogant, pretentious, book avoiding worm that poses as the lead singer of Patron-Minette, Montparnasse himself.’

‘You know Montparnasse?’

‘We had the doubtful pleasure to have the same piano teacher when we were starting to play. Montparnasse went off to start a rock band and I am trying to get my head around why I should feel humiliated about attending the academy, as he points out to me every now and then.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he never set foot in a school after half-completing Year Ten, allowing him to play every small, filthy pubs and clubs with his school band until they finally found a technician who managed to make them sound a little better which landed them a whole contract. He is probably still one of the most pretentious musicians I know. He makes money with emo rock nowadays but he started out with classical piano, no matter what he wants his fans to believe. I just can’t help feeling sick whenever I see the posters or anything related to the whole band. It reminds me of how he would duet with me until he was discovered after one of our recitals. We played four-handed, the scout asked him whether he was interested in a group he was managing and whether I would be interested, too. I later found out that Montparnasse told him I wasn’t any good anyway and the only thing I would ever do was re-enacting his playing. He got promoted, I practised for hours every day and finally got admitted into the academy whilst he was already playing venues and flaunting his manipulations. He would still sell people to the highest bidder as soon as an opportunity arises, I bet.’

‘Sounds like him,’ Grantaire sniffed and wiped his nose.

‘Wait – you know him as well?’ Enjolras stumbled in the attempt to catch up with him, ‘how do you know Montparnasse?’

‘His mother was friends with mine,’ Grantaire winced, ‘before the accident, remember that? His parents died in this car accident and he supposedly wrote a whole album about it. Funny thing though, the lyrics were exactly like the poems a girl in our class wrote in Year Ten. Before that, he was over at our house almost every day because my mother loved having him around. I only knew he played the piano better than me, we tried playing together a few times but it never really happened. I was never even close to become good enough to be compared to him, I knew that. My mother might not have liked it but in the end, Montparnasse was the charmer. I could not live up to the expectations, not with him there. When he went off to make music with that band, I was relieved.’

Enjolras cleared his throat at the next turn they took, looking at something far off beyond the street, ‘Do we have a nemesis in common?’

Grantaire smirked into the darkness, ‘Seems like it. I for one am going to ignore Patron-Minette as much as I can, allowing myself maybe one evening of indulgence when the actual concert takes place. I need to be hungover or still drunk when the newspapers write their reviews the next morning.’

Enjolras shook his head, ‘I’ll probably be at home, waiting for Courf and Ferre; I should be very surprised if they were not there to indulge Courf’s weird music taste. They know about the whole thing but disliking Montparnasse is not automatically linked to disliking Patron-Minette and their music.’

‘Are you okay with it?’

‘Yes, I suppose. They will not tell me anything about the concert and we will move on with our lives. I have more important things to worry about than my music school rival,’ he pulled his phone out of the pocket, ‘thank you, though. You got me out of a shitty day. Do you want to come up to my music room, I have a few other things to play and I would not want to leave you with Montparnasse on your mind, after all you’ve told me.’

‘Careful, Apollo, you might get accused of caring.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ Enjolras opened the door for Grantaire, ‘and I do care. Have you got your notebook with you?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘It would feel weird, if you just stared at me. That armchair in my room is very comfy, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, it is. Good thing I seem to have developed a soft spot for that chair,’ Grantaire threw Enjolras a look over his shoulder, ‘may I get some booze from the studio?’

‘One evening?’ Enjolras got his keys out of his pocket, ‘I need to get some sheet music from the library.’

‘What, you don’t have every single piece of music on your shelf?’

Enjolras shoved him in response, coaxing a hoarse laugh out of Grantaire, ‘Go settle in my room, will you?’

‘What, you don’t lock your room?’ Grantaire grinned, ‘I feel like there should be a comment about music students not locking their doors.’

‘Yes, I had that coming, I guess.’

They parted ways at the foot of the stairs, Grantaire climbed up the stairs towards the music corridor and Enjolras slipped into the library on the ground floor. The shelves directly next to the entrance there were lined with sheet music and folios on art history and every student had access to it at all times to ensure perfect conditions for their studies. It made life easier.

Grantaire found Enjolras’ door unlocked, just as they had left it. He switched the light back on and fumbled his notebook out of his pocket before sitting down in the armchair and toeing his shoes off. It seemed comfier to pull his legs up and rest the small book on his knees. His usual pencil was sitting behind his ear and waited to be taken up and put to paper. He tried to think of something to draw, an inspiration to start with. His brain turned on him the moment he connected the tip of his pencil to the page, going completely blank and empty. It was just about starting to frustrate him, when the door opened and Enjolras stepped through the frame.

‘Well, you certainly look comfortable. Any ideas yet?’

‘No, waiting for you to play!’

Enjolras threw him another dirty look but set down a book on the music stand. He sat down on the stool, feet in place on the pedals, rolled his shoulders and opened the book, turning a few pages. Once he settled on a piece, he placed his hands on the keys. He seemed to hold his breath for a moment, a calm before the storm that brew in the sharp edge of his eyebrows and clung to the edges of his jaw.

Grantaire’s eyes slipped shut for a moment with the first notes floating through the room. Rachmaninoff’s Prélude in C sharp minor, his brain filled in, part of his mother’s Romantic Russians programme, even though he had never been able to see the romance in this piece. Powerful, dark tones, reverberating through his head. The first loud chords were succeeded by looming but softer notes, the melody moving along a clear pattern Enjolras drew as his fingers hit the keys. Even though every chord was connected and led straight into another or even the accompanying part, Grantaire felt them singled out and alone, every note an accusation against something he could not grasp as it was. Grantaire allowed himself to get lost in the first rapid scale it grew into as the force with which Enjolras hit the keys became apparent in the way his arms seemed to bounce off the keyboard. Grantaire felt the hairs on his arms stand on end when the melody ascended into higher octaves, angry staccatos hammering against his ear drums.

His pencil moved on its own accord, creating a mess of lines and figures, stretching them over the whole double page and connecting the shapes and shadows with more fierce strokes. It imagined the outlines of a person cowering in one corner, dropping their head and hiding their face in the crook of their arm. He conjured up shadows, towering over them, each deformed and monstrous in their size, with white spots where teeth and eyes would have been, bleak, empty holes staring down at them in their absence. In a flight of fancy, he gave the figure on the ground his curls and created something resembling a complicated hair do on one of the monsters, hinting at something more than just a random monster. It turned into everything he resented and his fingers seemed to have decided to give every monster something to identify it by. One wore an over-the-top top hat that would have fit a monster in a children’s book, another’s teeth were dropping saliva, one of the bigger ones seemed to be wearing a monocle and a waistcoat woven of darkness. But the biggest monster, standing over him with the sharpest teeth, bore no resemblance to anything human, made up entirely of blurred lines and dark smoke.

The melody accompanying his drawing changed into Chopin’s Etude No. 12 in C minor, “Revolutionary”. A quick, scaling sequence surged against him, filling he space between him and the walls. The left hand flew over the keyboard, coaxing complicated combinations out of the mighty instrument as the melody fought to be heard, contributing little more than chords before attempting to steal the left’s thunder in a succession of notes that were reprimanded immediately, the hand associated with melody and overpowering presence expelled from its usual position by the righteous anger displayed in the left hand’s demands to lead for once. The right hand settled on complimenting and accentuating the left’s breakneck capers, piping up like a warning not to trip and fall over the unlikely leader’s ambitions now and then, fortes and pianos taking turns. A jubilant quip of the right hand was ended immediately as the left surged up to meet it. Thundering demisemiquavers called to arms as the right’s accompaniment turned softer and more serious. It seemed to mourn the loss of energy the left took on as the end neared. Both hands eventually reunited in a strong accent on chords.

Another page, another sketch. The monsters were still there, melting into the shadow of the room the figure now crouched in but they were merely blobs with hollow eyes and sharp fangs. Nothing indicated the presence of personality or humanity beside the shape of heads on the dark heaps that were silhouetted against the dark background and the shadows looming in the corners of the room and the harsh, powerful lines that made up the surroundings, a pit of loneliness and despair. It enveloped the cowering figure in one corner of his notebook like a thick blanket, tight enough to keep out light and comfort, tight enough to leave only the monsters that slipped through the seams. They crowded in on him, suffocated him, and extinguished the last white spots he had left until all that was left were the watching eyes and saliva dripping fangs.

‘Hey R, are you alright? You look a little concerned.’

Grantaire flinched. He had forgotten about where he was, where the music came from and even that Enjolras was in the same room as him. The reflexive jerk almost made him slam his notebook shut. He looked up and met Enjolras’ gaze, his friend had stopped playing and turned on the stool towards him. His serious face mirrored a part of the shock Grantaire had felt surging through him. There was nothing he could do, almost frozen he watched as Enjolras got up and crossed the room with just a few steps to come to a halt next to him.

‘Sorry, R, I felt like you might have been upset by something.’

Grantaire finally managed to shake his head, ‘I’m alright, don’t stop on my account. Just the usual dark thoughts.’

He could sense Enjolras craning his neck to glance at what he had drawn, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Grantaire cleared his throat and nodded towards his notebook, still perched on his knee.

‘Sometimes,’ he mumbled, putting another pencil stroke to the paper, ‘don’t worry, I’ve gotten used to it. Painting it makes it better, I can put it behind me.’

Grantaire looked up at him and met the inquiring glance Enjolras cast at him. Something liquid shimmered in his eyes, making them seem lighter than ever but nothing told him what it was that had triggered the reaction. He looked out of the ordinary. He cleared his throat again and set his notebook aside.

‘I wear my heart on my tongue. I’ve made a point of never hiding that. You might control your emotions beyond the determination for justice that drives you but I cannot simply do that. I am destined to sit and wallow in the pain of my existence whilst others have the power and energy to do what is right, challenge the system –  and fail in changing it.’

The tinge of empathy – Grantaire just managed to decipher the emotion in his eyes – disappeared from his expression and made way for something more likely to be annoyance. The process of the change in emotion on his chiseled face looked similar to marble melting and taking another shape. It seemed to harden his face again, sculpted to perfection. His eyes, however, were kinder.

‘I’m sorry you think that of me and the cause. I’m sorry you feel anxious,’ Enjolras pointed at the sketch again, ‘that looks threating…’

Grantaire looked up and was met by molten marble again as Enjolras wrinkled his forehead and shook his head before clearing his throat and ruffling his hair with the shaking hand of a nervous man, ‘Would you – would you like a hug?’

Grantaire felt his jaw drop. He could not stop staring up at the serious face above him, Enjolras seemed serious about the offer and a rather big part of his mind did not want to believe it. The smaller, more accepting part told him to nod, get up and prepare mentally for something that he would probably never again experience, made awkward by his posture and Enjolras gangly limbs. All of a sudden, everything about his own unkempt appearance seemed to move to the foreground, he thought about not having brushed his hair, the soft, baggy jumper he wore and the paint splatters on his shoes that were stuck to the fabric and would not wash out. He imagined himself next to Enjolras, or even in a hug, coming short in almost every aspect, the walking disappointment. Without doubt, Enjolras would regret the offer as soon as he did as much as indicate taking him up on it.

But then again, he seemed to underestimate Enjolras who carefully closed his notebook, put it on the grand piano and took Grantaire’s hand, ‘You look like you need one. This evening must have been a lot for you to process in a very short time.’

He pulled him to his feet, putting more force into the grip around Grantaire’s hand to make sure he did not drop back into the armchair. Once he had him upright, his arms were ready to envelope him and pull him into an embrace.

‘R, I would like you to try and relax a little,’ Enjolras’ voice was too close to his ears, ‘this is a hug, not the stocks.’

Grantaire felt the warmth of a quick breath ghost over his neck as Enjolras huffed out a laugh. He seemed pleased with his own joke.

‘You are so funny tonight,’ he deadpanned, ‘I can barely contain my laughter.’

‘Did the trick though, didn’t it?’

It had worked, Grantaire had to admit that. He felt himself ease into Enjolras’ touch and allowed himself to be comforted by the arms around his shoulders and the head resting on his shoulder. It took him a moment to feel comfortable to breathe but once he did he was not sure he would be able to stop smelling Enjolras cologne; a subtle, fresh scent filled his nose and made him all but cry with joy. Enjolras’ cologne reminded him of a soft, warm sea breeze caressing his skin. He felt his mouth twist into a cautious smile. It seemed like he had pictured the right setting for his painting after all.

The hug went on but neither of them pulled back. Grantaire felt the tension bleed out of his sore muscles and Enjolras’ arms tighten in response to his body going pliant in his embrace. It was less than a hug and more of a cuddle session and Grantaire did not feel like he did not deserve it, for once. He cherished every second of it, soaking up the warmth of his embrace, storing it away neatly for the next attack or episode that was bound to occur.

And then, the door opened, ‘Enjolras! Go to bed, you useless human being!’

Courfeyrac stormed into the room, arms akimbo and face contorted in all seriousness. He stopped dead in his tracks a moment later, causing his boyfriend to bump into him as he followed him. Combeferre exhaled an ‘Oh’ when he saw Enjolras and Grantaire stood between the grand piano and the armchair.

Grantaire felt the blood rush into his cheeks, he felt hot, and nausea surged through his guts, leaving him breathless for a moment. His first reflex was to step back and break the hug, to get away from Enjolras and squeeze past them, run up the stairs and lock himself into his room.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,’ Courfeyrac actually backed up, lifting his hands up, ‘you seem busy.’

‘Shut up, Courf,’ Grantaire looked up, Enjolras’ throat displayed a few pink spots but he seemed calm otherwise, ‘R needed a hug!’

‘Sure he did,’ Courfeyrac, obvious over walking in on them hugging already, flopped down onto the piano stool, Combeferre stepping behind him to snake his arms around his shoulders. Courfeyrac immediately leaned back with an air of intimacy that made Grantaire feel at ease.

‘What is the reason for this then?’ Combeferre nodded towards them, ‘What is the hug for?’

Grantaire felt Enjolras’ arms stroke over his back, smothering the tension rising along his spine before it could make him uncomfortable, ‘A long day, some upsetting news and some Bach earlier tonight.’

‘Wait, you were playing Bach?’ Courfeyrac perked up, ‘What news were it, then?’

Enjolras cleared his throat, ‘Patron-Minette are coming back – and they are playing at the Corinthe. Including Montparnasse.’

Combeferre frowned, shook his head and started to play with one of Courfeyrac’s curls before giving Enjolras a look that made him shiver, Grantaire felt it through the embrace. He tightened his arms around him, trying to give back the comfort Enjolras had given him.

‘So it was less about R having a bad day and more like you needing that hug?’ Combeferre twisted his face into a tight smile, ‘What is he even doing back here? And playing in the Corinthe? I get they want to play where it all began but the hellhole of a pub it used to be is no longer there, how did Musichetta get roped up into this?’

‘I can only guess,’ Enjolras lifted his head off Grantaire’s shoulder and stepped back, softly loosening their hug, ‘they will be there next week, giving a special concert before playing in a bigger venue. Double the money, I guess.’

‘I might be going,’ Courfeyrac got up and patted Enjolras’ shoulder, ‘you know I like their music only; I can still dislike Montparnasse for the stunt he pulled on you and listen to them.’

Enjolras nodded sharply, his face not giving away what he was thinking. Grantaire decided to change the topic and distract Courfeyrac at the same time. He pulled his jumper sleeves back down over his hands.

‘You should ask Jehan to come, they have all Patron-Minette albums at home. They might be interested in joining you next week, if you are going.’

‘Thanks, R,’ Courfeyrac beamed at him, ‘I’ll make sure to ask them. Are you coming back upstairs, Ferre?’

Combeferre nodded, slightly distracted by his boyfriend waving at him from the door, ‘Don’t stay up for too long. Both of you!’

‘Yes, dad,’ Enjolras grinned and waved after them, ‘they’ll get busy anyway, not like they are going to hear me come in later. Actually, I should probably walk in with earplugs already in place.’

Grantaire bit back a laughter, ‘You and me both, mate. Joly and Bousset will certainly start celebrating early.’

‘Celebrating?’

‘It’s Joly’s birthday on Thursday but they get even cuddlier and more annoying during the days leading up to it. It’s disgusting, really.’

Chapter Text

The entire gang had gathered in one corner of the Corinthe. Bousset had invited almost everybody they knew, including fellow students from the academy, Joly’s colleagues and some passing acquaintances. He sat next to his boyfriend at the head of the table, radiant with the joy it brought him to have organised such a pleasant gathering. Jehan and Bahorel had dared Courfeyrac and Combeferre to face off in a game of cards, Marius and Cosette were chatting with Joly who was in the process of unwrapping another book and Grantaire tried to keep an eye on Gavroche, whom Éponine had brought along after finishing her shift. She was busy talking to Feuilly and Enjolras, the topic seemingly connected to the council’s recent decision to turn the gender neutral toilets in the townhall into storage space.

They had started the day with waffles and ice cream in their kitchen, Grantaire had cooked since Bousset’s biggest achievement was known to have been burning water, even though they were yet to understand how it had happened. They had sung Happy Birthday for Joly who had appreciated the breakfast in bed he got. His leg had acted up again and every moment of rest made it easier for him to go out and enjoy himself for longer than usual.

Enjolras had introduced everybody to Musichetta who had hugged Joly tightly when they told her about his status as the birthday boy. She had brought them cakes and sweets on top of their orders, set them down in front of Joly and watched with a fond smile as he fed the first spoon to Bousset. Her response to this move was to bring another bowl of Tiramisu.

‘You should sit down for a moment,’ Enjolras motioned towards the empty chair next to him, ‘your restaurant will continue to function, even if you did.’

‘The only reason I am even contemplating doing that is that you guys are incredibly sweet and it is refreshing to see so little toxic masculinity in one place. Not one of your friends has hit on me tonight which makes for a welcome change.’

Musichetta pulled the chair next to where Bousset tried to return the favour of feeding Joly, only for every bite he handed him to fall off the fork as soon as he lifted it. She took over with a stern look.

‘So, your birthday and all your friends come up with is an evening in a restaurant? Why not a pub crawl to celebrate?’

Bousset grinned at her, ‘We like our calm evenings in front of the TV. Don’t get the wrong idea, we did go out and came up with the weirdest ideas, but nowadays we prefer not to end up in the ER.’

‘Bad luck and a stiff knee don’t mix very well with alcohol,’ Joly knocked his cane against his leg, ‘it is something we have accepted. More than that, we remember every single one of our dates.’

‘Oh you poor boys,’ Musichetta smiled softly, ‘come back here any time for a nice evening. I’ll save you a table.’

‘Careful, Chetta, you’ll end up saving the whole restaurant,’ Enjolras’ eyes sparkled with the gleam of a few glasses of wine, ‘you give away tables like they are flyers.’

‘Easy as pie, I’ll give them your table!’

‘Treason!’ Enjolras clamped his hand in his shirt, ‘How can you do this to me?’

‘You lack about three good traits that would make you as good and pleasant a person as they are,’ Musichetta nodded at him, ‘you have abandoned your conversation completely, and there is no way you have suddenly stopped to think about revolution.’

‘He never does,’ Grantaire tore his attention away from his bowl of toffee pudding, ‘he breathes it.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Last Friday, you were playing Chopin’s Revolutionary,’ Grantaire tried smiling at Enjolras and to his surprise, he smiled back.

‘Right, I forgot about that. Have you brought the sketches of that night onto canvas already?’

‘No, I didn’t have the time for leisure,’ Grantaire stretched back across the rest of his chair.

He had only drunk one glass of wine, the last thing he wanted to do was upset Joy by getting drunk beyond his senses on his birthday. It had been a good day for him, seeing his best friend happy and comfortable with his boyfriend, surrounded by a whole group of friends who appreciated them. Something about the way they were huddled together in smaller groups made him believe in humanity again.

Gavroche leaned against his side, his eyes drooping shut every now and then, the only sign that he grew tired. Éponine and Cosette hugged over the table but no one seemed to have any idea what they had been talking about. Next to them, Marius and Courfeyrac got into a heated argument about the best publishing houses in town. Bahorel had finally managed to pull Jehan into his lap, they were nestled against his shoulder and tangled their hand in their boyfriend’s hair. They looked completely at peace with each other and Grantaire enjoyed seeing them like that, Jehan needed Bahorel’s calming presence to wind down from time to time. Their head, full of ideas, words and pictures, never really rested, much like his own, needed him.

‘Chetta, we have visitors,’ one of the Corinthe’s waitresses came into the backroom, ‘they want to take a look at the venue. You should come and show them.’

Musichetta got up with a heavy sigh and patted Joly’s back, ‘Don’t run off, we need to talk a little more. I’ll be back in no time.’

Grantaire watched as she left the room. There seemed to be some kind of uproar in the front, he could hear raised voices and shrill screams.

‘Whatever is going on in there?’ Combeferre wrinkled his forehead and got up, ‘Should we check to make sure Musichetta is alright?’

He shot Enjolras a look who nodded sharply before getting up, ‘Ferre, Courf, Baz –‘

‘R, you coming?’ Bahorel set Jehan down, ‘Time to put all this boxing to use.’

‘You box?’ Enjolras stared at him with his mouth hanging slightly agape, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

Grantaire felt his cheeks heat up, the look resting on him burned a hole through his shirt and found him behind the curtain of hair he had drawn shut over his eyes. They were smiling, shining brightly and encouraging as Grantaire pushed himself off his chair to join them. The answer he could have given him burned under his tongue and a part of him wanted to tell him.

The door opened before he got the chance. Musichetta came back, followed by four men dressed in dark, historic inspired clothes. A gust of wind blew through the open front door and extinguished the candles on the tables they had pushed together. Everybody looked up, taking in the sight that presented itself.

‘Shrouded in darkness and mystery, they enter,’ Jehan whispered quietly behind Grantaire and fumbled for Bahorel’s hand, ‘a sight that makes the gods tremble.’

‘How delightful to see you again, Prouvaire,’ a top hat was lifted, black hair slipped out from underneath it and a pale face was contorted into a grin, ‘and looking as good as ever. Don’t tell me this is the new boyfriend I have been told about!’

Montparnasse’s velvety voice made the hairs on Grantaire’s arms stand on edge. He had not heard him talk in years and every trace of the boy he used to be was gone. Instead, he presented himself in the same way he appeared on stage, dressed like a modern dandy with top hat, cravat, waistcoat, frock-coat and boots. His mother’s words came back to him, ‘A true Dorian Gray!’ Grantaire had not known what she meant until he had read the book and agreed with her. He still was not sure whether their interpretations were the same when it came to Montparnasse.

He blinked the boiling panic away and tried to focus on his friends. Jehan tried to control their expression, they held on to Bahorel’s hand and Grantaire realised that he seemed angry enough to rip Montparnasse apart. Jehan did not tell many people how he knew Montparnasse but from the looks of it, Bahorel did and was not pleased to see him. Then, Enjolras, righteous anger burning in his eyes, pushed in front of them.

‘What are you playing at, Montparnasse?’ Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest and stepped around Bahorel’s chair.

Grantaire could pinpoint the moment Montparnasse recognised the voice snapping at him, ‘Enjolras, is that you? How are you doing? Any concerts any time soon, I would love to hear you play again!’

He turned around to his bandmates, the three figures Grantaire had been introduced to, ‘I have the pleasure of introducing you to a real gem amongst people, a libertine amongst philosophers, a star on the clouded night sky. Babet, Claquesous, Gueulemer – this is the much-talked about Enjolras!’

‘Who?’

Grantaire recognised Babet’s voice from the Patron-Minette albums. According to his Wikipedia-entry, he was the oldest in the band and seemed somewhat sensible, at least when compared to Montparnasse. He pushed forward, a lean figure clad in black and bordeaux. His deep eyes gleamed curiously as he looked around the gathered friends, fixing his look on Enjolras. Claquesous followed him, square shoulders pulled back in a tight leather jacket that had spikes and studs on the shoulders. He was the drummer to Babet’s guitar, Montparnasse’s voice and Gueulemer’s bass, a quiet, yet intriguing character. Grantaire caught his eye for a moment but no reaction was apparent. The fourth of them, a colossus of a man, did not need to move to take a look at them, towering over his band mates as he was.

‘Prouvaire and Enjolras in one room,’ Montparnasse sighed, stepping forward until he came close to touching Jehan, ‘this is like that night back then, do you remember?’

Jehan blushed through the glitter they had applied to their cheeks, one hand squeezing Bahorel’s arm tight enough to leave scratches. They seemed agitated enough for Bahorel to allow it. Grantaire slipped back into his chair and hid behind the wall his friends made between their table and Patron-Minette.

‘Have you really just come here to gloat?’

Montparnasse attention returned to Enjolras, ‘No actually, we came here to celebrate the new sales record our latest album set. Also, we have a gig in here Saturday evening, right after a sold out show at the stadium, go figure what that means for Patron-Minette. But here I stand, talking of my band; what is new with you, have you made any progress in getting famous? Any concerts, gigs, albums? I always told you the academy is a waste of time, it takes other things to make a career of music. There are too many concert pianists as there are, don’t you agree?’

The comment was followed by a barking laugh from Claquesous. Grantaire watched Enjolras carefully, his jaw was working and the vein on his neck pulsated violently. He hated seeing him like that, Montparnasse’s appearance alone seemed to have angered him enough to have him of the edge of an explosion. Half of the room stared at Patron-Minette with barely contained anger, only Courfeyrac seemed torn between meeting his favourite band and defending his friends; he stood behind Combeferre and fisted his hands into his boyfriend’s jumper.

‘What happened, Enj, you used to be so eloquent. You should get onto a stage once in a while, that’ll keep your hands in. All this studying, and for what? No one needs any more concert pianists! You should start a band to make anything of that dream of yours,’ Montparnasse grinned and Grantaire remembered the charismatic smile he had on call.

It seemed to have tipped Enjolras over the edge. He stepped forward, staring down at Montparnasse with a blasé smug smile painted onto his stern face. It was an expression fitting for the son of rich landowners, not the young musician Grantaire had met. He was sure, if Enjolras had still been sitting behind a table, he would have climbed over it to get to Montparnasse.

His voice was nothing more than a sneer that made Grantaire shiver with anxiety as he all but spat, ‘Anyone can scream into a microphone, am I supposed to be impressed now?’

Bahorel whistled through his teeth and Bousset snickered behind him, Enjolras seemed to lose a little of the tension in his shoulders. Montparnasse seemed to have swallowed his tongue, he gawked at them, dark eyes flitting over them. He stared at Jehan until Bahorel cracked his knuckles and moved on to Combeferre and Feuilly. Being met with hostile looks, he found Cosette and Marius next. Enjolras had to have seen the way his leer pushed away the cautiousness in his expression and seemed to prepare for a fierce call out. Grantaire could not watch Enjolras reacting to Montparnasse’s provocations, he got up and pushed back past Combeferre and touched his arm.

‘You are wasting your time arguing against him. It’s not worth it,’ Montparnasse whipped around and stared at him, eyes ablaze with pleasant anticipation. Grantaire closed his eyes, awaiting what was undoubtedly to come.

‘Claquesous, this is a happy day. Three of my ghosts of days gone by in one room,’ he leered back at his band mates, ‘Grantaire, little, fat, hopeless Grantaire – is that you? I never thought anything would come of your ugly mug, and apparently I was right!’

He stepped around Enjolras, took Grantaire’s hand and pulled him back towards the table the Amis had sat at, shoving everybody around them out of his way. Grantaire stared down at their hands as Montparnasse pushed him into his chair and sat down next to him, still holding his hand.

‘Take a seat, guys,’ he called back at his bandmates, ‘I’ll be a moment with my good, old friend podge.’

Grantaire fought back the wince that clawed at his throat when he heard the old nickname. Countless afternoons that ended in comparisons of him and Montparnasse flooded back to him, his mother smiling at Montparnasse only to turn sour and disappear once he had left. Afternoons filled with more rehearsals and recitals than homework, not that anyone needed that, according to his mother.

‘Tell me, podge, what have you been up to? Obviously, you founded a fan club with Prouvaire and Enjolras, and it looks like you lost a little bit of weight. What are you up to nowadays, do you study at that fancy academy like your mother wanted?’

Grantaire nodded to keep him from prodding.

‘Really? I wouldn’t have expected they’d let you in; how much of it was your mother’s name? I doubt you’re there to study music,’ clothes rustled as Montparnasse leaned forward, ‘you know she told me you would never make it into the academy? So what do you study?’

He could not not tell him, Grantaire felt his throat close up around the word but it still pressed out, ‘Painting.’

‘Painting,’ Montparnasse cocked his head back with laughter, ‘you fucking paint? Who’s your muse then, huh? Don’t tell me it’s him – well, he is your type, isn’t he?’

He jerked his arm to the side and Grantaire knew his finger pointed at Enjolras without looking up. It was Montparnasse, the part of him that had wanted to believe he would not figure him out had been small to begin with. He felt his eyes start to sting, tears were trying to escape but he could not allow it. Grantaire wished he knew how to respond to Montparnasse without letting him see how bad it hurt to interact with him after all these years but his mind was blank and all it came up with was to confirm that, yes, Enjolras was the inspiration behind the best picture he had ever painted.

‘Get out!’ the words clawed at his throat from the inside but they came out as less than a small hiss that made Grantaire almost double over.

Montparnasse was still laughing, a purling laugh that threatened to make him sick. He felt alone in a room full of people, no one even paying attention to him, of course, he was the least interesting person in his own circle of friends.

‘Didn’t you hear him? Get out!’ the raw violence in Enjolras’ voice made the room fall silent, Montparnasse stopped laughing.

‘What was that?’ he stood up, a dark, threatening figure raising itself to its actual height to confront Enjolras.

Grantaire did not want to watch, his heart wished for a bottle of brandy or the ground to open up beneath him or both. His head felt heavy on his shoulders.

‘I said get out. Leave him alone with your games and whatever mischief you undoubtedly came up with! You are no longer welcome here, not as long as we booked this room for a private function.’

‘Not very inclusive today, Enjolras, wasn’t that your whole thing? Social justice and equality?’

‘Everyone’s equal when they’re dead,’ Enjolras seemed to quote something back at Montparnasse but Grantaire could not tell where he had heard it before, ‘not even I would freely invite vermin to share a meal, I would only end up taking harm in their presence. Surely, you understand that. Now, leave my friends alone, take your tramps and leave us!’

The silence following his words was gravely. Grantaire knew Montparnasse well enough to know that he hated being told what to do.

‘’Parnasse, drop it. Let’s find one of the old pubs,’ Babet seemed to step forward, his voice candied, ‘we did not mean to disturb your…private function.’

‘Well,’ Montparnasse snarled, ‘the vermin is exterminated. A good metaphore, Enjolras, I give you as much. Let me just bid goodbye to my dearest podge.’

A fist clutched his shirt in the front and pulled him to his feet. Grantaire, no longer anything more than a marionette with cut strings, followed the movement without resistance, head hanging onto his chest. A second hand grabbed his chin and forced him to look up, look at Montparnasse whose cold eyes did not allow him to avoid their hard glances.

‘Remember, podge, you’ll always be mine.’

The words stung but did not hurt as much as the cruel lips on his, the venomous tongue shoved in his mouth and the touch of unwavering fingers against his jaw. He forced his mouth open until he went pliant under his hands, drilling his fingernails into the flesh of his cheeks until it felt like he had punctured the skin and pressed onto the teeth.

It lasted maybe five seconds before Montparnasse pushed him back, forcing him to take a step whilst their lips were still connected, biting down on his upper lip. Grantaire jerked his head back with a muffled yelp, one hand flying up to soothe the pain. He sank back down on his chair, face buried in his hands to hide both the hot tears of embarrassment welling up in his eyes and the marks Montparnasse had left around his mouth.

‘Out! Right now,’ Enjolras sounded icy as he shoved Montparnasse towards his bandmates who had fallen silent all of a sudden, ‘you have once again crossed a line and I will not have it.’

‘Would you look at that, little Grantaire has found himself a pet,’ he replied, his eyes glistening with the dangerous glee of a man who experienced an adrenaline rush.

‘Fucking lowlife,’ Enjolras jumped over a chair to get closer, fists raised and his face nothing more than a grimace.

‘Enjolras, calm down,’ Combeferre was at his side as soon as he had started to move, one hand on Enjolras’ chest, keeping him still and waving for Courfeyrac to help him, ‘you don’t want to do that, try thinking rationally! Over here Courf, now!’

Courfeyrac, utterly fearless as he was, stepped between the raging Enjolras and Montparnasse to motion towards the door, ‘Please go now, we can’t hold him back forever. See you at the concert though.’

If Grantaire saw correctly through the veil of tears, it was Babet who took Montparnasse by the arm and pulled him away from their group. Enjolras spit one insult after the other after them, until the door fell shut behind them. The sound of it hitting the frame echoed through the room, the only other sound being Enjolras’ heavy breathing.

‘Are you done?’ Combeferre let go of Enjolras, took Courfeyrac’s hand instead and turned around to face his best friend, ‘Provoked by Montparnasse, seventeen-year-old you would be ashamed! Your head is so full of ideas and change, and yet, here you are after almost starting a brawl in Chetta’s restaurant.’

‘Am I done?’ Enjolras huffed out an angry breath and turned back around, eyes fixed on Grantaire, ‘What was that, are you capable of doing anything under pressure?’

Grantaire lifted his head out of his hands and tried to play it off with a simple smirk, ‘I drink.’

‘Really? You can’t even fight for yourself! Don’t you have any concept of belief, loyalty, self-preservation or confidence?’

‘What do you mean,’ Grantaire fumbled for a tissue as the taste of blood in his mouth overwhelmed him, ‘can I get a drink to rinse this out?’

‘Don’t you at least believe in yourself, if not in anything else?’

Grantaire barked out a laugh, ‘You have met me, right? You did tell me you were my friend, now tell me whether there is anything I believe in.’

Every syllable hurt and tugged at his lips, and it seemed to be only partially because of the punctured skin but he would not back down, not with everybody watching. Joly cleared his throat and knocked on the table.

‘My birthday, boys, are you ready to join the party again?’

‘I’ll get you some ice for your –,‘ Musichetta motioned towards him, ‘Are you alright, Grantaire?’

‘What was that about?’ Cosette emerged from the corner she had been in, big eyes trained on Grantaire and the still agitated Enjolras.

‘Shadows of the past,’ Grantaire smiled at Musichetta when she returned with a bit of ice for his lips, ‘nothing to worry about.’

He directed the last sentence at Enjolras, accompanied with as much of a serious look as he could. For one moment, the questions in Enjolras’ eyes threatened to spill, corner him and leave him no other chance but to run. Then, they retreated, he nodded as he calmed down visibly and sat back down next to Grantaire. Joly reached across the table and handed them full beer glasses.

‘My birthday, drink up. I will not leave this restaurant before you are completely pissed and forget this whole evening. I want you to need Bousset or Baz to lean on when we head home, stumbling, slurring and plastered! That’s an order!’

The questions would be asked, Grantaire was sure of it, but he was not sure whether either of them would enjoy the answers he could provide. He could lie, make the situation more comfortable for both of them and go back to hating himself for it afterwards. He could tell the truth and risk losing the friendship he had with Enjolras.

Someone handed them another drink as soon as they had finished his beer and he knocked it back, glad that he did not have to speak about it just yet. Enjolras knocked back his shot with the same vigour, almost as if they made a pact not to talk about any of it.

Baz had to carry him home. The whole group had accompanied them home, Jehan had tied Combeferre’s tie around their head and sang harmonies with Courfeyrac, Cosette held Joly’s cane and steadied him, Marius looked after Bousset and Éponine carried a sleeping Gavroche until they reached the coffee shop on the corner where she waved after them and took her brother inside. The rest of the group walked back to the academy where Enjolras held the door open for all of them. At some point, Cosette’s red scarf had found its way around his waist where it was tied and made him look like a ‘swashbuckling pirate,’ as Bahorel had phrased it. He giggled gleefully as Bahorel walked past him with Grantaire on his back. It was the last thing Grantaire remembered before he blacked out.

Chapter Text

‘We are off, Grantaire, will you be okay?’ Joly poked his head through the door and waved carefully, ‘Both of us have our phones, we might just not hear them. we have some leftovers in the fridge, promise you won’t forget to eat?’

Grantaire nodded before returning to the sketch he tried to perfect in his notebook. He lay on his belly, one pencil in hand and another one behind his ear in a position that was almost successful in keeping his hair up.

‘Hey, are you sure that you’ll be fine?’ Bousset came in and sat down next to him, ‘Even when we’re going to a Patron-Minette concert?’

‘No, Bousset, I want you to return the ticket you got as a present for Joly’s birthday to keep me company. Come on, man, we talked about this,’ Grantaire rolled over to look at him, ‘you are going to have a good evening with your boyfriend, just you go!’

‘You won’t be lonely?’

‘No, I will not.’

‘Even without Éponine to call?’

Grantaire shut his notebook, ‘She is going to drop Gavroche off before going, I am her babysitter for the night.’

‘Whoever thought that would be a good idea – you and Gavroche alone for a night,’ Bousset grinned carefully, ‘have fun babysitting, R. Are you ready, Joly? Musichetta’s surely waiting already!’

‘Are you taking her as well?’ Grantaire grinned, ‘You’ll have a blast! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

Bousset threw him an annoyed look before waving and turning around to leave with Joly. They had asked him three times before whether he was alright with them actually going to the Patron-Minette concert. Grantaire had assured them that he would be fine. Éponine asking him to babysit Gavroche had provided him with something to worry about.

She knocked on the door a few minutes after Bousset and Joly had left, Gavroche in tow. Her brother carried his overnight bag and a fluffy pillow. Éponine pushed him forward with a tired smile, Grantaire nodded softly and kissed her cheek.

‘Off you go, the dwarf is in good hands,’ Gavroche stuck his tongue out at him before squeezing past him into the flat.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and followed him back inside. Gavroche had already sat down on the sofa after having simply dropped his bag next to the kitchen door.

‘Have you got chocolate or crisps? Ép promised me I would get to watch movies with you,’ he grabbed the remote from the coffee table.

‘Forget it, squirt, we have something else on our agenda. And do you really think Ép and I don’t talk about what you are allowed to do when you are here? The rules haven’t changed.’

Gavroche frowned but sat up to look at him, ‘What are we doing tonight, if not watching movies?’

‘We are going out. You might even get a sugary drink, if you behave yourself.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about, I am an angel.’

‘Sure you are, Gavinou,’ he grabbed his beanie and leather jacket from the coat hanger, ‘do you want to join me at the Musain?’

Gavroche followed him, grumbling about being forced to go out late at night but he stayed close to him until they reached the Musian and sat down at a table in the back of the room. Grantaire ordered a lemonade for the boy who had immediately pulled his phone from his pocket to immerse himself into a game and a drink for himself. He let his gaze wander, careful not to stare at other customers. Eventually, he found who he had been looking for.

Admittedly, the group was not as impressive as it would have been on any other Friday evening but seeing Enjolras, Feuilly and Combeferre at a table close to the backroom assured him that the Les Amis meetings would usually take place there. The three men were huddled together, glasses in front of them and deep into a conversation.

‘Who are they?’ Gavroche peered over the top of his phone and grabbed his glass of lemonade, ‘You keep glancing over there and I know they were there yesterday but no one explained how you and Joly know them well enough to invite them to a birthday party.’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘None of your business.’

He knocked back his drink and took his notebook out. Gavroche watched his every move, shrugged and returned to his game. He seemed absorbed enough that Grantaire dared to actually start a new sketch, something that had gotten stuck in a dark corner of his mind. Before he knew it, he had started drawing an angry Enjolras, squaring off against a dark silhouette that seemed to shrink down before him. He wished he could replace the memory of the night before with the one he made up on the paper, wished he could forget Montparnasse’s triumphant grin and the way Claquesous had looked away once the arguments seized to fly. He had not wanted to face what Montparnasse did when his blood boiled and he felt invincible and Grantaire forgave him for it. It was not easy to see Montparnasse when he acted as ferociously as he had the night before.

‘He’s coming over,’ Gavroche’s voice brought him back, ‘you might want to close that.’

Grantaire shut his notebook with a smack and looked up, feeling his fingers beginning to shake when Enjolras sat down next to him, a beaming smile on his face, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I figured there wouldn’t be a meeting with everybody gone out tonight,’ Grantaire had to clear his throat in order to force a sound out, ‘but I still felt I should be here after I missed the last two. A question of honour, in a way.’

Enjolras did not believe him, judging by the deep wrinkle between his eyebrows that had replaced the smile immediately. He studied Grantaire’s face closely, presumably to find the truth between his lips or in his eyes but Grantaire held against his piercing stare with a smile. Next to him, Gavroche rolled his eyes and set his phone down. Judging by the noises spilling from the abandoned headphones, he was playing some kind of candy sorting game.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Enjolras broke their silence eventually, ‘we don’t discuss as much as usually today but you are very welcome to join us.’

Gavroche yawned and earned himself a poke to the ribs from Grantaire, ‘Think about whether you want to sleep right here, Gavinou.’

‘Isn’t that Éponine’s brother?’

‘Yes, and I am the trusty babysitter, looking out for the poor, helpless child,’ Gavroche kicked him in the shin for it but he deemed it worth the risk, ‘well, I try my best, as long as he doesn’t annoy me beyond reason.’

‘He promised we would watch movies and instead he brought me here,’ Gavroche rolled his eyes again, ‘are you doing anything more interesting than he is with his notebook?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Enjolras responded in all seriousness, ‘Grantaire’s notebook holds everything his whole course of studies is depending on, it is the fountain of inspiration and beauty that are his pieces.’

‘How many of his pieces have you actually seen?’ Gavroche leaned back in his chair, ‘Hey R, can I have another drink?’

‘Yes, get yourself a lemonade and have them put it on my tab,’ the boy scurried away and left Grantaire and Enjolras at the table.

‘He’s got a point, you know? The only pictures of yours I have seen are the ones in the staircase, on Jehan’s wall and the one I saw you drawing that morning when you drew the sunrise.’

‘You saw my paintings, then,’ Grantaire pocketed his notebook, ‘there really isn’t anything special about it, a few smudged sketches, some colour studies, but nothing more.’

‘I will prove you wrong about that, at some point,’ Enjolras waved Combeferre and Feuilly to join them at their table.

They took a detour to the bar to get everybody another drink and Grantaire was torn between appreciating Combeferre for getting him another drink and the feeling of dread about drinking even more in front of Enjolras. He had avoided further comments on his drinking habits and it had been a few quiet days in Enjolras’ company.

Combeferre set the glass down in front of him, ‘Here’s to a night on the town, boys!’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Gavroche slipped back onto his chair and set a glass of coke down, meeting Grantaire’s disapproving look defiantly, ‘What, I am bound to get something you didn’t allow me, if you don’t control me!’

Grantaire sighed and let him have the glass. He drew a line when Gavroche tried to sneak his alcoholic drink into the glass of coke. A stern look and a smack on the creeping hand silenced him for a moment before Gavroche piped up again.

‘You know what’s unfair? Adults deciding when kids are allowed to drink alcohol.’

‘It’s bad for you,’ Grantaire pushed the glass further away from the boy, ‘and when you’re an adult you are officially allowed to ruin your body, mind and life yourself.’

‘That’s bullshit, they used to give beer to kids!’

‘Yes, during the Middle Ages,’ Enjolras leaned forward slightly, ‘and those times are over.’

‘Kids are still allowed to drink wine in England from age five onwards!’

‘With their parent’s permission,’ Gavroche crossed his arms over his chest, ‘What do you call that, if not a dictatorship?’

‘Not having to look after pissed toddlers.’

‘I’m almost eleven!’

Enjolras knitted his brows together, ‘We should not encourage young people to destroy their brain cells throughout their early childhood and adolescence!’

‘See? ‘We’ shouldn’t. Because of course you are one of exactly these adults who decide whether it should be allowed,’ Gavroche stared at Enjolras with dark eyes.

Feuilly sighed and nudged Grantaire, ‘I think we should keep them separate. They seem a little too similar in two different extremes, it might not be healthy to have them in the same room for a prolonged period of time.’

‘At least not without supervision and surveillance,’ Combeferre added and poked Enjolras, ‘otherwise we could just get them a ball pit and water pistols and leave them to it.’

‘We could,’ Grantaire looked around the room, ‘but I am not the one cleaning up after them.’

Enjolras whipped around to shoot him a stern look. He seemed not impressed by the turn the conversation had taken, as opposing to Gavroche who beamed at the idea of a water pistol in his hands.

‘Next summer,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘You can have one next summer, if you promise not to spray me with it.’

‘Promise,’ Gavroche turned back to Grantaire, ‘what about movie night, though?’

‘Yeah, you deserve that. You guys want to come as well?’

***

Combeferre and Feuilly headed off to a bar in town, not particularly keen on watching a children’s movie with them. They waved back at them before rounding a corner. Gavroche seemed pleased to have bullied Grantaire into allowing him to watch movies for the rest of the night, he skipped down the street in front of him and Enjolras, bouncing off railings, walls and steps on his way.

‘Any idea what movie to put on for him?’ Grantaire turned to Enjolras, ‘I don’t think we have many age appropriate movies at home, all we have is Netflix and I don’t really want him to browse my watchlist.’

Enjolras barked out a laugh before sobering up visibly, ‘We have a few Disney movies, Courf is working on assembling a collection. I can have a look around for you, if you want me to.’

‘Thanks, you’re a lifesaver. Also, you’re more than welcome to join us, I meant that.’

Once home, he wrangled Gavroche onto the sofa and got a bag of crisps and something to drink from the kitchen for him, leaving the door open for Enjolras to join them a few minutes later. He had brought two DVDs which he put down on the table in front of them. There was something anxious about the way his eyes darted from one corner of the room to the other before he sat down in one corner of the sofa.

‘Right, Gavinou,’ Grantaire looked at the DVD covers, ‘Coco or Toy Story?’

Gavroche rolled his eyes at him, ‘I’m not a baby anymore!’

‘I like Coco,’ Enjolras chipped in, smiling cautiously, ‘it conveys a very important message.’

‘You watch Disney movies?’ Gavroche eyed him suspiciously, ‘You don’t seem like somebody who supports capitalist companies that dominate the market to the extent of almost claiming a monopoly.’

Grantaire bit his tongue just in time to stop a laugh breaking out against his will. Enjolras looked perfectly stunned by Gavroche’s serious gaze, eyes boring into his and arms crossed over his chest. They seemed to square off without words as Grantaire put the DVD into the system and switched on the TV.

‘Okay kids, are you ready to start this movie?’ he flopped back against the sofa, ‘No more bickering and arguing?’

‘You can’t say that,’ Gavroche sulked in his corner of the couch, ‘You argue with Ép all the time.’

‘Yes, because we are friends.’

‘Enjolras is my friend now.’

Enjolras, half buried under a blanket and two pillows, shook his head frantically. Grantaire enjoyed the moment for as long as it lasted, then he threw a cushion at Gavroche.

‘Sit down, rascal. You’re beginning to annoy Enjolras and me now. Watch the movie and eat your crisps.’

Gavroche threw him a distracted salute because the movie started. One of his hands stayed buried in his bowl of crisps during the first half of the movie and he seemed glued to the screen which was enough for Grantaire to sigh out in relief. Babysitting Gavroche only turned into an actual challenge if he was denied his weekend night joys of movies and snacks, Éponine’s job was then to get him to go to clean his teeth and go to sleep. Essentially, their jobs fell into a parental routine and had remained that way ever since Éponine and he had become friends. He had helped her out when her parents had kicked Gavroche out the first time and left the then eight year old at his sister’s mercy. Neither Éponine nor Grantaire made a lot of money but Gavroche still had something resembling a stable home.

The movie went on without any of them saying a word, Gavroche seemed to enjoy it despite the comments he had made before. Enjolras was snuggled into the corner of the sofa, pulled the blanket up to his chin and followed every animated second closely. The movie’s message certainly was not lost on him.

Grantaire felt his throat close up. The movie indeed had a message, and one he understood Enjolras wanted to follow up on. Being remembered in the afterlife for what they had done for their family, friends or the community was something Enjolras would strive to achieve. It only highlighted how much Grantaire failed to make an impact in any way. The realisation that he would hardly be remembered by anyone after he died hit around the one hour mark. As the fight to restore a memory from beyond the grave broke out on the TV screen, he could not fight off the tears shooting up into his eyes.

‘Are you alright?’ Gavroche’s voice spooked him, he wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper and nodded, ‘Because you don’t look alright.’

‘It’s alright, Gavinou,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘Disney movies make me emotional, you know that.’

The sounds of blankets rustling, a pillow being dislodged and finally, socked feet on the parquet drowned out Gavroche’s answer. Grantaire proceeded to angrily wipe at his eyes, trying to cover the treacherous red splodges on his cheeks.

‘Do you want to share the blanket?’ Enjolras sat down next to him, scooting back until he could pull his feet up onto the sofa.

He draped the blanket over both of them, tugging it around Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire felt the anxiety melt away underneath the comfortable fleece blanket Bousset had bought to comfort them whenever they needed it. One arm snaked around his back and a head rested on his shoulder. Enjolras leaned into him for the rest of the movie.

‘You are freakishly tall, you know that, right? There is no way this is comfortable for you,’ Grantaire watched as Gavroche go up and exchanged the DVD for Toy Story, ‘are you alright?’

‘He’s crying,’ Gavroche grinned back at him, ‘god, you two are such wussies!’

‘Careful, rascal, your father is showing again,’ Grantaire moved a little to peer down at Enjolras, ‘honestly, are you alright?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Enjolras’ voice sounded a little husky and his eyes shone when he looked up at him, ‘it’s the movie. I love it but it makes me cry every time I watch it. The message it conveys is one of such great importance, I can’t help it.’

‘Same,’ Grantaire shuffled deeper under the blanket, ‘of course, the reality of nihilism is not going to be changed by one Disney movie and any belief in an afterlife is futile but I guess some part of the human mind will always respond to the emotional power of family, friends and the need to feel appreciated. Human hubris might be part of it as well.’

‘What is wrong with being remembered for the impact you made on the world? People holding up the standards you set, remembering how inspirational you were?’

‘Now that is hypocritical. You, leading a student debate group with the potential to actually distribute flyers to random strangers and some of them even reading them, will naturally assume that people remember the ideas you stand for. Not everybody is in your position, though. The majority of the people you talk to in the street will be forgotten and never thought of again, just because they do not partake in whatever cause is popular with a current generation.’

‘Oh really? And what is your stance on the afterlife?’

‘Well, if you need a power or institution like any religion or church to tell you that you will basically not stop living when you die but get to live on, it’s a weak apology for the narcissism of the human race. Why not accept that we dig holes, shove our dead in there and leave them there to rot? The transcendental belief that we rise to heaven or fall to hell is decided by a system made up by some of the most oppressive, bigoted groups, responsible for killing millions of people throughout all of history! Do you want to believe in the afterlife as an idea made up by guys in funny hats?’

Enjolras stared up at him, brows knitted together, ‘I know you’re just trying to hide how much that movie touched you but it still hurts on so many levels to hear you say that!’

‘You really think I would joke about nihilism to hide my emotions? Because you are absolutely right.’

‘He’ll joke about anything,’ Gavroche turned back around, shoving a last hand full of crisps into his mouth, ‘may I have some more crisps?’

‘Yeah, sure. Get something to drink for us as well!’

‘You’re a slave driver!’

‘You’re tiny.’

‘You’re sweet.’

‘How am I supposed to come back from that?’

Enjolras snickered against his shoulder, both a movement and a sound that distracted Grantaire long enough for Gavroche to slip past them and sneak into the kitchen. A moment later, they heard packages crackling.

‘Did you hear him? Complementing in the middle of a call out, what’s that about?’

‘Are you really upset about it?’ Enjolras cuddled back into the sofa, ‘Because if you are, there is nothing I can do for you. Well, probably cuddle you but that’s really down to –‘

Two phones going off interrupted him. They exchanged a look before fumbling for them under the blanket.

‘Courf?’

‘Joly?’

‘R, please tell me you and Enjolras are not spending the night together at our place,’ Joly yelled at him, the distinctive noise of the concert blaring in the background, ‘Anyways, you need to hear this.’

Apparently, Enjolras had received a similar call from Courfeyrac, they put both their calls on speaker and held their phones out. A deep crease appeared between Enjolras’ brows as the cheers of a sold out venue and a few aggressive guitar riffs mixed and echoed back at them as though it came through a tin can.

‘So how are we tonight,’ that was Montparnasse, screaming into a microphone, ‘have you had fun? A good time?’

A huge, tinny cheer erupted from both their phones. Gavroche wandered back into the room, setting down crisps, jellybeans, soft drinks and pretzel sticks before shooting Grantaire a suspicious look.

‘Is that Montparnasse?’

‘Shh!’

Gavroche sat down and opened a bag of jellybeans. Montparnasse continued what Grantaire thought to be the wrap up of the concert.

‘Now, you have come here because you like Patron-Minette and, hopefully, our music. We are grateful for every single one of our fans and we hope you truly enjoyed this evening! There are, however, ye of little faith. Can I have one ‘boo’ for all the people who try to drag us down, diminish our success and talk down to us?’

By this point, the noise erupting from their phones overmodulated. Enjolras pulled a grimace and turned into Grantaire’s shoulder again.

‘So, there is this classical pianist from the academy in one of the posh old buildings downtown. We’ve had a bit of a bumpy relationship for years but now he’s dragged one of my childhood friends into the mess. I have decided to be the bigger person here and not call him out on his bigotry. I will not stand here and justify a feud that started before Patron-Minette came to be. Instead, I propose for this to be settled in a way that shall be agreeable with the gentleman. A duel, fought on the ivory spines of two pianofortes until a winner is decreed!’

A cheer interrupted him. Enjolras had grown even tenser on Grantaire’s shoulder, his fingers clenched around the seam of the blanket that still covered them

‘Take out your mobiles, friends, I want this message on all platforms by the end of this night,’ Montparnasse took a dramatic break before continuing, ‘Enjolras, my dear, I am sure at least two of your friends are here tonight and will let you know about my proposal. Please do come back to me and we can settle on a date, location and the rules for what I hope will be of agreement to you!’

‘Did you hear that?’ Courfeyrac’s excited voice cut through the loud cheers omitted by the crowd, ‘He challenged you to a play-off!’

‘Yes. Yes, I heard,’ Enjolras took his phone with a shaking hand, ‘thanks, Courf. I hope you get home safely.’

‘Hey R?’ Joly’s earnest voice rang up at him, ‘Hug Enjolras from Bousset, Musichetta and me, will you? I’m sure he needs it for now. We met Courfeyrac and the happy couple, along with Ép and might go out for a drink later before turning in. Take care, okay?’

‘I will.’

‘And R?’

‘Yes?’

‘No drinking on the job. You can get pissed as soon as Gavroche is sleeping.’

‘No drinking at all,’ Grantaire interrupted, ‘Gavroche deserves better from me.’

Gavroche answered this declaration by throwing a jellybean at him. He finished the call and set his phone back down on the table.

‘You heard him. Ready for a cuddle? We can talk about this once Gavroche is asleep, there is no need to get worked up now.’

‘You’re right,’ Enjolras settled back into the sofa, ‘it does affect you as well, after all.’

His expression seemed to darken for a moment. Something close to anger or despair seemed to linger in the corners of his eyes before he allowed Grantaire to put his arm around him in a hug that turned out a little stiffer than their previous position under the position.

‘I told you, you are too tall for this. We can alter this slightly, if you want to,’ Grantaire moved to turn them, pulling his own feet onto the sofa, ‘better?’

‘Yes, better,’ Enjolras moved into the space Grantaire made between his arm and body, ‘are you alright?’

‘Well, I’ve only been mentioned in passing; you are the one he challenged to a duel like Steibelt challenged Beethoven, Salieri worked against Mozart or Pan dared Apollo. Your chances are not too bad, then. You’ve got the looks of a young Apollo and as far as I am concerned, your play leaves nothing to be desired,’ Grantaire waved for Gavroche to pass him some jellybeans, ‘Come on, Gavinou, be a good sport!’

Gavroche obliged with a little less energy than he had a few hours back. He seemed to struggle through the next minutes of the movie, his eyes drooping shut. Eventually, he curled up into a ball, a blanket over his body with his eyes closed and his head on one of the pillows.

Enjolras reached for the remote control and muted the movie, ‘What do you want to talk about?’

‘You misunderstand me, dear Apollo, it is not I who wants to talk about Montparnasse’s schemes. He wants us to talk, he wants everybody to talk. He very effectively forced himself onto both of us with that speech of his. Making the people there record it makes it more public than it would ever been if we had only heard of it by accident.’

‘I will have to accept, don’t I?’ Enjolras sounded unhappy about the prospect, ‘And to think that he must have brooded over it for God knows how long! Montparnasse never does anything without considering all aspects of his undertakings carefully. He must have thought of the whole scheme for weeks before coming back here.’

‘Aye,’ Grantaire felt his fingers itch for a drink but he kept his head low. Neither Enjolras nor Gavroche deserved him to give up on this evening of all, both dealing with the shadows of a past they could not outrun.

‘Would it…would it be alright for you to-,’ Enjolras stopped himself before finishing the sentence.

‘To do what? Anything, my Apollo, you need merely ask.’

‘Be serious. This is not easy for me to say,’ Enjolras sat up, slipping out of Grantaire’s arms, ‘but would you mind brushing my hair?’

Grantaire blinked a few times before processing what Enjolras had asked off him, ‘Sure. Let me get a brush and you settle down.’

He scrambled off the sofa and into his room to grab his own brush from the dresser and return to the living room where Enjolras had slipped to the floor and settled on the fluffy rug in front of the sofa. Grantaire climbed over the arm rest and sat down with his legs in Enjolras’ back.

‘Ready?’

‘Sure, brush away,’ Enjolras shook his hair over his shoulders.

‘Is this something you do regularly, have friends brush your hair?’

‘No, it’s something my mother used to do. I know it’s silly but whenever I was upset she would sit me down, sing some kind of folk song and brush my hair. The family liked me to wear it long, even then, and I liked it being brushed by somebody else.’

‘It must be nice,’ Grantaire allowed the brush to glide over Enjolras’ soft curls, ‘your mother brushed your hair?’

‘Yes. Didn’t yours?’

He allowed a small noise to escape that could have been read as an amused sound, ‘My mother did a great deal of things, but never that.’

‘Really? But you must have had some kind of ritual to pick you up when you were down!’

‘My father used to lift me off the ground and swirl me around making aeroplane noises,’ his voice turned soft and mushy when the memory finally graced him with its presence, the attempt to come up with some comfortable story from his childhood, ‘I did enjoy that but, alas, I grew too big and heavy to be lifted off the ground too soon.’

The brush happened on a tangle in the otherwise smooth hair and Grantaire set the brush aside to use his fingers to carefully detangle the knots. He enjoyed the feeling of Enjolras’ hair under his fingertips, almost like the squirrel hair brush Lamarque had had them use for some of their studies. The knots dissolved easily and he combed through them with his fingers for a moment longer.

‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ Enjolras voice bore an easy tone, ‘but you seem to do it exactly like my mother.’

‘Does she still do it? When you get to go home, that is.’

‘No. She died a few years ago. I only have my father now who is more inclined to take me to concerts, share his library and thoughts with me, as it is.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ Grantaire took up the brush again.

‘Don’t be sorry. I do believe in an afterlife and being reunited with your loved ones once one dies.’

‘Well, I can hardly be my sceptic self about that,’ he said softly, trying to keep the mortified embarrassment out of his voice, determined to give no sign of what he regretted saying in hindsight.

There were not many knots in Enjolras’ hair but he embraced the opportunity to let the long curls glide through his fingers for a little longer before he turned around, smiled cautiously and got up to return to his flat. They parted at the door and Grantaire felt his face revert back into its usual anxious mask as soon as the door closed. The living room seemed emptier, Grantaire switched the TV off, pulled the blanket that covered Gavroche tighter around him, added another one for good measure and carried all remains of their spontaneous movie night back into the kitchen before retiring to his own bedroom. He fell asleep listening to his updated playlist of piano music.

Chapter Text

The next days were filled with the echo of angry, furious piano pieces wafting through the corridors. Enjolras seemed to discover one piece after the other, all played in fortissimo, stomping and clashing, thrown back from the walls like a rubber ball. Their extended group of friends did not come together during these days with neither Enjolras nor Grantaire inclined to be in their joyous company.

Jehan and Courfeyrac, if he understood correctly, were concerned for their wellbeing but entertained daydreams of the romantic side. Grantaire could not imagine what kind of thoughts they had developed, he dared not approach Enjolras in his sour mood and Joly and Bousset were of little help. Since the concert, they had been in an eerily cheery mood that only seemed to have a dampener put on it when Grantaire entered a room they were in. He did not ask them what their change of behaviour was about.

Instead, he worked on the few assignments and essays he still had to finish. He had to attend another meeting with Professor Lamarque that left him speechless as his mentor insisted he should be nominated for the Dean’s award, ‘for any of your work.’

He locked himself into his studio, staring at the wall, his laptop or a canvas. The number of his clothes without paint stains receded by the day and more often than not, the water flowing down the shower drain was colourful as a rainbow. He could not see the colours, preferred greys and balanced the colours he needed for his pictures with pencil sketches in one of his notebooks. The smudges on his hands, forearms and, somehow, his nose, spoke a language he did not understand, no matter how hard he tried. The sketches all morphed into shapes of human beings in different postures, character studies, one might have called them but they did not resemble the variety needed for them to be such.

He did not stop in the music corridor when he went upstairs at night, dreading the harsh melodies seeping from Enjolras’ room. It reminded him of the way his mother used to play whenever she wanted to drown out the world and it had been dangerous to approach her. He remembered books being swept off the grand piano in the salon and harsh words being exchanged between his parents on the matter.

He poured it into more pictures of shadowy figures and dark sceneries. Ghostly characters surrounded the subjects he chose to depict, closing in on them, leaving them with little room to breathe.

A similar passion and force went into the boxing sessions with Bahorel which he started to go to every morning after breakfast. He prided himself in the way he found back into his old form a little more with every time he stepped into the ring. More than before, he seemed to have convinced himself to look after himself. Or at least committed to trying to do so. He allowed Joly to cook for him, even if he did not share the kitchen with them when they ate and tried to go to the gym for the first time in months.

There was a knock on his studio door, faint enough that he thought he had imagined it. He could not spot anybody close to his door, so he turned back around to face the canvas he had been working on. His phone started ringing.

‘Yes?’

‘We are getting together tonight in an out of band meeting.’

‘Hello Combeferre, how are you doing today?’

‘Tonight, Musian. No jokes, no sarcasm, no mockery. Understood? It’s important.’

‘You are asking a saint to sin here, mate. What’s the hassle?’ Grantaire clamped his phone between his ear and shoulder, ‘Can’t wait till Friday to see us again?’

‘No, more pressing issues that might take up more time than the usual slot, that’s why Courfeyrac and I suggested to Enjolras to have another meeting. Will you join us?’

‘I don’t know whether we had plans –‘

‘Joly and Bahorel assured me they would be there.’

‘I’ll be there then,’ he sighed and propped his elbow up on the table to glance at his wrist watch, ‘what time did you plan on going?’

‘Around seven, we could grab a bite before starting.’

‘Does Enjolras know about that?’

‘Yes, he does,’ Enjolras’ voice cut in, almost making Grantaire jump, ‘and he hasn’t had lunch, despite Combeferre’s nagging, so I’m starving!’

‘I’ll be there, of course I will,’ Grantaire flopped back onto the divan, ‘See you then.’

He ended the call and threw his phone between the cushions, ‘See you then? What the hell was that, Grantaire, you sound like a little girl. Sure, because sounding needy has gotten you so far.’

He grabbed his notepad from the table and settled back against the rest. Something about the last days was nudging his brain to put it down on paper. His fingers fumbled for his charcoals, the box had slipped under the divan at some point. The shiny box had been a Christmas present from Jehan, together with a dress shirt for the next gallery opening or his shifts at the museum. Their only condition had been that Grantaire was to keep them paint stain free. He had accomplished to keep them clean for a week, then he had been struck by inspiration when he came home and headed straight into his studio.

The charcoal moved smoothly over the thick paper, conjuring up the lines of two figures, standing face to face. Their surroundings turned dark immediately beyond their outlines. He added stern features to their faces, the seriousness of years beyond their reach mirrored in their dark eyes.

‘The resemblance is uncanny,’ he mumbled to himself as he finished one figure’s dark suit, ‘a bloody crow amongst people, just missing the mad glint in his eyes now.’

Finishing the picture took him long enough to miss his friends leaving for the Musain. Jehan sent him a message but he did not hear his phone under the pillows and it was too late to answer when he thought to check it. Instead, he grabbed his notebook, some pencils and a chocolate bar that had found its way under the radiator. It was a little soft but still salvageable.

The walk down to the café did not take long but he stopped to look through some of the displays in shop windows along the way. One of his favourite charity shops had put some music books on display, he entered and looked through them a little more careful. Two of them, battered editions of Grieg’s Piano Concert in a Minor and Berlioz’ Symphonie Fantatisque, caught his eye and he hovered over them for a moment.

The shop assistant came closer, ‘Found something amongst these gems?’

‘Definitely. Grieg only wrote one piano concerto,’ he opened the first page and smiled, ‘on the other hand, Berlioz is said to have written the whole thing for Liszt. I’ll take it.’

With the music book in his bag alongside the notebook and pencils, he continued towards the Musian. The noise coming from the back was without doubt the mixture of Bahorel’s booming voice, Enjolras’ agitated arguments and roaring laughter from everybody else. Grantaire asked about his companions at the bar where he got himself a beer and the information that his friends had not yet ordered food. He took his beer glass and went on towards the back room. He snuck into the back, patted Joly on the shoulder in passing and waved Marius who sat in one corner with Cosette. None of the others seemed to see him enter, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras stood at the far end of the room and seemed in dispute; Jehan and Feuilly snickered on the quiet and Bahorel, Bousset and Éponine seemed to struggle with Gavroche. The boy seemed unimpressed by whatever had been discussed until Grantaire’s arrival.

‘As I was saying,’ Combeferre’s voice demanded their attention, conversations and laughter died down and heads were turned back to the front, ‘the only item on tonight’s agenda is the organisation of a piano duel between our own Enjolras and Patron-Minette’s Montparnasse.’

Grantaire sat down on one of the empty chairs at a table in the darkest corner. Combeferre’s words seemed to have knocked the air out of his lungs.

‘I told you before, there is not going to be an open recital, no matter what you wish it to be,’ Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘why would I give him more attention than he deserves, the self-righteous idiot.’

‘Because it is going to be the biggest opportunity to attract attention to us and the cause! Equal opportunities, freedom of expression and all of it through the fine arts. Nothing would be better to advertise our goal!’

‘You want it to be some baroque or absolutist king’s court entertainment, and I am not willing to sell my soul for this ridiculous idea of yours!’

‘What happened?’ Grantaire leaned over the table to hiss at Joly, ‘Did Combeferre lose his mind? Why would he propose something like that to Enjolras?’

‘You don’t get the whole picture, he thought up something rather brilliant,’ Joly turned back to him.

‘Although, I fear he used the wrong words. He could have phrased it differently,’ Feuilly sighed and leaned back, ‘Unfortunately, he drew up the comparison between Bach and Marchand in 1717.’

‘I didn’t really get what was wrong with drawing up another musical duel,’ Bousset chipped in.

‘Well,’ Grantaire cupped his chin in his hand, ‘the duel took place, of course but both duelling parties were working for members of the aristocracy –‘

‘Don’t say it,’ Feuilly shivered, ‘Enjolras will hear you!’

‘- one on invitation of the king of Saxony and the other for the regent of Weimar, a duke, if I’m not mistaken. They were set up by Jean Baptiste Volumier who didn’t want to lose his position at court to Marchand. The appointed day came and Bach arrived, however, Marchand was late. A herald was sent to retrieve him only to find that he had packed and fled. It came to light that he had made inquiries about Bach the night before and, upon discovering the true skill and expertise of his opponent, ran off back to France. Must have been quite the story, I would have loved to be a fly on the wall.’

‘That is all very well, but Enjolras will take your head off, if you say that any louder,’ Feuilly nodded back to the front of the room, ‘keep it down until Combeferre has persuaded him to agree to the whole thing. It’s only a matter of time until he succeeds, it always is. If there is one thing, Enjolras is bound to fall for, then it is Combeferre’s silver tongue.’

‘Well then,’ Courfeyrac jumped off his chair, ‘how about a vote on the matter?’

‘No, Courfeyrac, there is not going to be a vote on this! If I’m the one to face Montparnasse, you do not get a say, this is my decision! There is no way I am going to be part of something introduced to amuse tyrants and the powdered bourgeois of centuries past!’

‘What about a charity event?’

‘What was that?’

Courfeyrac slapped his knees and beamed at him, ‘Turn it into a charity event. Between Montparnasse’s appeal to a younger audience and your charme – I am sure you have attracted quite a few elderly ladies at the academy’s concerts who would pay any price to hear you play again – you should be able to draw in quite a crowd of substantial supporters.’

‘And this is your proposal?’ Enjolras’s expression turned cloudy, ‘A charity event to do what exactly? Was that the only idea you could come up with over a drink? Sounds like an idea Grantaire could have come up with.’

‘Present,’ Grantaire lifted his glass.

Enjolras found his eyes over the heads of everybody else in the room, ‘I didn’t see you come in.’

‘Well, I’m here now. Courf’s idea isn’t too bad. Of course, giving money to charity organisations will hardly bring the change you want to see, it’s merely a drop in the ocean but it is something. Montparnasse might even be vain enough to allow himself to be used for a cause other than himself but have you thought about the charity you would like to support, Courf?’

‘No, but there are more than enough. One of us should do some research. We could do the good all work sharing!’

Grantaire set his glass back down on the table and rested his head on his forearms. He stopped listening, Enjolras seemed busy enough with Courf and Combeferre and he doubted he was needed for the discussion. Joly and Feuilly exchanged wary looks but Grantaire only opened his notebook, took one of his pencils and started to sketch the scenery. The room had heated up a little since the discussion flared back up again and he did not intend to partake.

‘It is decided,’ Courfeyrac waved his scarf like a flag to get everybody’s attention, ‘Enjolras will answer Montparnasse’s challenge and we are going to organise a charity event to accompany it.’

‘Ferre, you take Cosette and ask the dean to allow us to use one of the concert halls,’ Enjolras’ stance had changed when Grantaire looked back up, ‘who would like to inform the authorities and facility management?’

‘Here,’ Feuilly lifted his arm.

‘Catering?’

‘We could ask Musichetta,’ Bousset toasted Joly who began to blush.

‘Very good networking, Bousset!’ Enjolras pointed at him, ‘Next point, judges?’

‘We need impartial judges,’ Combeferre stood from his seat, ‘any ideas?’

‘I could ask my father,’ Cosette looked around with rosy cheeks, ‘he might have his position but he is as just and impartial as can be.’

‘A good idea, we need at least two more. We could not risk a draw,’ the crease between Enjolras’ eyebrows had reappeared, ‘come on guys, you need to know more than Monsieur Valjean.’

‘You could always ask, you know,’ Courfeyrac swallowed audibly, ‘you could ask Javert?’

Enjolras frowned, ‘Well, he is impartial. We have to give him that. Volunteers to ask him?’

The silence that fell over the room seemed almost comically. It reminded Grantaire of the reaction to a teacher asking a question. Everybody seemed to have found something to occupy themselves with.

‘I’ll do it,’ Jehan put up their hand.

‘Are you sure?’ Grantaire threw him a serious look, ‘Your last run-in with him didn’t end well, did it? Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Yes, I’ll be alright. He’s not going to kill me for asking him to be a judge for a decent cause.’

‘Not for that but probably for the smear poem you wrote about him last year,’ Grantaire grinned and nudged Jehan.

‘Thank you for your service, Jehan. Third judge, anyone?’

‘I might know someone,’ a few heads turned to Marius who seemed to shrink back into his seat, ‘an old friend of my father’s, he is definitely an impartial judge. He’s a churchwarden down at the cathedral.’

‘Perfect,’ Enjolras high-fived Combeferre, ‘you’ll take on the role of host, of course?’

‘Of course, my friend,’ Combeferre nodded, ‘has everybody got their task now?’

‘What about R and me?’ Bahorel sat up straight, ‘not that I can contribute a lot.’

‘You could assist Courfeyrac. He’s going to do all the advertising, we need every hand we can get,’ Combeferre turned around to face his boyfriend, ‘any ideas how you can market the whole thing?’

‘Yes, sure,’ Courfeyrac skipped towards them and hugged Grantaire, ‘with the artist and main attraction on board –‘

‘What do you mean,’ Grantaire closed his notebook with a slam, ‘main attraction?’

‘You have to be there, of course, Enjolras is going to fight for your honour after all.’

His brain did not seem to have conjured up this possibility of reasoning, Grantaire felt his jaw hit the table top and all blood leave his cheeks. Courfeyrac’s eyes glistened with overboarding joy and mischief as he sat down next to him.

‘It is going to be like a proper musical duel after all, just watch me. Enjolras won’t know what hit him.’

‘I doubt he’ll approve of your plans,’ Feuilly whispered, ‘and Grantaire doesn’t seem too thrilled by the idea either.’

‘No, he looks like he’s just met the ghost of the Christmas yet to come,’ Jehan sighed and took Grantaire’s hand, ‘are you alright, mon ami?’

‘I want the ground to open up and swallow me,’ Grantaire felt his throat close up, ‘I can’t, Jehan, I can’t do this. It’s going to be my end.’

‘No, Grantaire, you are going to be strong through this,’ Jehan looked at him, their deep eyes shimmering with tears, ‘you have come such a long way. Montparnasse does not control what you feel like and how you live your life. You have no obligation to be there, of course.’

They elbowed Courfeyrac in the ribs and threw him a sharp look, ‘Grantaire makes his own decisions. If he wants to contribute to posters or flyers, that’s his contribution. If he does not want to be there for the event, it is up to him. You don’t have to justify it, dear.’

Grantaire pulled them in for a hug, burying his head in their shoulder. A hand weaved in his hair and combed through it slowly, soothing the tightness in his neck.

‘Is Grantaire alright?’ Enjolras’ voice came closer, a few chairs scraped over the wooden floor boards, ‘We have some food coming up now.’

‘A little setback,’ Grantaire straightened himself up, ‘overwhelmed, if anything.’

Enjolras motioned at Courfeyrac to move aside, he sat down on Grantaire’s other side, ‘Will food help it a little?’

‘A little, probably,’ Grantaire nodded slowly, ‘how about you? This whole thing must be incredibly difficult for you, with Montparnasse and everything –‘

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’ Grantaire shot him a look, ‘You look tired. Is the old hypocrite coming through again?’

Enjolras smiled faintly, ‘Maybe. Fortunately, I have you to point it out to me now.’

A waitress came in, carrying a huge tray with different bowls. Bahorel and Courfeyrac were the first to fill their plates and sit back down in conversation.

‘What would you like to have? I’ll get you something as well,’ Enjolras got up and patted him on the back, ‘Sandwiches okay?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire passed the time it took Enjolras to fight through the group around the table with his notebook, drawing another version of the earlier charcoal sketch. This time, one of the figures changed, growing in height and slimmer in build.

‘Looks good,’ Enjolras sat back down next to him with two plates, ‘is that Montparnasse?’

‘You could use it as advertisement,’ Grantaire placed another set of lines along Montparnasse’s tophat, ‘I could print it, if you like.’

Enjolras nodded, ‘Thank you, R. It’s perfect.’

‘I’ll even leave out the cloven hoof and horns on his head,’ Grantaire stole a sandwich from his plate, ‘you can show it to him when you propose the whole thing to him. Make him look better, flatter him just enough, don’t make yourself nauseous.’

‘You do know the vain bastard well enough,’ Enjolras grinned, ‘how many rounds would you suggest?’

‘Rounds?’ Combeferre sat down next to him, ‘Are you talking about the rules?’

‘You will always appear in the right spot at the right time, won’t you?’ Enjolras put one arm around him, ‘I was just asking how many rounds Grantaire would deem right.’

‘Well, it should be at least four,’ Combeferre straightened his glasses, ‘Pre-classical, classical, modern, unknown.’

‘You would include sight-reading?’ Enjolras rocked back and forth in his seat, ‘Montparnasse used to be really good at that.’

‘So are you,’ Marius grinned around a sandwich, ‘you forget that all of us have heard you play before!’

‘Hear, hear!’ Bahorel knocked on the wooden table.

Chapter Text

‘He accepted the terms and conditions,’ Enjolras flopped down onto the divan, kicking his shoes off in the process, ‘two weeks from now, we will have our duel.’

‘So soon?’

‘Apparently, they need to keep to a schedule. More than that, they occupy the Musain tonight which means we can’t have the meeting there.’

‘What a shame,’ Grantaire returned to the picture he was working on, ‘no meeting for the revolutionaries tonight?’

‘Of course we are still going to have a meeting. Patron-Minette do not stop us from getting together, the meeting tonight is too important!’

‘Where are you planning on meeting then?’ he put his brush between his teeth before stepping closer to the canvas.

A knock on the door made him turn back around but Enjolras had already jumped off the divan and opened the door, ‘There you are, take a seat and try not to disturb anything. I guess there are some wet paint splatters around here.’

‘What the –‘ Grantaire frantically held on to his brush as the entire group of his friends filed into his studio, ‘Enjolras, what did you do?’

‘We needed a room and your studio is one of the biggest in the academy.’

‘Yes, but it is also my studio!’

‘Come on, R, we need the space!’

‘I have assignments to finish,’ Grantaire looked around the room, ‘and this is not happening, Courf, get off the windowsill!’

‘It’s comfy!’

‘No lounging on the radiators, Baz!’

‘You never had a problem with it before!’

‘Until now,’ Grantaire growled, ‘get off there.’

‘Just tonight, R, please,’ Enjolras turned back around to him, eyes wide and pleading.

‘As you like it. But don’t expect me to take any part of this, or even attend your stupid duel. You were right, it is a symbol of all things bourgeois. You’re building the structure of all the change you want to bring on the foundations of the ideas you want to abolish! Equal rights for everybody applying to the academy? Yes, all for it, but the powdered ladies you are going to try and lure in for your charity event will see your name and your family, they will continue to sneer down at people who try to get in without the loaded family.’

‘Oh just stay at your canvas, we’ll get on with it. Alright everybody,’ Enjolras clapped a few times, turning on his heels, ‘two weeks today, Friday evening. What have we organised so far?’

‘The dean will allow us to use the big concert hall, the Hall of Mirrors,’ Combeferre thumbed through his journal, ‘tickets at the booking office and the secretary. We are allowed to put up posters as soon as Grantaire finished them.’

‘Good. Facility management?’

‘We have the sound systems booked,’ Feuilly nodded, ‘also, additional toilet paper will be provided.’

‘Catering?’

‘Musichetta offered a cold buffet, all we need to do in return is to advertise her,’ Joly’s cheeks were rosy and his excited knee bopped up and down.

‘Well done,’ Enjolras strode through the room, his energetic steps echoing through the room, ‘most important, though, do we have our judges?’

‘Monsieur Mabeuf said he would be honoured to be there,’ Marius smiled at Cosette who took his hand.

‘My father will be there as well. He seemed delighted, and he does enjoy piano music a lot, he asked me to thank you in advance for thinking of him as a judge.’

‘Please send him our regards.’

Cosette nodded and settled back against the wall. Grantaire noticed her sitting on an old palette. He hoped, for her light dress’ sake that it was dry.

‘Jehan?’

They had settled in the corner behind Grantaire after squeezing his hand in passing. Now, everybody turned to watch as they got up.

‘As you know, I went to great lengths and tribulations by approaching Monsiour Javert. I am going to spare you the gory details, he was very pleased to see me again, threatened suing but did hear me out eventually. Ladies, gentlemen and cryptids – Javert will judge at our event.’

‘Oh you beautiful soul!’ Courfeyrac threw himself across the room to hug Jehan, almost knocking into Grantaire’s easel.

He winced when the Hawaiian shirt clad ghost dashed past him, instinctively reaching for the canvas to keep it from falling. Enjolras shot him a short, worried look before exhaling slowly after Courfeyrac had reached Jehan. Grantaire did not keep himself from relishing in his friend feeling bad about the situation, he had brought it on himself, after all.

‘Good news from my end as well,’ Enjolras tore his gaze away, ‘Montparnasse has agreed to the terms and conditions Combeferre drew up for us. We are going to face off in four rounds, three of which will be prepared pieces. The fourth will be one decided on by the judges, a piece neither Montparnasse nor I will know about prior to the event.’

‘We have also approached Montparnasse about the judges and he agreed to all of them, pointing out that he knows about the relation between Monsieur Valjean and Cosette but reassured us that he trusts Valjean’s famous impartiality. Also, he paled a little when I mentioned Javert.’

‘Way to go,’ Feuilly grinned at Combeferre, ‘is that organisation done?’

‘Sounds like it,’ Enjolras looked around, ‘except for the poster and flyers. Thank you for being so efficient, everybody.’

‘Well then, everybody out of my studio,’ Grantaire threw the canvas on the small table, ‘you’ve had your meeting, you have occupied my space for long enough and I would like you to leave me alone now!’

He felt close to the edge. One thought seemed to have the power to top him over, push him into the self-made abyss of his mind. Again, Jehan squeezed his hand. Their eyes found his for a second, reassuring in the deep green they drowned him in.

‘He didn’t mean it. Remember that, love,’ they hugged him again, ‘Rough days, I know. You’re strong enough to fly. You are strong enough to build yourself. You are strong enough to be your own person. No one owns you, no one tells you what to do. You are a wonderful painter and artist, talented and inspirational. Remember that, will you?’

Grantaire kissed their cheek, ’Thank you, Jehan but I can’t accept it. It’s hard, you know? I seem to have ideas but as soon as I want to follow through on them and put the pencil to paper or canvas, my mind is either empty or just useless!’

‘It’s not, R,’ another kiss was pressed to his temple, ‘I’ll convince you at some point.’

‘I doubt it,’ he managed a weak smile, ‘but thank you. Have a nice evening, sweetest poet. Have you got plans with Baz?’

‘He called an early night because apparently you are going for an early training session in the morning?’

‘Oh, right,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘we wanted to make the most of it. You could join us afterwards though, we wanted to head to the pool. That is, if you can behave yourselves. I don’t want to be thrown out again for public indecency again.’

‘That happened one time,’ Bahorel blushed and took Jehan’s hand, ‘and you keep reminding us of it whenever you can.’

‘With pleasure,’ Grantaire felt his throat losen up as he watched his friends filed out of the room one by one, ‘thank you, Jehan.’

They left the room with a small wave, Bahorel following suit. Grantaire was sure he would pay for calling an early night, Jehan did rarely accept restrictions to their evenings. He had walked in on a massage session once when Bahorel had declared he was tired. His partner had jumped to the opportunity to treat both of them to an evening of indulgence that made Grantaire blush.

‘Grantaire?’ Enjolras hovered by the door, ‘Could I talk to you for a moment?’

He turned around, grabbed a few large-scale posters from their place under the radiator and unrolled them over the messy table. A palette was knocked to the ground and a few sketches soared down, slipping under the divan.

‘Careful!’ Enjolras jumped to his side.

‘Thank you, I am quite capable of doing this,’ Grantaire pushed a finger towards the posters, ‘there you go, your posters!’

‘But your sketches!’

‘Don’t mind them, I can pick them up later. Or leave them there, they are stupid, silly things anyway,’ he pushed the posters again, ‘take a look or leave them.’

Enjolras looked up, trying to catch his gaze. Grantaire did not grant him the pleasure of meeting his eyes, instead shuffling through the posters.

‘Come on then, I don’t have all night! You said the only thing remaining were the posters, here you have them. You can take them, show them around, anything! Get them back to me for printing some time before the concert.’

‘R –‘

‘Don’t you like them? I’ll make new ones.’

‘Sit down!’ Enjolras put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down on the divan, ‘Grantaire, I am sorry! I was desperate, we needed a space to meet and your studio was the only place I could come up with on short notice.’

‘Oh really, there was no way you could find any other café or bar to meet up at?’

‘Allowing us to be here, Grantaire, can’t you make at least this sacrifice?’

‘At least? You come here, expecting me to go along with whatever you propose and I am not even allowed to be peeved about it? What if I decided I needed somewhere to go and just turned up in your room?’

‘It would not be a problem.’

‘What if it was me and four drinking buddies and we intended to get black-out drunk in your room?’

Enjolras snuffled but did not say a word on the matter until Grantaire finally lifted his head and blinked at him angrily, ‘I would tell you to find another place to go be a nuisance at.’

‘Exactly. Now, I know this fight is important for you and I might not share all your opinions but your happiness has become important to me. Don’t ask me why, I don’t know. But tonight really took the biscuit. You’re not going to look at them?’ he rolled the posters back up and threw them at Enjolras, ‘don’t bother. Get them back to me for printing, if you must.’

‘Grantaire –‘

‘No, I will not have this now. Maybe you need someone telling you how unbearable you can be. You truly have a tendency to be terrible, Apollo. It is a shame that no one seems to tell you.’

He motioned towards the door. Enjolras, looking up with something like regret in his eyes, turned around and left the room, slamming the door. Grantaire curled up on the divan, buried his head in the cushions and kicked the table for good measure. Painting supplies scattered everywhere and an empty booze bottle rolled right up to the door. He could not bring himself to care, self-pity descending on him like a thundercloud.

‘Right children, do you need me to supervise you every moment of your interaction?’ Combeferrre stomped through the door, pulling Enjolras along who seemed tempted to kick and scream like a toddler, ‘you need to sit down and talk, without screaming at each other, making assumptions or taking everything at word’s value.’

He stopped three steps into the room, ‘What happened, did you take out your anger on the room?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire said into the pillow.

‘Hey, R,’ Enjolras’ voice made him flinch, ‘can I help you sort through everything? I would like to take you out for a coffee as well, to talk. Tomorrow, maybe?’

‘Boxing and swimming with Baz and Jehan,’ Grantaire sat up, pulling the cushion with him, ‘and I can clean up myself.’

‘Yes, I know. You are a capable adult,’ there was no sarcasm or spite in his voice, ‘I want to apologise, again. And maybe, I can explain something to you as well.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Grantaire said and got up, grabbing for the blanket that had slipped to the ground, ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean anything by it.’

‘See, that’s my point, I should explain myself, not just accept that you will ignore my behaviour and tolerate me doing whatever,’ Enjolras turned around to Combeferre and nodded, ‘I promise I’ll report back to you and Jehan.’

‘What’s going on with Jehan?’

‘They yelled at me for a few minutes, saying I had better apologise properly and help you. They also said I didn’t deserve your friendship and told Combeferre that I didn’t ask you before staging the meeting here.’

‘Because Combeferre does not approve of such behaviour and suffered a near-stroke when he heard about it. Now get on with it, captain,’ Combeferre nodded sharply and closed the door.

Grantaire bent down and picked a few brushes and paint tubes off the ground. A scraping sound behind him told him that Enjolras had put the table upright. He elected to ignore it for another minute, until he had gathered his supplies and put them into the empty boxes that had collected under the divan for once.

‘Listen, Grantaire, I feel like I owe you a confession,’ Enjolras leaned a few canvases on the wall, ‘I feel like I am trying to make this friendship work based on a lie and I want you to know the whole deal. If it is what keeps bringing the tension back between us, I feel like I will be able to clear it up a little bit.’

Grantaire motioned for him to sit on the divan, ‘Don’t mind, if I painted, do you?’

‘No, please do. Have you an idea as to what you’re going to paint?’ Enjolras still seemed cautious about what he said.

Grantaire decided that he could test the waters of honesty with his response and shook his head, ‘As of late, sudden inspiration hits a lot quicker when I am talking to you.’

He grabbed a large-scale pad and a pencil, tempted to voice his astonishment at how easy it was to find things once the studio was tidy. Pushing himself to settle, he perched himself on the windowsill, the same windowsill he had chased Courfeyrac away from earlier.

‘Go on then.’

Enjolras pulled his feet onto the divan and cleared his throat, ‘I told you my mother died a few years ago. My father did take me to concerts and everything, but he also installed his own version of parenting in me. I told you he is a landowner but I didn’t tell you that he insisted on raising me exactly to his standards. It included lessons in etiquette, dancing, conversation and economy. If I failed to live up to what he expected, I would end up locked in my room without electricity, food or drink. He taught me that I have to strive for perfection, no matter what I begin, and not to accept quitters or opposing arguments. I learned that people who didn’t agree with me were not worth my time, something that was aimed more at business partners or competitors, not so much at friends. ‘Ferre out-debated me when I treated him cold and hostile, leaving my argument in shreds. Courf slapped me across the face and yelled at me for an hour. I cannot begin to tell you how bad I feel every time my father’s upbringing comes out against my friends, as every apology will feel like an excuse for not being in control of myself at all times, this being one of the things that was anchored in my education. I hate myself for any loss of control I experience, which includes admitting to being wrong at times, accepting help or other opinions. I get angry, anxious and agitated, sometimes it is like a red blur casted over my vision and for a moment I just don’t know what I say or do. It’s a black-out of sorts and I do not know what I say to other people during these moments, and sometimes I apologise in advance to avoid hurting my friends. I hate myself for it, and all of my words are mere excuses.’

Enjolras outlined his left hand with the right. A few strands had slipped from his ponytail and veiled his face but Grantaire could see the blush on his high cheeks. His pencil had started to glide over the heavy cartridge paper on its own accord, drawing up the structure of a standing man, head bowed and hands bound behind his back. He added a tree to have a backdrop for the figure to be tied to.

‘I grew up believing that I would end up alone and isolated, if I wasn’t successful. My father allowed me to play the piano, he took me to concerts and pushed my talent until I was safely enrolled at the academy. He also told me that people would try and take that away from me and ditch me as soon as I wasn’t successful anymore.’

The pencil added wounds on a bare torso.

‘I want people to believe in my course, I get invested in it and forget about other opinions. In my mind, any opinion differing from mine is wrong and to be dismissed without doubt. I forget that words can hurt and they come out without filter. Just like Courf, except that his thing is more suggestive.’

The pencil added hair, a loincloth and a gag.

‘I don’t even know why I can’t break the pattern,’ Enjolras pressed the ball of his hand to his eyes, ‘there are so many warnings flagging up every time I get close to people, ‘Ferre and Courf can deal with it but others can’t. Some people I don’t care about but you, Grantaire, I can’t bear to hurt you more than I already have.’

‘Don’t promise what you can’t keep, Apollo,’ Grantaire looked up from his drawing, ‘both of us know that you are most likely to put your foot in your mouth every time I disagree with your raging, passionate speeches.’

Enjolras nodded, ‘I’m sorry, R, I really am. I care about all my friends and during this last month I found out that sometimes it takes you twenty-something years to find a person you just don’t want to lose.’

Grantaire added blood to the wounds and leaves to the tree, ‘Sounds like a love declaration, Apollo.’

‘Friendship declaration. Don’t assume –‘

‘You are doing it again,’ Grantaire attached words to the arrows sticking out of the wounds, ‘don’t you have a safeword for your rants?’

‘Pardon?’

‘A joke, Apollo, you know? Funny, sarcastic comment?’

‘No, R, it’s a brilliant idea! If my friends had an opportunity to stop me when I’m in danger of insulting someone who doesn’t deserve it,’ Enjolras jumped off the divan, crossed the room and hugged him, sending sketch pad and pencil scattering to the ground.

Grantaire felt the air being squeezed out of his lungs. Enjolras’ arms around him felt like a warm embrace, a ray of sunshine coming out on a dark, cold day, warming up the unsuspecting subject in a sudden motion. It took him by surprise, his only excuse for the way he let his head drop onto Enjolras’ shoulder as he slipped off the windowsill and into his arms. He felt the shudder taking over his body, and Enjolras tighten the embrace in response. His skin tingled with the intensity of the sudden touch and the way Enjolras allowed his hands to glide over his shoulders. There was no way Enjolras had not felt it but he graciously did not mention it for another minute, instead tightening the hug.

‘Are you cold?’ he asked eventually, burying his own head in the crook of Grantaire’s neck.

‘Napoleon,’ Grantaire mumbled in response, nestling his face into his soft curls.

‘What did you say?’

Grantaire snorted softly, ‘I knew you would get all antsy about even hearing that. It will definitely get you out of whatever rant you launch yourself into. You should consider it as your safeword.’

Enjolras stepped back, the expression in his eyes somewhere between disgust and amazement, ‘I don’t know whether you are a genius or a lunatic, right now.’

‘Go with the first one,’ Grantaire mumbled.

For a moment, they did merely grin at each other. Then, Enjolras pointed back to the divan.

‘Thank you for the posters, R. I looked through them and they are amazing but please don’t feel obliged to print them, if you –‘

‘I offered, Enjolras. Us butting heads will not keep me from doing my part to ensure your plans coming through,’ Grantaire pushed his hair back and picked his sketch pad up from where it lay on the ground.

‘Did you paint something useful?’

‘Art is never useful, Enjolras, you should know that,’ he put the pad up on the easel.

Enjolras followed him, taking a curious look at the lifelessly hanging figure Grantaire had drawn, ‘Saint Sebastian? R, this is amazing, you should really refine this one!’

He followed one of the lines with his finger, along the curve of the tree, onto the tormented body, the neck and finally the hair. Grantaire had put more effort into the facial traits than he did with other sketches.

‘Is that me?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You see me as what, a saint, a martyr?’

‘As a person who was hurt and mistreated, and suffered without fault. A person who went through hurtful processes and never lost faith, who still fights. A person who deserves to be seen for the distress they went through and the strength that makes them determined to reach their goal. You tell me whether I’m wrong to put traits similar to yours in this sketch,’ Grantaire smiled and pushed the pencil into his hair, ‘I will not change him.’

‘I’m not asking you to,’ Enjolras adjusted the pad on the easel with a smile tucked away in the corner of his mouth, ‘I’m interested.’

Chapter Text

‘R, get up,’ a sharp knock on the door had him bolt upright, ‘you are late and I am getting impatient with Bousset telling me you probably are hungover.’

‘What’s the matter? I’m awake,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair and rubbed his eyes, ‘why are you yelling?’

‘Because you are late to our bloody session,’ another knock on the door followed, ‘just for this I will demolish you.’

‘Baz, is that you?’

‘You bet your damn pants, it’s me. Now get your bloody kit and get going, how much did you drink last night?’

Grantaire fumbled for his phone, prepared to wipe empty bottles off the bedside table in the process. To his surprise, his phone was attached to its charger and the only bottle in his room was a single water bottle on his desk.

‘Nothing, apparently,’ he mumbled and grabbed a t-shirt from the foot of his bed, ‘what a surprise!’

‘All the better, then,’ Bahorel’s voice wandered down the hallway, ‘Bousset let me in, I’ll be in the kitchen.’

Grantaire threw his gloves, trainers and the water bottle in his bag, hopped in a pair of discarded trunks and combed through his hair with one hand, attempting to smooth them over his forehead until he gave up and let the curls spring free, ‘Make yourself at home.’

‘Oh, I will,’ a chair scraped over the wooded floor, ‘do you need coffee before we go? Jehan offered to bring some to the gym, otherwise. Sugar overdose and everything that you need included.’

‘That’s nice of them but I’ll survive,’ he went through the pockets of his trunks to find both his keys and a few coins, ‘Ready, Baz? I feel strong as ten men today!’

‘At least you got enough sleep for once,’ Joly left his room as he walked past, holding out a padded roll for him to grab, ‘you’ll need that afterwards. I can’t believe you printed the bloody posters last night. No wonder you needed a drink!’

‘Looking out for me again, sweetest friend?’ Grantaire kissed his cheek in passing, ‘Don’t strain yourself, this is your day of rest. No walking for at least two more hours, the posters will be distributed and delivered without your help.’

‘You’re sober,’ Joly looked at him in surprise, ‘I heard you come in late last night, you dropped your stuff in the kitchen and went to bed; I assumed you were drunk off your arse!’

‘Yes, and being sober feels awful,’ Grantaire grinned and pushed into the kitchen where Bahorel sat on one of their chairs, seemingly preoccupied with his phone.

‘Ready?’

‘As much as I can be on a Saturday morning,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘prepare to be defeated!’

For that, Bahorel chased him out of the flat, down the stairs and along the street until they reached the gym. Grantaire felt the air burn in his lungs, the crisp morning still tangible in the pale sunshine illuminating the brick buildings lining the streets. He leaned on a lamppost outside the gym, gasping for air and grinning up at his friend.

‘How are you still so fast with all that you do?’

‘I drink, Baz, not smoke. My lungs are not damaged,’ he opened the door and slipped into the changing room.

‘Stop the shittalking, get on with it,’ Bahorel grinned and patted his shoulder, ‘wrap your knuckles, we have work to do and points to prove!’

Grantaire saluted, got the tape from his bag and set up on one of the benches.

‘Jehan seemed a little peeved about us going for this session early, is everything okay with you two?’ he started warming up and jumped on the spot, waiting for Bahorel to finish his preparations.

‘You know them,’ Bahorel joined him, ‘everything’s a little dramatic. They didn’t enjoy seeing Montparnasse again, it reminded him of a few bad things happening to them years ago, and I can only do so much to lift their spirits.’

‘I know you’re doing your best,’ Grantaire cracked his neck, ‘Montparnasse has brought up bad memories in a lot of us.’

‘Right, you know him as well, don’t you?’ Bahorel tentatively swung at him, ‘Why is it that our most troubled souls are put through even more trouble with this bad-mannered vulture showing up? Neither you, nor Enjolras, nor Jehan deserve all this, and this duel will be even more straining for all of you because of this!’

‘Thank you for your concern,’ Grantaire retaliated.

‘I have to ask,’ Bahorel followed his words with a quick succession of blows, ‘because I know Jehan had a short fling with Montparnasse, a few years back before coming here. Did anything like that ever happen between the two of you?’

Grantaire did not see the gloved fist, he stood paralysed in his spot as Bahorel punched him in the face. He toppled over backwards and found himself sitting on the mat a second later.

‘Shit, I’m sorry! Your defense is so good, normally,’ Bahorel kneeled down next to him, ripping one of his gloves off to support his neck, ‘do you feel alright?’

‘Yes, no worries, you don’t hit that hard,’ Grantaire carefully shook his head to clear it, ‘sorry, you took me by surprise.’

‘I take it you have history with Montparnasse, then?’

‘Of course I do,’ Grantaire pushed himself back to his feet, ‘we basically grew up with each other around, our mothers are best friends to this day. There was no way to avoid him until he went off and consequently met Enjolras.’

‘You know what I mean with history,’ Bahorel followed, ‘Defenses up?’

‘Up and ready,’ Grantaire wiped his hair out of his eyes, ‘’Parnasse came back when we were seventeen. He had just started Patron-Minette and was beaming with self-confidence and wore leather jackets and eyeliner to make him seem cooler. I had come out to my fellow classmates and was in a bad place because they did not respond the way I wanted them to. Montparnasse came round to our place to update my mother on what he was doing. She still loves him, although she despises rock music. He got invited for dinner, we went to my room and got talking, like old times, you know?’

He aimed at Bahorel’s torso. His friend blocked and retaliated, ‘What happened, did he -?’

‘He told me about his band mates, studio life and writing songs about whatever inspired him. I wanted to know stuff, obviously, I hadn’t seen him in years and we tended to get along well. I was curious and he was more than willing to tell me about his new rockstar life. He called me podge and smiled. I told him about being gay and out at school, he told me he was pan but couldn’t act on it publically because of the band life. It seemed only logical that we would experiment a little.’

Grantaire put force into his next punch, ‘Biggest mistake of my life. Experimenting a little turned into all the way in. Had to wash my mouth out with a whole bottle of Dad’s expensive Scotch afterwards.’

Bahorel followed the motion, ducking out of reach, ‘Is that when the daydrinking started?’

‘About the same time, yes.’

They exchanged another series of blows. Bahorel backed off a few steps before retaliating and assuming position again. Grantaire followed, fists lifted in defense and a grin pulling his face apart.

‘He was your first?’

Grantaire hit him hard in response, ‘Yes. And once again, I regret it every day. I haven’t met another person as much of an asshole as what Montparnasse turned into until now.’

‘How many boyfriends did you have after him?’ Bahorel waved the round off and went to get his water bottle, ‘It doesn’t seem like many, not like I would count.’

‘That’s because there weren’t many,’ Grantaire unscrewed his bottle, ‘There was Montparnasse and maybe two others but they never got what he took. I went out with Claquesous a few times, that was the closest I got to another intimate relationship.’

‘Claquesous as in Patron-Minette Claquesous?’

‘Yes. We met when I moved into town to start at the academy, at first without knowing about our friend in common,’ Grantaire peered at his friend, trying to assess his reaction, ‘we are still in contact, actually. He came to a few of my showcases over the years and is the best example for the difference between Montparnasse and his bandmates. He’s an alright guy but it did not work out between us. To be honest, most of the times it’s my fault because I don’t seem to be able to…you know? Claquesous is one of the few who understood.’

‘Definitely not your fault, as far as I am concerned,’ Bahorel shook his head, ‘if anything, you are a cautious person because of an experience that changed you, nothing wrong with that.’

Grantaire nodded, feeling the iron string around his chest loosen a little. He found it hard to hear Bahorel taking down his argument so easily. Knowing himself to be a fuck-up seemed so much more comfortable and easier than to imagine himself as someone who had gone through a bad experience. His friends tried their best to convince him otherwise but the topic seldom arose. They had never addressed his lovelife. Grantaire could not think of a single instance when Bahorel had asked him something close to intimate. Those of his friends who were in relationships tended to be disconnected from everybody else, wrapped up in their own bliss as they were. Not, that Grantaire blamed them. Their happiness just seemed something that avoided him.

Bahorel took his gloves off, ’Joly would have given you the talk, if you ever brought anyone back to the flat, wouldn’t he?’

‘Definitely, that’s why I’m drinking alone,’ Grantaire knocked his head back to wipe a few strands of sweaty hair out of his eyes, ‘when’s Jehan going to be here?’

‘In time to build up your confidence before the pool. We all know how you feel about being in trunks,’ Bahorel started peeling off the tape around his knuckles, ‘and before you say a thing, you look good! Nothing is wrong with your body.’

‘We all know that’s a lie, Baz,’ Grantaire got his bag and started to change back into his clothes, ‘but I’ll do it, anyway. If Jehan can do it despite the dysphoria, so can I.’

‘Well said,’ Jehan slammed the door shut, striking a pose, ‘Enter, drama student with a chip on their shoulder.’

They walked over to meet them, bent over the ropes and pulled Bahorel in for a kiss that left him more than a little breathless. Grantaire threw his gloves at them and gagged for good measure.

‘You’re just jealous!’ Jehan broke off the kiss and walked over to pinch him, ‘You know I love you and you are my second best friend but I’m not sharing Baz, not even with you.’

‘Second best friend?’ Grantaire puffed up his cheeks in protest, ‘I am hurt.’

‘I’m their best friend, dumbo,’ Bahorel chipped in, ‘the whole dating your best friend thing? Totally works for us!’

They packed up and left for the pool, Jehan taking Bahorel’s hand to swing it between them. Grantaire trotted along a little behind them, quietly whistling under his breath.

***

‘I knew it,’ Grantaire squeezed the last drops of water out of his hair and shouldered his bag, ‘this is my biggest I-told-you-so-moment since Bousset thought he could actually do a somersault onto Joly’s bed and rolled into the old glass coffee table instead!’

‘Shut up,’ Bahorel laughed and slung an arm around Jehan’s shoulder, covering the new huge, dark hickey on their neck with his sleeve, ‘You did not have an I-told-you-so-moment, how was that an I-told-you-so-moment?’

‘We got thrown out of the pool. Again! All because you can’t keep your hands off each other for a few hours,’ Grantaire knew the grin on his face betrayed the tone of his voice but leaned into the act anyway, ‘have you no shame!’

‘Why, I could just eat him up,’ Jehan leaned into Bahorel’s arm, almost tripping him up for a second.

Grantaire rolled his eyes, wrapped a scarf around his neck and shoved his curls under his beanie, ‘I am never taking you two out again. There were children around, you weirdos!’

‘Oh come on, we weren’t that bad!’ Jehan turned around to face him.

‘Not that bad? You had your hand down Baz’ swimming trunks in the whirlpool next to the children’s pool,’ he tried his best to keep a straight face, failing horribly but pretending to be outraged for the sake of it, ‘they were staring at you and you only got to enjoy the moment for a little longer because the parents would rather get a lifeguard than break you up themselves!’

‘We are in love, what are you going to do?’

‘I might just tell Enjolras you are subjecting children to porn,’ Grantaire avoided the fist swung at him from Bahorel.

‘So the two of you made up?’

‘Sorry, did you just say they made out?’ Bahorel cackled and leaned onto him for a moment, ‘Teasing, R, teasing. Just to say that before you launch yourself into some kind of fit. I know you would never defile the temple and altar at which you pray and perish.’

Jehan sighed, a soft sound that made Grantaire’s skin tingle, ‘Do I rub off on you? That was perfectly poetic, my love.’

‘Too bad it was Baz who came up with it, otherwise you could have used it for your next play,’ Grantaire chose not to react to Bahorel who was batting his eyes at him and danced a few steps ahead, out of his reach.

‘Feel free to use it, both of you. I would love to hear the poetry and see the paintings based on that line.’

‘How did you come up with it, anyway? It is too aesthetic to fit you,’ Jehan grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, ‘cuddle me, I’m cold.’

‘My needy little paramour,’ Bahorel held his coat open for them to slip in, ‘use me as your personal radiator whenever you need it.’

‘I love you for the constant heat you give off,’ Jehan smiled, the corners of their mouth stretching all the way across their face, ‘the only reason I keep you around.’

Bahorel dropped a few kisses on their scalp and held them close. Grantaire felt a wistful smile tug at his mouth as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Something about Bahorel’s comment had hit too close to home. He thought of the painting in Lamarque’s office and several sketches in his notebook, all of them linked to late night music sessions, a random thought or the face that occupied most of his figure studies. The recent idea for St Sebastian Reborn, waiting to be finished in his studio, had haunted him during the early hours of the night, keeping him out of his bed and sleep at bay. He thought of shared evenings and how he craved the serenity it had meant for him to listen to Enjolras play, thoughts resting and pencil working without further prompt. It had been an insight into the intimacy music was able to convey and he felt like he lost its impact, almost as if he could no longer remember what it had felt like during that first night that he had spent drunk and tired outside of Enjolras’ music room.

‘Hey R, are you still there?’ Jehan held one hand out for him to take, an inquiring look in their eyes, ‘You seemed a little away with the fairies there, darling.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Grantaire smiled at them, quickly catching up with his two friends, ‘I’m alright, thanks for the concern though. My thoughts wandered off to find a happy place.’

‘As long as it is a happy place and not the bottom of a bottle,’ their concerned expression softened a moment later as Grantaire took their hand and allowed himself to be dragged forward.

They walked down the street, past one of the old bookshops all of them frequented, one that had sheet music as well as encyclopaedias on art, drama and literature, Jehan holding hands with both of them and tagging along a little behind them which led to Bahorel and Grantaire pulling them forward every so often when they spotted something in a shop window that seemed too pretty to resist it. Bahorel tried to bribe them with kisses and cuddles to move forward but eventually, he had to surrender to a snuggly blanket that Jehan insisted on checking out. They stepped into the shop for three minutes and came out with the blanket which had passed a snuggle test, a bag of scented wax chips and a bathbomb.

‘Look at this,’ they held the bathbomb out to Grantaire, ‘it says Sexbomb on the box. I got it for Baz!’

Grantaire snorted out a laugh and threw his friend a suggestive look for want of the air to whistle through his teeth. He could have sworn that Bahorel was blushing under his scruffy beard and the scarf he had pulled up to protect his face from a sniping cold wind that had started to blow up from the river. Again, a wave of sad melancholy threatened to drown him momentarily as he watched his friends sway in a hug that Jehan had stolen from their boyfriend, snuggling into the warmth Bahorel’s coat provided them with. Bahorel smiled fondly, dropping another set of kisses onto their nose, temple, forehead and eventually, top of their head.

‘Stop being mushy,’ he croaked out, lightly kicking Bahorel, ‘You guys really are turning into the most embarrassing thing I have seen all week. Especially you, Baz, you used to be cool! Look at what one relationship has turned you into, it’s almost like Jehan turned you into some kind of love robot. You don’t even pay attention to your surroundings anymore.’

‘Why would I?’ Bahorel was now staring into Jehan’s eyes, a dopey smile stretched across his face, ‘I have my world mapped out right in front of me. Also, quit whining, I sacrificed a lie in with my paramour for you this morning!’

A moment later, he walked into a light post.

Chapter Text

‘Hello Grantaire. I thought I might find you here,’ Combeferre entered his studio after knocking on the door he had propped open with an issue of the Oxford English Dictionary, the only book in his possession heavy enough to hold the door’s weight.

‘Good evening, Combeferre, how can I be of service?’

His visitor hovered near where he had put still wet watercolours on the ground, eyeing them for a moment before carefully stepping around them. He wore a scarf that looked too colourful and lumpy to be his own or even a store bought one. Given that Combeferre seemed not to care whether he left the house with mismatched socks and a dress shirt, it seemed more likely that Courfeyrac had bundled him up in it before he ran off to his first lecture of the day. Combeferre stepped closer to the divan, set his seemingly heavy bag down and rested a parcel against the armrest that Grantaire recognised as some of his rolled up posters.

‘I’m on advertising duty,’ Combeferre explained, ‘these are the last posters to go up.’

‘All set up for the concert then?’ Grantaire moved a few books with his foot, ‘I saw Courf run around with some charity tins yesterday.’

‘Almost,’ Combeferre sighed and took his glasses off to wipe the lenses, ‘that’s what I was coming to talk to you about. We need someone to sell the last tickets on Friday. Éponine has sold the contingent we gave her for the coffee shop, Cosette sold huge amounts at the academy shop and the tickets we put online are gone as well. We have some tickets left over to sell at the door. I can’t ask Courf to do that, he would turn into even more of a bouncing ball, Jehan would mean Baz and we need him to take care of the electrics and make sure everything’s running smoothly.’

‘You could ask Feuilly or Joly, if you put a chair out,’ Grantaire stacked a few colour boxes together and set them on the window sill, ‘keep Bousset away from the table. Just a tip.’

‘You are right, I suppose,’ Combeferre cleared his throat and put his glasses back on his nose, ‘no chance you could be there to do it?’

Grantaire turned his back on him, facing the wall, ‘I won’t be there.’

‘Come on, a few minutes earlier –‘

‘Ferre, you misunderstand me. I will not be there on Friday, I have no intention to show up to witness another opportunity for Montparnasse to stage himself and drag Enjolras down. I cannot watch that, I have come too far to ruin my progress with one event that is set to be doomed from the start. Enjolras knows that I was up to helping out with the posters but he never expected me to be there.’

He could feel Combeferre’s look burn in his neck, ‘You might have the wrong impression here. Enjolras relied on your support with the poster but I think he would profit from you being there for the duel. He can use whatever encouragement you are able to provide, Friday is going to go down as a battle in academy history.’

‘I am aware of that, Combeferre, believe me,’ Grantaire allowed his shoulders to sag a little, ‘but I simply cannot force myself to endure it – and it would be nothing else for me.’

‘Well then, your decision. I’ll let Enjolras know you won’t be there, the two of you would probably go at each other’s throats, given your history.’

‘Thank you. You are probably right. I doubt Enjolras and I would see eye to eye on my reasons not to attend. You can tell him I’ll donate to the charity, he can name any amount of money.’

‘He’ll be pleased to hear that,’ Combeferre got back up, ‘well, I better get going and put some of the posters up around town. Will you help with the seating arrangements tonight?’

‘Stacking chairs and putting them in rows? Sure, I should be able to drop by after my shift. Should I bring anything?’

‘Gloves, if your hands are too dainty,’ Combeferre grabbed the posters, ‘otherwise, you’ll be okay. For how long can you help out?’

‘Starting from around seven to half past eight?’

‘Will do,’ Combeferre shrugged, ‘I’m not vouching for Enjolras though. He might end up texting or phoning you after I talk to him, just warning you.’

‘I’ll be prepared,’ Grantaire threw him a salute and turned back around to his easel.

He had sorted through the canvases gathering dust in one corner when his phone had buzzed underneath the sink where it had slid to when he had thrown his bag on the ground after his art history lecture. The text had been short enough, reminding him of a date and asking for a get-together later. He had agreed, thrown his phone back onto the table and gone back to work.

Grantaire had tried to come up with a system to catalogue his paintings but ended up stacking them according to size after several attempts to work out something that would get him to find a specific picture faster. It took him an hour to realise that it would be too difficult to put them back in their place.

By the time he had to leave for the museum, he was ready to give up on the whole idea. Cursing, he grabbed the bag he had brought to the studio and set off. For a brief moment, he contemplated attempting to catch the bus but scrapped the idea immediately since he only ever moved between the academy, the lecture halls and the museum, with no real distance to cover in between.

He stormed into the staff changing room with ten minutes to spare, put on his livery, the walkie-talkie in his belt and the intercom in his ear. After a quick check, he could leave to attend to his post in the Early Modern Art wing, situated between Manet and Courbet where he could spend some time sketching the old masters during the quieter moments. That was, whenever he did not answer questions about the pictures, exhibition, artists or even his own job. Every now and then, an older visitor expressed their interest in how he had gotten the job but his explanation that he studied art at the academy and the job was tied to his degree to gain work experience satisfied the least.

His sketchbook, the one he kept especially for his shifts at the museum, was filled with the impressions of the people walking past his chair, wearing expressions of awe, wonder and sometimes boredom, mostly to be spotted on the faces of younger children or teenagers. He drew their faces, their figures, their postures. He drew frames and the pictures on the wall, one after the other. They only ever differed in era and epoch whenever he had done a shift in another wing of the museum.

The only time he had to get up for a longer time proved to be when a young boy lost his parents and wandered around without aim around the hall for a few minutes before Grantaire caught him, asked about his parents and placed the call at the information desk. The announcement came seconds later, asking for little Jean’s parents to meet them in Room 22, French masters. He let Jean draw in his sketchbook until his parents came to pick him up, thanking him for looking after the boy. When they scolded him for running off, Grantaire offered for him to keep the page he had scribbled on to cheer him up. The backside of Jean’s drawing displayed a sketch of one of the paintings in the hall, a study of a group portrait. He scribbled a short note saying Keep practising! next to it and handed it to him.

Jean and his parents went on to look at the next room. And Grantaire got back to work, reminding a few teenagers not to touch the paintings and to keep away from the statues. Some of them laughed at him so Grantaire shrugged and turned to an elderly lady who waved at him with the map of the exhibition rooms. A moment later, the warning signal went off and the teenagers scurried out of the room, trying to look inconspicuous.

‘These young people,’ the old lady shook her head, ‘no respect or manners!’

‘At least they have seen a museum from the inside,’ Grantaire smiled weakly, ‘to see the Impressionists and the van Goghs you will have to go to Room 26. Through here and the enclosing wing. The walls will be painted green over there.’

‘Thank you, young man,’ she squeezed his arm a little too tight and smiled at him with a bat of her eyes before turning around to leave, ‘my day is brightening up already.’

Grantaire saw her off, shaking his head. The older patrons with their small flirts did a lot to make his shifts easier on days when everything else was crushing down. Their joy about visiting the museum, getting to see the paintings and enjoy their time in town fuelled him for a little longer after his shift, when the museum was closed for the night, the cleaning staff went through the halls and Grantaire gathered his things to set off towards the academy’s concert hall.

Situated in another Georgian building with tall windows and arches, the academy’s concert hall was just as impressive as the accommodations. The concert hall was the academy’s pride and joy, the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling glimmered golden and were always polished to blind people coming in, their light being reflected from the ceiling high mirrors.

Grantaire entered through the main entrance, his bag slung over his shoulder and one hand stuffed into his pocket. His steps were muffled by the thick, heavy carpets laid out over the stairs leading to the auditoriums on the first floor. He could hear noise from upstairs and made to climb up the stairs, whistling under his breath.

‘Grantaire?’ Combeferre’s unruly mop of hair poked out over the handrail, ‘Is that you? We are in the big auditorium.’

‘Coming,’ Grantaire went on to the next landing and dumped his bag in the upper circle’s cloak room.

Bahorel was lugging around stacks of chairs, stopping every few steps for Marius and Courfeyrac to take one off the top. Jehan and Bousset were polishing the grand pianos on the stage, rubbing away any finger prints and specks of dust until the lacquered black wood shone under the stagelights that Joly was testing when he entered the room.

‘Okay, R,’ Combeferre pushed his glasses up his nose and waved at him with a clipboard, ‘help Bahorel and Courf with the chairs. Straight rows, chair to chair. Impeccable order, understood?’

‘Yes, sir,‘ Grantaire saluted and clapped Bahorel on the back, ‘you alright, mate?’

‘I’ve been carrying chairs up the stairs because the elevator broke. Nice of you to show up,’ Bahorel handed him a stack of five chairs, ‘the first ones for the boxes. Combeferre said to give the most comfortable ones to the judges. Cosette has got the signs and labels.’

‘To make sure Javert gets the comfiest,’ Jehan shouted from the stage, ‘The lighting is perfect, Joly. Can you do the spotlights next?’

Their hair lit up in the clearest shades of reds a moment later. Grantaire stopped under the doorway and looked back as Bahorel whistled and dropped a few chairs onto the floor, sending them clattering into the ones Courfeyrac had put up.

‘Eyes to the front, soldier,’ Jehan threw him a cocky look and flaunted their sparkly shoes around the stage, ‘or rather, on the task at hand.’

‘Tease!’ Bahorel’s grunt was clearly audible around the hall as he got back to work.

Grantaire got around to setting the judge’s box up with tables and chairs. Cosette joined him to put up some of the name tags she had printed off.

‘Are you okay? Combeferre mentioned you won’t be here on Friday?’

‘I just don’t feel well with the whole situation panning out as it is,’ Grantaire set down the last chair in the row for her to lable it Valjean, “I mean, how could your father just agree to do this?’

‘Javert agreed as well, don’t forget that,’ Cosette put an arm around his waist and rubbed his back, ‘they are impartial. If Montparnasse tries anything, cheats or even looks at Enjolras the wrong way, they will step in. Their verdict, the decision they are going to make, will be based on the facts and nothing else. Enjolras messes up, they will take that into account. Montparnasse messes up, they’ll consider it. They are the most impartial people we know and they will do a great job. Don’t worry, R. There is no way he could cheat during a musical duel.’

‘He’ll find a way,’ Grantaire felt his voice break in his throat, shaky and small as it was, ‘I know it, he will find a way and if he can’t win he will hurt him.’

‘Hey, R,’ Cosette forced him to meet her eyes, slim hand like a clamp around his jaw, ‘You don’t get to say that. Enjolras is a grown up. He agreed to it and he will get through this, plus he will raise money for charity with it. In his book, that’s even more important than defeating Montparnasse. I doubt Montparnasse can do anything that ruins that.’

She smiled at him, face glowing with the excitement the whole event seemed to prompt in her. It made him feel uneasy, knowing that she did not believe Montparnasse could harm the procedures in any way. At the same time, she calmed him down with the slow rubs on his back and the ever present, soft smile on her lips.

‘Hey Enjolras, do you want to test the piano?’ Jehan waved at the corner of the room under the judge’s box, ‘do you get to pick your favourite piano?’

‘Probably. We will be sitting at the grand pianos and not move from the stools whilst the other is playing,’ Enjolras’ voice echoed in the empty auditorium and Enjolras stepped into the light of the chandeliers, hair unruly and loose, spilling over his shoulders.

Grantaire watched as he skipped towards the stage, as if on springs. His hair slipped out from behind his ears where he had tugged it before as he slid onto the stool and settled in front of the piano. He wiped it out of his eyes with a rushed movement and set his hands down on the keys. An eerie silence fell over the auditorium as every single one of them stopped working to watch Enjolras on stage.

The first soft notes of a wistful melody drifted through the room, dancing under the high ceilings, mixing with the warm light of hundreds of lightbulbs and enveloping them in a blanket of comfort. It reminded Grantaire of summer holidays in France, picnics and bike tours with his father, of late nights watching movies and the poignant pain of scraped knees. It reminded him of lavender fields, of citrus trees and the faint note of salt on a breeze coming from the sea. Apres Un Reve, the piece was called, written by Gabriel Fauré, a composer as much as teacher who had handed his knowledge down from one generation of music students to the next. Grantaire leaned forward slightly, allowing his arms to rest on the rail around the box. He watched Enjolras and the way his torso swayed slightly to the rhythm of the melody. The difference between the music room and the concert hall was stunning as the slight echo intensified the sound of the grand piano. His bearing had changed, his touch to the keys almost reverent.

For Grantaire it seemed without doubt to be a privilege to hear and see Enjolras play before the duel. The tension that had made him stand upright as if impaled bled out of his body, leaving through his fingertips and turning into music.

‘I have heard him so often and it still makes me stop and wonder,’ Cosette stood next to him, her eyes swimming slightly.

Grantaire put an arm around her shoulder, offering her some comfort which she accepted gladly, leaning into the half hug. They watched together, tied by her words that had told him one thing; Cosette was not left cold by Enjolras’ play either and it warmed him a little. Knowing that Enjolras’ music made others feel similar to what he experienced made it easier for him to accept the tears stinging in his eyes.

A slim hand felt for his and squeezed it carefully, ‘His playing is beautiful, isn’t it? He really has a talent for it, it’s almost like one of the muses come back.’

‘Not the muses,’ Grantaire shook his head slowly, ‘Apollo himself came back to life in his form.’

Cosette sniffed, fumbling for a tissue, ‘Sorry, that song – when Enjolras plays I always start crying. And I love what you said about him. He needs people who remind him that he is a very good pianist and that his friends are there to support him. Oh Grantaire, I am so relieved you guys became friends and everybody just gets along.’

He did not point out the fall out Enjolras and he had had. He did not mention how often the goblin hunched in one corner of his mind that told him that all the people close to him would eventually leave him. He did not tell her that he did not plan on attending the concert because he could not bear watching Montparnasse potentially win and destroy the picture-perfect illusion he had built around Enjolras.

‘I love this piece, by the way,’ Cosette whispered, turning her head towards him slightly, ‘Fauré really knew how to write music. Although, it might just be Enjolras playing his pieces.’

Grantaire had to conceal a small laugh, ‘Yes, it might just be that.’

Enjolras concluded the short piece, one serene note after the other, giving every single one the right emphasis and dynamic. He ended on a dark and solemn ritardando that made Cosette whisper, ‘Goosebumps.’

A single set of hands applauded him. Grantaire watched as Enjolras turned around, his face darkening once he turned half-way round, facing the door.

‘That’s my cue, I’m afraid,’ Grantaire kissed Cosette’s cheek, ‘Enjolras will kill my evening plans otherwise.’

‘R, have you got a date?’

He left the box without a look back or giving her an answer, sprinting down the set of stairs to reach the stalls in time to catch Enjolras before he could address Claquesous who leaned in the door frame, shrouded in the shadows of the boxes above. Once he had stopped clapping he had crossed his arms over his chest and grinned at the perplexed faces looking on.

‘What are you doing here, Claquesous?’ Enjolras stopped a few metres away from him, throwing a quick look back at Grantaire, ‘R? I didn’t see you come in.’

‘Judges’ box. They have it nice and comfy now. And Claquesous is here because of me.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. We’re going out for drinks,’ Grantaire pushed past Enjolras with a smile, ‘That’s why I told Combeferre I wouldn’t be able to stay the whole evening.’

‘Is that also why you won’t come to the concert? Because of personal interest and bias?’

‘Oh Enjolras,’ Claquesous’ rough voice, as charming and pleasant as water running over sandpaper, and like the effects of chili rubbed into a wound, warm and painful at the same time, an underlying danger caught in the edges of his words, got all their attention, ‘there is no way Grantaire would ever stray from your side. The loyal subject he makes himself to be. Truth be told, we are friends. Nothing more, nothing less, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

He slapped Enjolras on the back, threw his other arm around Grantaire’s shoulders and leaned forward. His long hair fell into his face, covering most parts of it like a mask. Only his glimmering eyes seemed to burn through it, fixing them with a smirk.

‘Are you ready to go, Sous?’ Grantaire left his friends a muted smile before tagging along behind him.

Claquesous handed him a small parcel when they left the building and stepped into the cool, dark night, ‘I walked past this small shop, saw this and got it for you.’

Grantaire unwrapped the parcel whilst walking, folded the paper neatly to put it in his pocket and looked at what he held in his hands. For a moment, it seemed like a ball of wool. It was soft and fit in his hand without problems.

‘It’s one of these woollen hats you wear,’ Claquesous explained and pointed at it, ‘with cat ears and a small pocket.’

‘A beanie with cat ears and a pocket? Thank you, Sou, it looks amazing,’ he pulled it over his head and tried the small pocket underneath the right cat ear, ‘look, it fits my pencil!’

Claquesous nodded solemnly and opened a door. Grantaire recognised the bar, they had met up there a few times before, whenever Patron-Minette were in town. He followed Claquesous into one of the darker corners but did not take the new beanie off. His friend took his leather jacket off and slid into the booth.

‘Drinks?’

‘I’ll get them,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘first one’s mine, that means you get to pay for the really expensive ones later.’

‘Perks of being a rockstar.’

Claquesous needed a few drinks to loosen up, even more than Grantaire, a connection they had made on one of their early failed dating attempts. It had been Claquesous whose giggling expression of ‘We are both perfectly fucked up’ had prompted them to realise that they would not be the best couple. Friendship, they had agreed, would be the better alternative for both of them since they tried to leave a person behind by distracting themselves with a friend of that person.

It had been the only well thought out decision Grantaire had made in years.

‘You are overthinking,’ Claquesous sniffed, ‘I can it see it at the tip of your nose. Stop it, it’s annoying!’

Grantaire set down the glasses and sat down heavily. The chair creaked under his weight, he grabbed one of the beers he had gotten them and swallowed down a few gulps before meeting Claquesous’ eyes again. His friend shook his head at him.

‘Out with it, what’s going on? Even Montparnasse can’t annoy you so much that you look like death warmed over.’

‘Thank you for the boost of confidence,’ Grantaire watched him down the beer, ‘I’m not going to the duel.’

‘You’re what?’ Claquesous leaned forward, wiping his hair out of his eyes with one quick flick of his hand to look at him with the intensity of the full moon, ‘I do hope you’re taking the piss. You not there? That is cruel!’

‘I do not want to encourage Montparnasse any further. He will be bad enough to deal with as it is, I don’t need to be there to add fuel to the fire.’

‘Goddamit, I hope you know that you’re abandoning Enjolras by doing so. Do you want him to face Montparnasse on his own?’

‘He has his friends.’

‘Yes, and none of them sees ‘Parnasse as you do. He is problematic, I know that, I tour with the guy. You need to take care of this, not only of yourself but also Enjolras. Fucking hell, R, you make me swear and spit sensible shit at you as of late!’

‘What had you make me do?’

‘I don’t know, be there for your friend? Enjolras deserves you to be there for him, as far as I can judge, from both Montparnasse’s stories and the brief encounter we had.’

Grantaire sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, ‘You are saying I should be there? With Montparnasse?’

‘With Enjolras,’ Claquesous corrected, ‘Montparnasse doesn’t need you, he is actually better off on his own. All the confidence and obnoxiousness, the best premises for a rockstar. Enjolras, however, needs his friends there with him to provide support and backing.’

He drained his beer, ‘I’ll get the next round and leave you to reflect on that for a moment. Another one for you?’

‘Yeah, thank you,’ Grantaire stretched and rubbed his temples, ‘when did you turn into a philosopher, mate?’

‘When your decisions started getting worse than ever. I’ll order some brandy as well.’

He went over to the bar and came back with two pints and a bottle of brandy, ‘I forwent the glasses. Cheers, mate!’

Grantaire took the bottle from his hands, uncorked it and took a big swig. His friend watched him closely, a grin tugging at his lips.

‘Well then, boozer, I want for me to wake up with a headache tomorrow and you to forget you ever even considered not going to that bloody musical duel. Chug in three, two, one –‘

***

He woke up with a start, struggling against the weight on his chest that held him down. It felt like a ton, enough to root him to his mattress and constrict his breathing a little.

‘Get off me,’ he flailed about a little, brushing his arm over his chest.

He was met with soft fur.

‘What the hell?’

‘Oh shut up, Grantaire.’

‘Sous?’

‘Yes?’

‘Why are you here?’

‘You didn’t want to be left alone with Adonis.’

‘Adonis?’

‘The cat, mate.’

‘Cat?’

He pushed himself up, feeling Claquesous’ head slip off his chest. They lay sprawled out across his bed with his friend’s head pillowed on his shoulder and one of his arms over his hip. And then he heard the meowing, coming from the foot of his bed.

‘What the –‘

‘Hey, you scare him,’ Claquesous lifted his head and hit him in the side.

The door swung open and Jehan poked their head in, ‘There you are. Hi ‘Sous, sleep well?’

‘’M hungover,’ the growling answer came from somewhere buried under a pillow that Claquesous had pulled over his head, ‘go away.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Jehan pulled the blanket off them, ignoring Grantaire’s indignant squeak as he dove to cover the fact that he wore nothing but his boxer shorts, ‘I need the comfort and warmth of this blanket right now, Baz had to go out.’

‘Where’d he go?’ Grantaire wiped at his unruly hair.

‘To get a litterbox and food, obviously,’ Jehan sat down on his lap, ‘oh man, I just hope we deciphered your drunken messages correctly.’

They shoved their phone in his face and pointed to a string of messages, sent after midnight. Half of them were a random mix of numbers, letters and punctuation. The others spelt ‘kittn ina boxes out,’ ‘Gota cat,’ ‘ma be a dad’ and ‘helpme.’

‘Oh god,’ Grantaire buried his face in his hands, ‘I took a cat home?’

‘Not only that, you managed to sneak him past Joly.’

‘Are we sure it’s a he?’ Grantaire looked over to where a cream coloured kitten sat snuggled into one of his jumpers.

‘Joly checked.’

‘Didn’t you just say –‘

‘Who do you think let him out this morning? He can access the tree behind the house from your window, by the way,’ Jehan patted his head, ‘you should still check whether he is chipped.’

‘Yeah, I will do that,’ Grantaire ruffled their hair, ‘thank you, Jehan. I owe you one.’

‘Are you serious?’ Joly appeared in the door, arms crossed over his chest, chin jutted forward, ‘you adopted a cat, drunk-named it Adonis and smuggled it past us into your room only for it to wake us up meowing and Jehan is the one who gets an IOU?’

‘He loves me more than you,’ they singsonged, jumping off Grantaire’s lap to dance through the room, ‘I knew it, they love me more than you!’

Claquesous groaned into his pillow, ‘Why are they so goddamn energised in the morning, I can’t deal with this.’

Grantaire gave him a pat on the back before turning back around, ‘Why did I call him Adonis?’

Jehan and Joly had to leave the room in an attempt to muffle their laughter but he still managed to understand something resembling ‘blond and beautiful.’

Chapter Text

Adonis proved to be unchipped and unregistered as well as cuddly when he took him to the closest veterinary clinic the next day. The vet who checked the kitten over smiled and offered to vaccinate him on the spot.

‘Would you like him to be chipped and registered, we could do that in just a few minutes,’ the vet turned around from her desk where she had given the kitten belly rubs.

Adonis stretched his tiny legs, flounced across the desk and settled in Grantaire’s lap with a hop, rubbing his head against his side. He petted the cat, having found that the sound calmed him down.

‘Do you think we could do that?’

‘Sure, have you given him a name yet?’

‘Adonis,’ Grantaire blushed.

‘A beautiful name for a handsome young man,’ she handed him a form, ‘here you go, we are nothing more than a few details and your signature away from him being yours for good.’

Grantaire filled his information in, handed her the form back and scratched Adonis behind his ears. The kitten purred into his palm, his little tongue poked out every now and then to press its raspy surface against his fingertips.

‘There are a few more things you will need to sort over time but for now you are free to take him home,’ the vet petted Adonis’ head, cooing over him for a moment before pulling back slightly.

Grantaire scooped Adonis up, the kitten fit into his hand perfectly and curled up, winding his tail around his wrist, ‘Let’s get you home then, young man.’

Jehan and Bahorel had bought not only a litterbox and cat food but an additional cat bed, toys and a comfortable blanket. He had paid them back but they insisted that Adonis be spoilt by his uncles, aunts and family from the first day onward.

‘There you are, mon ami,’ Courfeyrac greeted him at the door, ‘I’m just heading out, I hope you are alright? Jehan mentioned something about a hangover yesterday.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Grantaire grinned at him, ‘nothing I wouldn’t have experienced before. Are you heading out?’

‘Ferre asked me to check the venue again before tonight. He is anxious something might go wrong, if none of us shows up once an hour to make sure the chairs are still there.’

‘Have fun guarding the chairs, then!’

Grantaire dropped Adonis off in the flat and put some food out for him. Bousset peeked out of his room and smiled, promising to look after the kitten whilst he was working on his paper.

‘What are you going to do now? Adonis is officially yours, which deserves some kind of commemoration. Not many of us would go out for drinks and come back plastered and with adopted children.’

‘I will adopt as many strays and children as I can,’ Grantaire winked at him, ‘it’s going to be one huge family. As for today, I have my paintings to attend to and you don’t have the time to do anything tonight. You will be preoccupied with the duel.’

He scratched Adonis’ head and cooed a little bit over him before turning to the door. With his headache held at bay with pain killers and his sketches of his St Sebastian ready to be transferred onto canvas, he set out for his studio.

The stairs creaked under his steps, as he made his way from landing to landing. He hummed a tune under his breath, the melody somewhat related to one he had heard in the waiting room of the veterinary clinic. The academy was quiet, most students were in their studios, in lectures or with tutors. He enjoyed the freedom Lafayette granted him in their tutorials, asking him to drop by every now and then to update him about his progress and clear any questions he might have come up with. Lafayette welcomed the teas and biscuits Grantaire sometimes brought along, too. It was refreshing to sit with his professor in companionable silence from time to time. He wondered whether other students felt similarly, whether they started sessions with the newest gossip around the academy, whether their tutors helped them find jobs in their field like Lafayette helped him, despite all of his eccentricities.

A hand clasped around his arm and pulled him into the music corridor, ‘In here, now!’

It took him a moment to realise what happened, then he instantly wished he had covered up the scared shriek that he had emitted.

Enjolras’s voice sounded harsh, his hot breath pushing against his neck. Grantaire noted the distress in his behaviour, as he was being dragged down the hallway. The hand that wasn’t holding on to his arm shook violently, a tremor that became more apparent when Enjolras failed to grab the door handle of his music room door. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and wild in their expression.

‘Are you alright?’ he could not ban the cautiousness from his voice, ‘You seem agitated, do you need to sit down for a moment? What are you even doing here, shouldn’t you be at the auditorium and practise a last time?’

Enjolras looked down at the suit he was wearing and found the tie on his piano, ‘Yeah, no, that has to wait. I need to show you something.’

Grantaire felt himself being pressed into the armchair. A still steaming cup of tea sat on the sidetable, half-full and slightly off on its saucer.

‘Did you really wait here to check whenever someone came up or down the stairs?’

Enjolras seemed too preoccupied with a book to answer him. He browsed it, turning pages as he went, walking up and down in the space between piano and armchair.

‘What is that, R?’ a piece of paper was shoved in his face, ‘I wanted to read a little, calm down before tonight and what do I find, in my favourite book, no less?’

Grantaire felt the grin slip off his lips as he took the sketch Enjolras held out of his hand. He remembered drawing it, of course he did. He never forgot his pictures. What he had forgotten was that he had left this particular sketch in a book at Enjolras’ flat when he had been over for dinner. The sketch of the three friends lounging on the sofa, Courfeyrac laughing, Combeferre whispering in his ear. And Enjolras, propped up next to them, an elbow pressed into a cushion, his hand dangling a little whilst he played with a loose strand of his hair, twirling it around one finger.

‘You found it. I can’t even remember which book I put it in, to be honest,’ Grantaire tried to play it off but his voice would not follow his command.

‘Le Vieux Cordelier,’ Enjolras raked his fingers through his hair, ‘but that’s not the issue here. Why did you leave it there?’

‘If I remember correctly, you were talking to me. I just left it there, I don’t even remember why. The book was there, I kind of wanted to hide it and it seemed a good idea at the time.’

‘Hide it?’ Enjolras’ mouth fell open, ‘Why would you hide this? It’s amazing, as if you stopped time there for a moment to shine a light on our evening. When I found this, I could not comprehend how real it looked. You captured Courf’s ridiculous laughing expression just right and it almost seems like Ferre is judging him just a tiny bit.’

‘He always is.’

Enjolras laughed, sounding bubblier than ever before. When Grantaire looked up to meet his eyes, they were shining with tears.

‘Are you alright?’

Enjolras wrung his hands for a moment, before all but falling to the ground next to the armchair, ‘I’m scared, R. I am actually scared of what might happen tonight, Montparnasse got me to crack.’

Grantaire closed his mouth, his words dying on the tip of his tongue. It occurred to him that he would not be of help if he merely pointed out that Enjolras had nothing to fear. The quick comment that Enjolras seemed a little too dramatic or frantic got stuck in his throat, his lips coming as far as forming the first syllable before he stopped himself.

Enjolras looked broken, his eyes flitting around the room, ‘I thought I could just show up there and play a little but he got to me, he got in my head and now I second guess everything.’

‘You are brilliant, Enjolras and your play is amazing. If I have to repeat it a thousand times, I will. Montparnasse might dream of grandeur but you reach that without so much as trying, you possess a grace natural to so few, something that is both a gift and a curse in the course of moments as it is but rises and soars high above anybody else. You have to promise me that you believe in yourself! It is the only way you can make sure Montparnasse does not triumph over you, show him that you are stronger and more capable than he could ever have dreamed!’

He took Enjolras’ hand for a moment and squeezed it.

‘Why won’t you come, R?’ the question took him by surprise, he tried to avoid meeting his eyes but could not hold up for long, ‘Would it be so bad?’

‘Yes. It would be the same as ripping my heart out of my chest and stomping on it. Don’t ask me to come, please. You have everybody else there to support you, why would you need me? We fight whenever we actually get together and it seems about the only thing we are capable of by now.’

‘Everybody else isn’t the person who listened to me play at night, who made it easier to fight through it until now. I am not saying that I need you there but you would be of great support for me. You are my friend, R, I am glad to call you that and tonight might just be the worst night of my life.’

‘I am sorry, Enjolras, I truly am. But I cannot comply with your wish, I simply cannot bear it. I can’t risk my own health,’ Grantaire sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, ‘It took me long enough to recover from the time I spent with Montparnasse in my teens. He is venomous, sucks the life right out of you.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Enjolras leaned back, eyes shimmering a little, ‘god, it’s times like this that I long for a smoke.’

‘You smoke?’

‘Smoked,’ he cocked his head to the side, ‘I stopped when I moved in with Courf and Ferre, they didn’t allow me to continue.’

‘Good of them, otherwise I would have taken on that job,’ Grantaire tried to make himself taller and impressive.

‘Sure you would,’ Enjolras reached up from the ground, ‘just don’t forget, you’re tiny.’

‘I am not tiny.’

‘You are smaller than me. You are tiny,’ Enjolras grinned up at him, ‘I rest my case.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘I really don’t know why you are in charge of a debate society, your arguments are horrendous.’

‘Insulting my work will not help you,’ Enjolras pushed himself to his feet, ‘well, I should better head off soon, if I want to have a quick play through before we start. Thank you for the drawing, R.’

‘See you tomorrow? I could come by after my shift.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘The museum. Lafayette got me a job a few months back, it’s work experience I wouldn’t get otherwise. Is Lamarque doing something like that?’

‘Courf is an usher in the theatre; I could probably get a job there as well but I don’t have the time, as it is. Isn’t Jehan working in costumes?’

‘They are wherever they are needed,’ Grantaire got up, ‘Break a leg, Apollo.’

He left the room with a small wave directed at Enjolras, closing the door after himself.

***

The light falling into his studio through the high windows grew dimmer and dimmer, until he felt compelled to switch on the light. He turned from the easel that held his St Sebastian and crossed his studio, avoiding the heap of dropped painting supplies, the empty canvases, yet to be processed and his jumper on the ground to get to the divan and switch on the lamp. The warm glimmer of its comforting shine only persevered for a second, then the lightbulb seemed to decide its own unimpressed stance with his need for lighting and extinguished itself with a soft ping.

‘Damned traitor,’ he grumbled, suddenly blind and fumbling to find his way to the door, ‘you really are going to make me switch on the harsh light?’

His fingers found the switch next to the door. He pressed it. The light remained off, no flicker graced his studio.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ he slipped on a sketch pad, almost crashed into the wall and avoided a collision of his head with the doorframe by centimetres.

His phone alerted him to a new message, he pulled it from his pocket and read the message sent to all tenants in the academy lodgings, ‘We apologise for the power cut and are working on restoring the electricity asap Maintenance Management..’

Grantaire flopped onto the ground and buried his face in the crook of his arm, entirely set on dying peacefully without the light he needed to continue to get the shading and the colours right as he finished the painting off. Locking himself in had proven to be effective, his paintbrush seemed to fly over the canvas if he could not simply leave and wander around the academy buildings whenever he got bored.

The electricity did not come back on within five, ten, or fifteen minutes and Grantaire could no longer fight off the notion that he should do something to pick himself off the floor. He could do his shopping, surprise Joly and Bousset with dinner later on or bake an actual cake. But then again, his friends would go out for drinks with the rest of the newly grown Amis de l’ABC, whether Enjolras won the duel or not.

Grantaire put his feet up on the floor and pulled himself up. In between moves, he groaned and lifted one hand to wipe his hair back. His back complained about having been subjected to the wooden ground, his fingers complained about being without use and his brain was jumping from one thought to the next within seconds.

He switched on his phone’s torch and looked for his keys, soaked his brushes and dried them off quickly to clean them. The early onset dusk cast long shadows into his studio whilst the first stars peeked out behind a thin veil of clouds. He locked his studio and climbed the stairs to the abandoned flat. Joly and Bousset would not be back for a few hours and Adonis had apparently slipped out the window that he had propped open for him. Grantaire looked around his room, taking in the mess he had left, the new cat bed in the corner Adonis had chosen as his area and the open sketchbook he had left at the foot of his bed in the morning before taking his new tomcat to the vet.

It had fallen open to show one of the many sketches he had produced, those of Enjolras at the piano. None of his sketches captured what he really meant to portray and show, so he produced one after the other, filling pages with details and studies, attempting to catch the presence Enjolras gave off and failing in the process. It eluded him how a simple figure, one he had drawn before, proved so difficult when all he wanted was to put it in a certain situation. No logical reason provided any clarity on the matter and Grantaire was too stubborn to let it rest, trying again and again to succeed.

He grabbed his coat out of the wardrobe, the elegant wool one his father had gifted him. He did not wear it often but something about the day called for it, even if he did little more than walk around town.

The street was quiet when he stepped out of the door. The stars provided some pale light but it was the streetlamps that guided him along the pavement. It was peaceful, the few people outside did not mind each other as they walked their set paths. A single dog barked in the distance. Grantaire buried his hand in his coat pockets and walked amongst them, blending in effortlessly. The street was drenched in the darkness of an early winter evening, the first sign for the end of autumn and the biting cold reminder that he should buy an advent calendar for Gavroche. Éponine had asked him to because he would only call it kitschy and a waste of money if it came from her. If it was a present from Grantaire, he was more likely to actually eat the chocolate before throwing the calendar away.

The stores around town had put up Christmas decorations weeks earlier but Grantaire had not given them much notice and looked at them in more detail as he walked past them. He drank in any fairy light and glittery ornament he saw, smiling softly at the idyllic picture presented by the retailers up and down the high street. In general, he liked Christmas but the pressure of buying presents almost got too much for him every year. He pushed thoughts of his broadened circle of friends and the increased amount of gifts he would have to buy to the back of his head and walked on.

One of the clothes shops on the market place blasted Last Christmas at him as he walked past, a cold shudder ran down his spine and he felt the urge to press his hands to his ears and cover them. The everlasting curse of Wham! and the forced Christmas cheer their song meant haunted him as soon as a retailer thought it proper to open the season in October.

The next shop he passed played instrumental Christmas carols. The dominant piano part that pushed the melody forward in caprioles made his skin tingle. A thought drilled into his head, pushing aside the dread of having to hear Last Christmas for weeks whenever he passed an open door in town, all thoughts about how the stars in the night sky were the most beautiful thing he had seen since he painted the sunrise for Jehan and how it made him feel that he was small and on his own whilst even the stars were surrounded by others of their kind. The thought of it let him look up, blinking against the Christmas lights overhead, until he could make out the stars between them. He found the North Star, brightly sparkling against the dark sky, surrounded by the smaller, still sparkling stars that followed it around the firmament. It had guided seamen around the globe for centuries and as Grantaire looked up at it, something seemed to call out to him.

He set off running, his coat wafting behind him, scarf unwrapping and almost flying off his shoulders. His steps were loud on the cobbled stones as he raced down the street, around the corner and crossed the bridge over the river, where he set off along the shore towards the tall dome of the museum and the old buildings along the river bank.

He was out of breath after he reached the sweeping stairs, took them two at a time, shrugged his coat off in the cloakroom at threw it at one of the students working there. Grantaire did not waste a single look on the shiny marble floor and walls, the decorations put up in the foyer or the people standing around.

It was only when he came to a skidding halt in front of Joly in the entrance that he realised that he was still on time. His best friend looked up at him from the chair he sat on, a slight shake of his head indicating a change of emotion.

‘I owe you this position at the door, according to Ferre? Thanks for that, I could not have spent the minutes before this bloody nightmare in a less comfortable position. And just because you didn’t want to come and help; what are you even doing here now?’

‘Joly, please don’t start,’ Grantaire adjusted his scarf and pushed his hair back, ‘I know I messed up and I’m here now, shouldn’t that be more important?’

‘Of course it is, idiot,’ Joly pulled him down to give him a hug, ‘now go in and calm him down.’

‘Whom?’

Jehan appeared in the leaf door before Joly could answer, ‘Good, R is here. Come on, Enjolras is freaking out and Courf is not helping.’

‘I don’t want to be inv-,‘ they pulled him into the hall without listening to him, the fingers of their left hand white around his wrist.

‘You have no other chance,’ Jehan’s voice wavered, ‘it’s you and me. None of the others had to deal with Parnasse before as we did. We can probably help him a little.’

With that, they pulled him past the filling rows in the auditorium, past the elderly couples in their gowns and suits, past the ushers in their uniforms and past their friends, huddled together in front of the stage. Grantaire spotted Musichetta, in her apron, rubbing small circles into Bousset’s back. He was ruffling and tearing his hair, the friends kept joking that he would go bald at an early age, if he continued the habit. Instead, he had shaved his head but his hair grew back, millimetre for millimetre. Bahorel comforted Feuilly who looked a little pale and had his hands clawed in Cosette’s arm. She spoke with Éponine, soft words being exchanged over the noise of chattering and whispering. Marius stood next to them, head hung low and eyes averted.

‘You are here,’ Combeferre’s voice did not let on whether he was surprised. His cool glance gave Grantaire a once-over he would have liked to omit, ‘and you look decent.’

‘Sorry, Combeferre, I only really decided to come a few minutes ago,’ he could still feel the tightness in his lung, the quick breaths he sucked in to fill his lung, the burning warmth of blood shot into his cheeks, ‘Jehan said Enjolras is freaking out, what happened? Why didn’t you do something?’

‘We did,’ Combeferre took his glasses off to wipe them clean, ‘Courfeyrac takes care of him and now that you are here, you can talk to him. With Jehan.’

‘Combeferre, I’m here, that doesn’t mean I want to be involved! Just let me sit in the back and have Courf give Enjolras something to drink.’

‘Not productive. You could help him out here,’ Combeferre raised his voice, getting the attention of their friends, ‘he is your friend, Grantaire, and he is in a really bad place right now. Tell me, what is keeping you from being there for him? Are you really going to be selfish enough to have him fight with his own demons whilst you might just be the one person who could help him?’

‘Who cares about my demons, though?’

‘Right now? No one,’ Combeferre put his glasses back on, having polished them until they sparkled, ‘You are not facing off against Montparnasse on a stage. Get over yourself and help Enjolras, I have a musical duel to stage and announce.’

He brushed past him.

‘Come on,’ Jehan tugged on his hand, ‘Enjolras is in one of the dressing rooms. He’ll probably throw something at you but you’ll be quick enough to duck.’

‘Thanks, Jehan, you really know how to assure me.’

‘You didn’t listen to Combeferre, did you? This is not about you, if you choose to help Enjolras out,’ they let go of him to open one of the simple doors backstage, ‘in you go, brave one who sacrifices himself for his friend. You came here, even though you have more reason than most of us to avoid Montparnasse. Enjolras will know what that means for you.’

‘Are you sure, Jehan?’

‘He will probably get the notion.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes before entering the room.

‘Leave me, Jehan,’ Enjolras hung over a chair in the corner, facing the wall, ‘I have all this sheet music to go through. Again.’

‘Yeah, Jehan would probably let you brood in peace. Tough luck, Apollo, it’s me now. You should really know by now that I am moody, indecisive and unpredictable.’

Enjolras pushed himself up and off the chair with one swift movement. His hair was sticking out in weird angles, he tried to push it behind his ears but it slipped out again immediately. He smoothed his shirt down, carefully ironed cloth with polished cufflinks on the lapels under a hoodie jacket.

‘What are you doing here, R? You said – you said you wouldn’t come!’ Enjolras took a step in his direction but stopped a second later, ‘I thought you wouldn’t come!’

‘I didn’t want to,’ Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest, ‘yes, I ended up here but Jehan made me try and help you.’

‘Help me? I don’t need any help, I am perfectly capable.’

‘You are not scared of Montparnasse, of the duel and everything it includes anymore? Good to hear, you seemed a little tense this morning,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I must have been under the wrong impression, then.’

He turned back to the door. It opened before he or Enjolras could say another word to reveal Jehan. Their cheeks were burning with a blush that could only have two possible reasons, as far as Grantaire knew; either, Bahorel had pulled them in an unobserved corner to kiss them, or they had met Montparnasse in the corridor.

‘Please tell me that you are ready, Enjolras,’ they slipped through the door and slammed it shut, ‘I can’t stand the sight of him anymore! He’s driving Baz and me crazy with his never ending comments and quips. He needs a muzzle or a gag, not a stage to present himself on!’

Grantaire waved him off, ‘Apollo is as ready as can be, all he needs now is a hairbrush.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ Enjolras’ eyes twinkled with sudden fury, ‘I am capable of doing this bloody thing without your unintentional mockery! I am here today because I made a decision, I decided to come here and face a demon I wanted to forget. Yes, it takes a toll on me but I don’t hide and chicken out as soon as I see a cloud on the horizon. Make of that what you will but I cannot accept it for me! I will go out there and perform my best, I really can’t bring myself to care about what you have come up with to seem clever and witty.’

Grantaire tried to keep his expression under control, ‘Promise me that you won’t explode in front of Montparnasse like that. We wouldn’t want to give him more stuff against you, right?’

‘As if you cared!’

‘Well then, will you hand me your travel brush and hold him down, dearest Jehan? If he goes off at Montparnasse, he should look decent, at least.’

‘Jehan, don’t you d-‘

‘You look as if you touched a socket, darling. Your hair does look odd,’ they handed Grantaire the small pink brush they carried around wherever they went, ‘let Grantaire take care of it before you go out there.’

‘Grantaire doesn’t even want to be here,’ Enjolras stared him down, eyes darkened with anger.

‘Grantaire came here because he decided to. He also thinks you either need a massage or a slap in the face,’ Grantaire was unwilling to allow Enjolras to go on, motioning towards the chair, ‘sit down, your hair is a mess and you are freaking out. Do you want to shout at me a little more? It seems to help you, judging by the way you stopped shaking the moment you had me to yell at.’

Jehan giggled behind his back but retreated when he shot them an unimpressed look. Enjolras seemed to follow their brief exchange of looks before sitting down and pulling the ribbon out of his hair that had kept some strands back.

‘Do your worst then.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes at him, ‘Always with the drama.’

‘Don’t start.’

‘Stop the bickering,’ Jehan patted both of them on the shoulder, ‘make him look pretty.’

‘There is literally nothing I could do to not achieve that goal,’ Grantaire ran his fingers through Enjolras’ curls, ‘see you out there in a few minutes.’

The door fell shut behind them, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras alone in the dressing room. He looked Enjolras over as he combed his hair, the hoodie jacket he wore did not seem concert-ready and he still looked tense.

‘Are you going to face Montparnasse like that?’

‘Of course not,’ Enjolras’ fingers dug into the armrest, ‘I’ll get changed in a moment.’

‘Good idea,’ Grantaire nodded softly, ‘I am here because I realised I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself, by the way. Leaving you to face off against Montparnasse whilst my conscience wants to kill me on sight – I opted for the possibility that allows me to be in company, if all goes pear-shaped.’

Enjolras turned around to him carefully, a curl slipped from Grantaire’s hands and fell into his eyes. He brushed it away with a small gesture.

‘You really don’t like Montparnasse, do you?’

‘Not at all,’ Grantaire parted Enjolras hair in sections to braid them, ‘he is a leech, out for blood and cold as a fish. And that is just what I learned as a child. I have no intention to spend more time than necessary in his presence. I am, however, willing to suffer through his being here for some time, if I can support you at the same time. We will clash, we know that. The one thing I would never grant Montparnasse is to have the satisfaction of seeing me submit to anyone, and especially not him.’

‘I know you have history,’ Enjolras stated it with an unwavering voice, ‘don’t worry. I still consider you a friend. Something bigger and worse than Montparnasse has to happen to change my thoughts about you, R.’

‘Just don’t count on me in case he tries anything funny,’ Grantaire’s fingers shook when he fastened the black velvet ribbon around the braid he had crafted. If Enjolras noticed it, he did not mention it.

Chapter Text

He found an empty seat next to Claquesous, in one of the back rows, ‘You alright?’

Claquesous looked up from the programme in his hands, ‘Hello there, you made it. I knew you would be here.’

‘Of course you did.’

Claquesous had changed into actual dress pants for the occasion, even though he still wore nothing but black. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and his face was hidden behind the mask of his hair. Grantaire sat down next to him. His knee started bobbing up and down, betraying the forced calmness in his expression.

‘No wonder you can’t lie,’ Claquesous rested on hand on his leg, ‘try to take a few breaths. You are in the auditorium, no one’s getting close to you.’

‘Reassuring,’ he looked around, trying to get a glimpse at familiar faces, ‘Where are Babet and Gueulemer?’

‘First row, closer to the stage.’

‘Do you know what he is going to play?’

‘Even if I did,’ a twinkle appeared in Claquesous’ eyes, ‘I am still his friend and you are Enjolras’. There is a limited space we can occupy but we reach the border as soon as you ask about details concerning the duel. You wouldn’t tell me what Enjolras is playing, either.’

Grantaire had nothing to add to that. They sat side by side for a moment during which he looked around a little more. His eyes were captured by the four people sitting in the box he had prepared with Cosette.

Her father sat somewhat relaxed on his chair, a notepad on the railing in front of him. His bright eyes were scanning the room, nodding a greeting at some of the people still filing into the room. He seemed absorbed in a quiet discussion with two of his fellow judges. Grantaire recognised one of the music professors around the academy, Professor Lamarque was of a similar calibre as his own tutor. Rumour had it that Lamarque and Lafayette made up a Pub Quiz team with drama’s Professor for Early Modern Literature, Robespierre and the sculpting god that was Professor Saint-Just. He did not know how much of the rumour was actually true but it seemed plausible to imagine these luminaries of their territories joining forces to knock some drunken, overambitious students down a peg.

Next to them sat Monsieur Mabeuf, the church warden down the road whom Marius had got on board as a judge. He smiled softly into the room. Grantaire had not met him before, he allowed himself to cast a curious glance over him, lingering a moment on the kind face in the box on the side. Mabeuf’s smile was a point of light next to the thunderous clouds around Javert’s head. Known as the toughest critic around, Javert had built a reputation for himself of being overly direct and hypercritical, looking for the tiniest details, the weakest mistakes and touches out of the ordinary. His sharp, biting comments and humourless words were infamous in their circles. None of them dared to do as much as breathe in the wrong way in his presence, the consequences could range between a bad review in the one newspaper no one read and a career-destroying, flaming article about how the respective artist would single-handedly be responsible for destroying the fine arts.

Grantaire had crossed paths with him before, as had Jehan and Joly; Bousset had famously risked his eviction from the academy when he had challenged Javert’s critique of an art exhibition, calling him a hypocrite after he had found a spelling mistake in the review. Javert, proving to be a true perfectionist, had promised Bousset to keep him from further events and openings. So far, he had stuck to him like bad luck.

‘Well, our judges look grim tonight,’ Claquesous leaned over to him and nudged him in the ribs, ‘they certainly won’t give any free passes and second chances if anything goes wrong.’

‘We are talking about Enjolras and Montparnasse. If anything goes wrong, they will hold it against each other, not the judges,’ Grantaire kept an eye on the front of the room where his friends sat down, leaving only Combeferre standing, ‘they are going to start soon.’

‘How so?’

‘Combeferre is appointed Master of Ceremonies tonight. He’ll do all the talking,’ he pointed to the stage where a single spot shone its bright light onto the curtain.

The conversations in the auditorium died down as Combeferre climbed the stage, a microphone in his hand. Grantaire could make out Courfeyrac, his sparkling blazer and unruly curls gave him away as he jumped out of his seat to applaud his boyfriend. Grantaire heard someone chuckle behind them. An elderly couple shared a smile in the next row, watching Courfeyrac with lively eyes.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ Combeferre smiled down from the stage, microphone in his hand, his voice steady as he took a few steps towards the edge, ‘it is with greatest honour and pleasure, that I can stand here, announcing the start of the latest campaign of Les Amis de l’ABC. Our group has made a name for itself through the last years, our campaigns and actions have started to have an impact. The proceeds of tonight’s bar, donations and further support are going directly to two charities, half of the money goes to Les Restos du Coeur, a charity that is very close to our hearts and which we are proud to be supporting tonight and the other half goes to a small, local undertaking that Les Amis have chosen together. We have a few representatives of both charities here tonight, we will welcome them as this event goes on. It fills us with joy that an occasion such as this musical duel could pose an opportunity to have an impact on the good work done by incredible people out there.’

Applause interrupted Combeferre, he grinned and waited a moment for it to die down, ‘Now, this academy has seen its fair shares of rows amongst students and professors, not to forget critics. It seems that some events will pose some attraction throughout history. The two men who will face off against each other tonight might as well be called Ludwig van Beethoven, Mozart or Paganini. They could be our own esteemed dean and the man we know and fear around the academy. In fact, both are sitting in one of the boxes here, functioning as our judges tonight. Please give a generous hand to Monsiour Jean Valjean, dean to the Academy of the Fine Arts and Monsieur Javert, the critic amongst the critics!’

‘He’s really nice to Javert, don’t you think?’ Claquesous showed more teeth than usual in a grin, Grantaire could not help feeling cautious whenever his friend decided to show the smile that made him look like a shark about to attack a wounded fish.

‘Just for one night, I guess,’ Grantaire refocused on Combeferre who went on to introduce Lamarque and Mabeuf with a little more enthusiasm than he had talked about Javert a moment ago.

The applause amongst the audience was intercepted with whistles, Mabeuf and Lamarque bowed slightly and accepted the appreciative thunder. Grantaire felt Claquesous nudge him in the side and followed his look. Combeferre still held on to the cards that contained the entire programme for the evening, probably even a few jokes strewn in for good measure by Courfeyrac. Behind him, however, the curtain had parted a few centimetres and Enjolras peeked out from behind it.

‘Looks like your boy is excited,’ Claquesous toyed with a curl that had escaped from behind Grantaire’s ear, ‘what would you say if I proposed a bet on tonight’s outcome?’

‘That I am a better friend to Enjolras than you are to Montparnasse because I would never do that.’

‘You don’t have the moral high ground,’ Claquesous rolled his eyes at him, ‘you only met him a few weeks back, if I am not mistaken.’

‘Time does not limit the bonds of friendship or the intensity of a connection made of same interests.’

‘You sound like that poet friend of yours. All words and wisdom now, R? It suits you surprisingly well, as if you are fitting into an old jumper again. To be honest, it is refreshing to see you embrace it for once.’

He did not continue as Combeferre’s voice grew in excitement, bearing the anticipation that surged through the room, taking firm hold of the audience with the force of waves on a sandy beach ripping the hoarse pellets into the sea. Nothing and no one could withstand Combeferre in such a state. He was in a fiery mood.

‘The history of the musical duel is one of blood, sweat, tears and melodies, a story of lost chances, avoided confrontations and glorious victories. The winner of a musical duel is sure to receive the honour and appreciation of the crowd, and the loser will still have the experience – as long as they don’t run off like the unfortunate Marchand who didn’t ask before accepting to challenge Bach –‘

Laughter and applause interrupted him for a moment, Combeferre stood in the middle of the stage, smiling to himself for a moment. He looked satisfied with himself, giving a small thumbs up to their friends in the first rows.

‘Our contestants come from musical backgrounds that could not be more different as they are. One of them educated at the very academy this auditorium belongs to, the other one made popular by the influence of modern music, taught by the same piano teacher, yet come to the very different genres of the musical spectrum.’

The curtain opened. It revealed Enjolras and Montparnasse, standing on opposite sides of the stage, concentrating too much on avoiding each other’s eyes to seem relaxed in the presence of someone Grantaire knew they disliked to say the least. The two grand pianos, pushed close together to face each other, loomed over them as they joined Combeferre, occupying one half of the stage each.

‘They make quite the spectacle, don’t you think?’ Claquesous leaned in again, a smirk hanging off the corner of his mouth, ‘I mean, look at them. Two gentlemen in their own right, not necessarily the communal eye.’

He was right, at least on the outside both men looked every bit the part. Enjolras wore the pressed and starched shirt he should wear as an aspiring concert pianist, every fibre the perfect picture of a future laid out on a silver platter. He looked the part, presented something believable, something an audience could grasp.

Montparnasse had chosen the outfit closest to what he made his trademark look on stage. The waistcoat he wore was flashier than Enjolras’, silver thread sparkled under the chandelier’s light. He had more of a baroque aristocrat than a musician and Grantaire could only imagine how much it annoyed Enjolras to see his opponent in that fashion. He had forgone the wig and hat but carried a cane which he rested on slightly when he stepped next to Combeferre. Grantaire could tell that he wore more makeup than usual, probably even enough to count as mask. In comparison to him, Enjolras looked pale in the classic black and white attire he wore.

‘Our evening’s entertainment is going to be based on four rounds of different music genres. We are going to hear music from Baroque, nineteenth century Romanticism and the modern age before our contestants will be faced with a surprise challenge,’ Combeferre motioned for Enjolras and Montparnasse to sit down on their respective stools, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Academy of the Fine Arts and Les Amis de l’ABC cordially invite you to enjoy an evening of musical brilliance and entertainment.’

Applause interrupted him again. Montparnasse seized the moment to say something to Enjolras. Grantaire saw how he tensed up and clenched his fists.

‘You know Montparnasse doesn’t give much on what happens tonight, right?’ Claquesous took his hand and squeezed it, ‘for him, it is just a little fun on the side after finishing the tour. He will try and wind Enjolras up but at the end of the day, this is not something that will bring in publicity for the band.’

‘I don’t know. They have as much history with each other as Jehan and I with Montparnasse,’ Grantaire slumped back in his chair, ‘this may very well end in a disaster.’

‘Cut the pessimism. Enjoy the music, I trust both of them came up with astonishing pieces. Did you hear Enjolras practise?’

‘No, not once. He can make a secret of certain things.’

Montparnasse got ready on stage, stretching his arms over his head. Someone in the audience cheered and whistled.

Combeferre stepped back to the centre of the stage, ‘We will begin, ladies and gentleman, with Round One of tonight’s competition as our challenger prepares to perform. We are being treated to a true jewel of the pre-Classic now – a long way from what Patron-Minette usually bring to the stage. Montparnasse will now perform the Gigue from the Second English Suite by Johann Sebastian Bach.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Grantaire tightened his hand into a fist around the cuff of his shirt, ‘Bach?’

‘What, he was a brilliant composer. Definitely Montparnasse’s favourite, quite a few of our songs were inspired by his music,’ Claquesous joined the applause for Montparnasse.

Grantaire winced.

The light, soft notes poured into the room. Montparnasse’s fingers jumped danced on the keyboard, scaling, meeting and overpowering each other. He allowed no one to doubt his skill, not for one second. A few young voices in the audience cheered him on and Grantaire could not hide the sniff he omitted in disapproval.

‘Philistine,’ Claquesous hissed, ‘that’s the change, old boy. People express their approval whilst the piece is played. You know fucking rock concerts.’

‘Yes, but I don’t interrupt recitals of classical music,’ his eyes were still on Enjolras’ pale face, he had lost what little colour had been in his cheeks when Combeferre announced a piece by Bach.

Montparnasse winked at someone in the audience whilst finishing his piece. His teeth blinked bright and white and Grantaire was reminded of Brecht’s Threepenny Opera.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Claquesous asked again, ‘Are you seriously that upset about people cheering. Or about Montparnasse having fun? You know they’re just going to bump heads, right? Montparnasse is in no way serious about all this. He’ll dally a little and entertain Enjolras’ fancies but he is not the one driving himself into the ground about this circus.’

‘I am fairly certain Enjolras wouldn’t call it fancies or circus. Montparnasse is here to have a good time.’

‘Yeah, Enjolras definitely isn’t,’ Grantaire whispered back.

Montparnasse sat back on his stool, a smug grin on his face. Combeferre made another entrance from where he sat, without doubt next to a restless Courfeyrac.

‘Thank you, for this first performance. We will hear more of Montparnasse shortly but first, Enjolras performs Tambourin en Rondeau, composed by Jean-Philippe Rameau. The piece, a baroque masterpiece, was originally written for harpsichord and was adapted for piano in this form for tonight by Enjolras.’

Polite applause. Grantaire felt the palms of his hands get clammy with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers, staring ahead to the stage. His focus was on Enjolras alone who sat up straight, hands hovering over the keyboard. Grantaire saw the twitch, the tiny indicator of actual nerves getting to him for the fracture of a second. His heart let him know it was worried by sending a painful impulse through his upper body. He flinched.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Claquesous grabbed his elbow before he could smack it into his side, ‘Can you calm down?’

‘This is going to end badly,’ Grantaire gasped out, ‘Montparnasse will find something, he will break Enjolras. Bach is only the start.’

Claquesous squeezed his elbow tight enough to send another jolt of pain through his brain. Whatever he intended to say was interrupted by the first notes from the piano.

He had heard an adaptation for strings once, hearing it on a piano meant a whole new dimension. The intricate combination of trills, accompanied by dissected chords, invited to move around, to dance in a baroque palace. Enjolras managed to make the repetitive patterns of the melody seem more complex, he added flourishes, dynamic and an air of melancholy to it as he hit the keys with the soft touch Grantaire had come to know so well. He kept the tempo lively enough to suggest a ball, a dance but held it back at times in a suggestion of measuredness. As the melody dipped, so did the volume of his play and for a mere second, the picture of baroque palaces and dances was replaced by a forest green and fairies fluttering in a summer breeze before a heavy rain.

‘He’s not bad, your boy,’ Claquesous leaned closer, ‘not the most challenging of pieces, of course.’

Grantaire could not answer. He was transfixed by the sight of Enjolras on stage, sat comfortably in the spotlight, hair shimmering like the summer sun herself. His pale, slim fingers jumped, danced over the keyboard and his upper body moved to the music, giving it the emotional background it needed.

When he finished, applause erupted in the hall. Grantaire watched as his friend got up and bowed sharply. His eyes darted up to the box for a moment where the judges were scribbling comments on their notepads. Grantaire wished for the sparkle in Dean Valjean’s eyes to be genuine, the smile on Mabeuf’s face to be the real deal. Somehow, their appreciation seemed to disappear next to Javert’s stern face.

Combeferre re-entered the stage, his cards in hand, ‘That sees the end of our first round of old masterpieces. So far, our contestants have done well, I would say. Our next round will see them play nineteenth century classics. Once again, I welcome to this stage Montparnasse, this time with a rendition of Liszt’s La Campanella.’

‘He’s really going there?’ there was genuine surprise in his voice as he turned around to face Claquesous, ‘Liszt? And that piece?’

Montparnasse rose from the stool he sat on to take a quick bow towards the judges. Grantaire saw their pens fly over paper, taking notes. There were only two possible endings when doing Liszt, either success across the board or cultural suicide.

He trusted Montparnasse to nail it and hated himself for it.

La Campanella had been his mother’s favourite piece. The record had played softly in the background whenever Montparnasse and his mother came over for tea. As far as Grantaire knew, she had never played it in concert but Montparnasse played it, soft and intricate, lazily flawless and resonate through the hall. The cheerful semidemiquavers send ripples through the room, echoing themselves. His fingers flew, spanning the whole width of the keyboard. Dark hair slipped into his face, the manic glint in his eyes kindling, his upper body jolting with the power of his touch. The grand piano seemed to shake under the energy he put into his play. He made it seem easy, almost effortless since his fingers were almost calm in their rush. The playful, amusing melody stood in harsh contrast with Montparnasse’s looks and Grantaire found himself swallowing a lump in his throat that threatened to cut off his breath. His posture reminded him of the evenings they had spent together, playing four-handed for their mothers before retiring to his bedroom to do anything but play music. A ghost of feathery touches slid down his spine and made him shiver with the memory of their last meetings.

Montparnasse finished amid the applause of the crowd. He got up from the stool briskly and bowed again. His eyes flitted over the people seated in front of him, catching Grantaire off guard. For a moment, they stared at each other before Montparnasse broke into a satisfied grin and stepped back.

‘Thank you, Montparnasse, for a spectacular interpretation of Liszt’s masterpiece,’ Combeferre shuffled his cards, ‘we now welcome Enjolras back to the stage who has prepared a piece by Mikhail Glinka, The Lark.’

‘Risky to go with a lesser known one,’ Claquesous murmured, ‘he proves a daredevil after all.’

‘Enjolras has his fair share of exciting stories under his belt. Activism entails that,’ Grantaire picked at a flap of skin on his thumb, ‘I bet he got arrested at least once.’

‘And that’s what you look for in a guy? I have been arrested loads of times,’ Claquesous crossed his arms over his chest.

‘Now, you wouldn’t want me to think that you like me after all, would you?’ he nudged him gently in the ribs.

‘Shut up and watch your boy,’ Claquesous proceeded to stare straight ahead without acknowledging him further.

The piece started soft enough with two bars of crochets before scaling into first quaver sets. Grantaire perked up in his seat.

‘He is countering five sharps with five flats, this is amazing,’ he gasped, holding his breath over the following bars.

The melody was neither rousing nor furious, instead, it flowed. The lark soaring high in the sky seemed the calmest image Enjolras could summon. His fingers danced, he closed his eyes and Grantaire felt something sting in his eye.

This Enjolras, the one completely lost in his music whilst coaxing melancholy, wistful tones out of the instrument, was the one he had fallen for and he was the one who delivered the transition from common time quavers to challenging sets and cascades confidently. His first trills tested the water, playing with the dynamics as piano notes filled the sweeping room. The force of a signpost trill pressed the audience into their chairs as the melody climbed, soared as the bird ascended, trills and demisemiquavers chasing each other in a singing yet graceful way. It was the grandeur of Enjolras’ play, the way his shoulders bowed slightly as he gave utterance to every single note according to its position and value that kept them on the edge of their seats until he finished, allowing his hand to hover over the keyboard before turning to face the audience.

For a moment, the hall was silent and no sound was audible. Then, a first clap echoed through the room, more followed and within seconds, the first person jumped to their feet. Enjolras stood and watched as a single person’s enthusiasm developed into a wave and finally, a standing ovation. Grantaire swallowed dryly, rooted to the spot. His knees and legs refused to carry him. His hands weighed heavily in his lap. He could not raise them to join in as he was preoccupied with calming his breathing to keep himself from blacking out.

Claquesous cast a glance at him, ‘You ready for the interval, I guess?’

Chapter Text

Grantaire calmed down a little more after the beer Claquesous bought him at the bar in the foyer, ‘All profits going to charity. Well, nothing less to be expected of the resident do-gooder.’

‘Shut up,’ Grantaire shoved him, ‘he means it. He truly means it when he says he’s changing something, and he achieves it with pure stubbornness.’

‘Sure, you have to appreciate the passion he puts into his projects. He rivals Montparnasse in determination and drive.’

‘Would you please stop comparing Enjolras to Montparnasse?’ Grantaire all but screamed at Claquesous, ‘I am sick and tired of the way everyone praises Montparnasse, even though all he has ever done to me and at least two of my friends is almost unspeakably cruel and I don’t wish for anyone to experience it. Montparnasse can sing, arguably so, and I will not doubt that but he has just the worst character and abuses the people that let him come close.’

‘Well maybe you should stop making a fucking miracle of it all, then,’ Claquesous got close enough for Grantaire to be able to smell the beer on his breath, ‘you all shroud yourselves in darkness whenever the topic arises. How am I supposed to know what I should hate Montparnasse for, if all I ever hear from you is that he treated you some way but you do not tell me what exactly he did. I refuse to hate someone based on something you keep saying in passing.’

‘Maybe because it hurts to delve into detail? Maybe because I risk triggering myself every time I talk to anyone about it? Maybe because I wish no one would have to hear about it?’

An arm was slung over his chest and he felt himself being dragged away, through the foyer. Claquesous pinned him to wall and pressed his forearm to his throat.

‘Careful now, R, you are getting on my nerves,’ his eyes glinted with the dark spark that made him so unapproachable when he wanted, ‘I don’t like whining and you, dear friend, are whining.’

‘So you want the whole story of sexual abuse and harassment? You want to know just how often Montparnasse came by when he was stressed out, annoyed or just needed something to distract him? You want to know how often I fell for his excuses and cheesy lines? You want to know how often I could not even fathom that I allowed him back into my life and bed? How often I felt so dirty that my mother complained about me skyrocketing the water bill because I showered for hours? Should I make a list of all the slurs and abuse shouted at me after he was done because he needed to justify it all for himself?’ Grantaire felt tears prick in his eyes, he shoved Claquesous away from himself and downed his beer, chucking the bottle in the nearest bin without paying any attention to the disapproving looks people around shot him as it shattered on impact.

He made his way to the nearest bathrooms and locked himself in. As soon as he knew the door to be closed behind himself, he slipped to the ground and hugged his knees. His fingers were shaking and he felt a sob stuck in his throat. He felt stupid for running off, pathetic for letting it get to him and betrayed for the way Claquesous had treated him.

‘Grantaire?’ Claquesous’ voice sounded hollow in the tiled bathroom, ‘I know you’re in here. Fuck, you can’t just run off like a kid when things don’t go as you want them to go.’

He felt anger rise in his throat. That or bile, he could not tell. He unlocked the door and slammed it open.

‘You say things don’t go as I want them to go, guess what? They never have! Between Montparnasse, my mother and all the people who don’t give a fuck whether I manage to accomplish something or die in a ditch, passed out after too many drinks, I don’t know what I should expect anymore. If things started going my way, I would accuse every single person in my life of either manipulating me or taking the piss,’ Grantaire pushed himself off the floor, ‘so fuck off and leave me alone, Sous!’

‘No,’ he held an arm out for him, ‘you get a hug. One time thing, enjoy it while it lasts.’

His arms had more in common with a vice as he tightened them around Grantaire’s upper body. He squeezed him tight enough to leave him breathless for a second, clamping his head into the crook of his neck.

‘Grantaire,’ Claquesous’ voice was uncharacteristically soft, ‘I am sorry for pressuring you. I should have stopped when you told me to.’

‘It’s alright,’ Grantaire mumbled into his shoulder, ‘I overreacted.’

‘No, you didn’t. You needed a break, I get that now. Patron-Minette back in town must have opened quite a few old wounds. I would have done something, anything, if I had known. God, I didn’t even question that awful nickname. Is that…one of the things he –‘

‘Podge? Yes, it was easy to make fun of the fact that I wasn’t the skinniest kid. It also kept my confidence low enough to keep me at his beck and call,’ Grantaire winced and wiped at his eyes, ‘fuck, I’m messed up.’

‘Let me guess, though,’ Claquesous pulled back a little, ‘Enjolras doesn’t know.’

‘Of course he doesn’t know. Why would I tell him?’

‘You can’t keep pretending, R, he will find out.’

‘Oh come on, how would he find out,’ Grantaire ran his hand through his hair, fingers getting stuck in a few tangles, ‘there is no way in the world that he finds out.’

‘Enjolras has met your mother before, darling,’ the dangerous edge was back in his voice, ‘he just has to mention knowing you once and it all goes to shit.’

‘She can control herself,’ Grantaire moved to comb the tangles out of his hair.

‘You are playing with fire. Lying doesn’t pay off, you have to tell him at some point, if you want to keep that dream alive,’ Claquesous rubbed his temples, ‘and that’s coming from me.’

He patted his back, ‘You can’t hide forever, R. I’m sorry. At some point, the questions are going to pile up and I had rather you ask for help now and get people to understand, than fighting on your own, swimming and bloody drowning. Will you promise me one thing, Grantaire?’

‘And what would that be?’

‘Talk! Talk to Baz or Jehan, they seem to get it. Jehan was the one who had a thing with ‘Parnasse, weren’t they? They’ll understand. Just talk because you are not okay and I can’t help you, my emotional capability ends right here.’

‘Wow, Sous, you sound almost concerned.’

‘Fucking tool, I am concerned. And that’s making me fucking angry!’

Grantaire cast a glance at Claquesous and pulled his shoulders in, ‘We’re missing the second part of the duel. They must have started again.’

‘Yes, but you need to take care of yourself. We can go back, if you want but you are not leaving this room without promising me to talk to anyone.’

Grantaire swallowed and nodded slowly, ‘Okay. I promise you, I will talk.’

‘Good!’ Claquesous pushed the door open for them, ‘go on, then.’

They made their way through the empty foyer. Grantaire opened the door slowly and slipped through the gap. The sound of a soft piano tune welcomed them as they snuck to their seats in the back. Enjolras was playing and Grantaire tried to pick up the melody.

‘So, we missed Montparnasse’s performance,’ Claquesous opened his programme, ‘Valsa da Dor, never heard of that one. And Enjolras ventures into movie soundtracks, apparently. Did you ever see that French movie? Comptine d’un autre été: la demarche – what a fucking mouthful! He really wants to shove his middle-class intellect in your face, doesn’t he?’

Grantaire leaned back and closed his eyes as more notes dripped off the piano and wove into a warm, optimistic tapestry of sound, every note being a thread that raised the tension a little more. The soft, playful melody enchanted the audience and spread smiles on several faces. He felt it tug on the corners of his mouth, too and let himself have the moment that the flowing tune had prompted.

He saw one of the elderly ladies in the ninth row produce a tissue to dab at her eyes. The man next to her squeezed her hand and offered more tissues. Grantaire joined the crowd applauding Enjolras as he stood from his stool. His expression seemed a little taut but he looked out over the crowd with a small smile. He locked eyes with him for a second and seemed to relax for the duration of their shared look. Grantaire grinned back at him, giving him a thumbs up.

And then, as the applause died down and Combeferre was getting up to announce the fourth round, the surprise, the unprepared piece, Montparnasse jumped out of his seat. He strode to the middle of the stage and let his eyes roam. A dark shadow fell over his face as he brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes.

‘You might be waiting for Combeferre to tell you what we are supposed to play for our final round in this wonderful concert. I, for once, am looking forward to this and I want to thank all of you for coming. I am sure most of you are also generously donating to the cause my dearest adversary has picked. Now, the true reason we are here!’ Montparnasse showed a toothy grin, ‘There, in the very back of this room, in the last row, sits a very special boy. He has avoided me for years now because turning his back on me once wasn’t enough. You left me for Enjolras, Grantaire; you poor soul got caught between the favours of the two of us. I am grateful that our good Enjolras here is defending your honour tonight, like Apollo fighting for his Hyacinth. Look the story up, dear people here tonight! Grantaire is in the unique position to shun one of us, and as much as I enjoy the duel, I could not sit there and listen to the beautiful music we play without telling you lovely people here tonight about this little feud, this pursuit of recognition. Dear judges, I beg of you, do judge us before this background, too. Thank you!’

He stepped back with a smile, glancing at Grantaire with self-certainty in his sparkling eyes. A few people had turned around to catch a look at him. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks and shrunk in his seat, feeling his stomach cramp. The last thing he saw before he had to close his eyes in an attempt to fight the nausea was the blank expression on Enjolras’ face.

‘And he’s said it,’ Claquesous sighed and patted his back, ‘I’m sorry, R.’

Combeferre, struggling for words, waved for Montparnasse to sit back down. His stern face could hardly hide the fury in his eyes as he tried to come up with an explanation.

‘After this spontaneous announcement, I will only make a few words. We are indebted to Grantaire,’ he eventually said, not looking at his cards first, ‘but I would like to point out that, rather than being the focal point for at least one of our contestants, he is an active part of Les Amis de l’ABC and has, in fact, chosen the second charity the donations will go to tonight. As a project that is of interest to all of us, Grantaire decided that half of the proceeds should go the local orphanage and the fantastic volunteers that provide the kids with their packed school lunches.’

Again, applause broke out and interrupted Combeferre who grinned softly. He found Grantaire’s eyes for a moment and smiled with a nod, ‘We conclude tonight’s performance with a round that challenges Montparnasse and Enjolras with an unprepared task. Could I please have one of our judges to announce what the challenge will be?’

Dean Valjean got out of his seat and cleared his throat, ‘Thank you, first of all, for putting together this evening. As the judging panel for tonight, we have decided to put a personal challenge for our two pianists out there and ask them to pick and perform any song, written for lead vocals, that describes them. This may be a song written after nineteen sixty as we look for something different.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur Valjean, and thank you for letting us use the concert hall tonight,’ Combeferre turned back to Enjolras and Montparnasse, ‘five minutes preparation start now!’

‘Did you really pick one of the charities?’ Claquesous leaned over, ‘Because if you did, I am obliged to tell you that Enjolras is contagious.’

‘I suggested it, the topic came up once or twice.’

‘Wow, Grantaire, turning into a do-gooder? A miracle.’

Grantaire watched as Enjolras wrote notes on a scrap of paper, forehead wrinkled in pure concentration. His head bobbed a little and his foot was tapping to a beat only he heard in his head. For a moment, Grantaire could not take his eyes off him, sitting on his stool with a pencil in his hand.

‘What do you think they are going to play?’ Claquesous asked with actual interest in his voice.

Grantaire, who had forced himself to look anywhere but at Enjolras and brought his attention to where Babet and Gueulemer sat, a few rows in front of them, had to ask him to repeat his question. He cleared his throat, stalling.

‘You know what? I have no idea. Whenever I listened to Enjolras play or we talked, it was always about classical music. He played a bit of Anastasia, once. I have no idea what kind of popular music he likes, probably Indie.’

‘Well, I can assure you ‘Parnasse is going to play something out of this century. Not so sure about your boy, though. Seventies, Eighties, what do you think it will be?’

‘Do you want to bet? Because I will go with Eighties.’

‘You are a playing man and I know that, forgotten already?’

‘Drinks next time? Loser pays.’

They shook hands. Claquesous turned back around towards the stage where Montparnasse and Enjolras were still scribbling notes and annotations on their performances.

‘Oh they are good aren’t you?’ an elderly lady turned around in her seat, her eyes flickering over Claquesous’ studded jacket and pierced ears before settling on Grantaire in his elegant woollen coat and his carefully destroyed curls.

‘They certainly are,’ he smiled, ‘are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Oh yes, dear. I told Albert we had to come, didn’t I?’ she nudged the man sitting next to her, he nodded and mumbled something, ‘We come to all the concerts and recitals the academy organises. But this is not the academy, is it?’

‘No, it’s a student activist group,’ Grantaire felt himself smile at her inquiring gaze, ‘they work towards charities, try to make something happen, change the world around them. They are students of all sorts of fine arts, musicians, writers, poets, artists. They all come together to change something around the campus, for the students of the academy, and in the long run, for society.’

‘That seems like quite the task, dear. Surely, they must struggle to combine work and studies?’

There was no malicious implication behind her question. Grantaire nodded and ran a hand through his hair.

‘I’m sure they sometimes ask themselves why they chose to do it. Enjolras,’ he pointed to the stage, ‘has a habit of sleeping too little and working too much, running himself into the ground and getting angry at anyone around him once he’s tired enough. We learned to deal with it, I guess.’

‘But what exactly do they do, these Les Amis de l’ABC? What are their goals and aims? Their flyer and the posters certainly look interesting.’

Grantaire noticed the flyer she used to fan herself, it was one of the designs he had come up with for the duel. He nodded, contemplating how to phrase the answer the woman was waiting for with bright eyes and a kind smile. Her make-up was impeccable, no hair on her head was out of place and the shawl she wore looked expensive enough to warrant her a place on the governor’s board.

‘I don’t think they have the one goal. The beauty of Les Amis is the multitude of personalities coming together to work towards different goals. An issue is raised and discussed, by everybody. Any member can suggest issues to add to the schedule.’

‘Oh how sensible,’ she turned a little more in her chair, facing him completely, ‘are they the ones who campaigned for more transparency during the application process and the support scholarships for talented students from low-income families?’

‘They are that exact group,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘it would delight Enjolras to hear that you have heard of them.’

‘He is the one competing? Old family, that one.’

‘True,’ Grantaire followed his friend as he bent down to talk to Courfeyrac, ‘he does not rely on that. Instead, he tries to make it easier for people without his background and privilege to reach the same goals and succeed on the same level as those who entered with some sort of advantage. Les Amis try to support groups in the public eye, draw attention to their struggle and help wherever and to which extend possible. They change the way the world thinks, person by person, campaign for campaign, never stopped by criticism or hindrances. Even though their attempts may be seen as a drop of water in the desert they do not give up. Everybody contributes in their own way, everybody is valued, no matter how hopeless and sceptic they may seem.’

He realised that he began to tear up as he said it. He had not thought about it before actually sharing his view on the group of friends that had accepted him in their circles, not once questioning

‘You must admire them a lot, dear,’ the woman squeezed his hand, ‘you seem to know them well.’

Grantaire smiled back at her, catching Claquesous’ eye roll in his peripheral vision, ‘I’ll have you know, ma’am, I’m one of them.’

Chapter Text

Claquesous did not comment on the unexpected declaration Grantaire had delivered. Instead, Combeferre returned to the middle of the stage with a small piece of paper in his hand.

‘It counts,’ Claquesous slapped his thigh, ‘Never in a million years is Enjolras playing something as modern as the Eighties. You are going to pay for so many drinks, man.’

‘We have our final results for the unprepared round to the challenge where our judges asked the contestants to come up with a song that describes them. Montparnasse will go first, having chosen a song by a contemporary band. He will play his variation on The Good, The Bad And The Dirty by Panic! at the Disco.’

‘Shit,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘that is about what I expected from him. Has he really thought this through?’

‘I should hope so. It’s innovative.’

Montparnasse took his place at the piano up front. Grantaire shot a look up to the judges’ box where Mabeuf and Javert were quietly discussing something.

‘It’s lacking finesse and possibilities. There is nothing he can add to make it more interesting, a song like that requires the band setup, the voice, the bass. If you have a melody and harmonies you can come up with variations and that song is lacking in that department.’

‘Whatever,’ Claquesous shrugged.

Montparnasse began to play, the melody filling the concert hall. He looked manic, hair flopping into his face as he picked up the first bars and started to develop them. His accompanying left provided a regular beat, brushing over what the right did as the melody got tangled and resolved, coming back to something that sounded too much like an accompaniment in Grantaire’s ears. He had to sit on his hands to keep them from shaking. This song, as much as Montparnasse wanted it to be about him breaking rules and challenging everybody in his way, gave him hope. He might just have miscalculated when he picked it.

Grantaire allowed himself to bop his knee along. The song wasn’t bad in itself, it just seemed to lack something to round it off. For all he knew, it could be the insufficient preparation time that got the better of him. Montparnasse was only human, after all.

Applause arose from the rows of audience members, a little more cautious and restrained this time, something Grantaire noted with more pleasure than it should have given him. The audience seemed a little taken aback after he finished his pop punk extravaganza. Montparnasse got up to bow, his coat tails wafting a bit.

‘Thank you, Montparnasse,’ Combeferre stepped back onto the stage, another piece of paper in his hand, ‘thank you for this performance of The Good, The Bad and The Dirty by Panic! At the Disco. We are now going to hear Enjolras’ rendition of Too Much Love Will Kill You by the one and only Queen. Please enjoy!’

Claquesous’ hands hung mid-clap, his face caught in an expression of amazement and disbelief. Grantaire felt a grin tug at his lips. Enjolras lifted his hands above the keyboard and let them linger there for a moment. He looked down on the ivory keys, setting his fingertips down gently.

A first sequence of notes rippled from the instrument and flooded into the room. Grantaire felt the shiver run down his spine as the melody pierced his ears. It resembled a cascade more than anything, with pleasant harmonies accompanying the easy flow, giving it more colour and reverberance. Judging by the reaction displayed by both the older and younger audience, Enjolras had picked the right song. Grantaire smiled softly as the melody set in, asking to be heard. It didn’t force itself onto them, instead, the pleasant tune wafted through the room and wrapped itself around the listeners and warmed them. Glissandos and solemn cadences rose as Enjolras turned the simple Rock ballad into a polyphonic masterpiece.

Grantaire’s vision turned blurry. He felt Claquesous tap his arm and took the tissue offered to him. There was no apparent reason for him to feel as teary as he was, he wiped at his eyes and tried to hide the tears stinging on his cheeks.

‘He plays so beautifully,’ Grantaire cleared his throat and pocketed the tissue, ‘how can he just do that?’

Claquesous did not respond to him, he had lowered his head and hid his face behind the veil his hair easily turned into. They listened to the remainder of Enjolras’ performance in solemn silence, not spoiling it with their hushed conversation. Grantaire could see Courfeyrac holding up his phone in the first row and hoped he was filming, he needed physical proof of Enjolras playing a contemporary song so beautifully that tears coursed and some people started to sing along under their breath. It were the older guests in the auditorium, the ones who were likely to have grown up with the sweet sounds of Queen.

Enjolras took the melody to new high points, flattered it with a soft flourish and raised his quick-fingered expertise to a breath-taking standard. He stroked the keys, barely pressing them and still coaxing the pleasant notes out of the instrument. There was a key change somewhere, which left half the audience breathless for a moment, a clearly audible gasp going through the room.

He ended with an intricate sequence and a dark chord, his hands springing back from the keyboard and settling in his lap. The last note still hovered under the high ceiling, Enjolras’ foot on the pedal kept it in place for another moment.

Then, hell broke loose. People jumped out of her chairs, cheering and clapping in what sounded like a thunder storm. Enjolras got up from his stool, his expression not giving anything away as he stepped towards the edge of the stage and took a bow. He waved at Les Amis in the first row with a small smile. Then, he made room for Combeferre who took over for a few comments on Enjolras and Montparnasse’s final performances.

‘We would now like to ask our judges to come together over some of the delicious food sponsored by The Corinthe’s own Musichetta – give us a wave, ‘Chetta!’

Heads turned around to where Musichetta stood near the door to the foyer. She wore a crisp, new apron with the Corinthe’s logo on it.

‘Whilst our judges contemplate, Les Amis de l’ABC would like to invite you to taste those special goods, too. Have a look around the foyer where we have furthermore provided drinks and leaflets on the charities we are supporting tonight. Please use this time to pick up a leaflet and read up on their aims and causes. You will also have the opportunity to look at and buy some of our members’ work, if something tickles your fancy. As mentioned before, all proceeds go to charity and the artwork exhibited has been produced exclusively by members of Les Amis. We will have an hour to browse through everything, see you out there!’

Grantaire got out of his chair and bolted for the door. He felt a few looks in his neck but stormed past Musichetta and outside, anyway. When he stopped, he had reached a niche in the staircase, behind a marble statue of Dionysos who had been put up on a pedestal as the god of theatre. Grantaire pressed himself back against the wall and put his head between his knees to try and steady his breathing.

Enjolras had gotten through the whole concert without major hiccups, Montparnasse had potentially picked the wrong song and all he needed to survive now was an hour in a soon to be crowded place where strangers would bump into him without taking much note of him. He still felt tears prick in his eyes and the corners of his mouth were tight where previous salt tracks had left the skin a little strained. Grantaire wanted to hide and crawl even further into the corner he had hidden in when the first people started to file into the foyer. Chattering bounced off the walls, couples with linked arms walked down the stairs, talking about the concert.

‘Hey, why are you hiding?’ Jehan slid into the niche and sat down next to him, ‘You left abruptly.’

‘Sorry,’ Grantaire shuffled around a little, ‘I didn’t want to take my chances.’

‘Of running into him?’ They pulled a small paper parcel out of their pocket and unfolded it, ‘Would you like some sweets?’

‘You brought sweets to a charity event? Shouldn’t you buy something from Musichetta’s buffet?’

‘She has very fancy macarons and pastries, not jelly babies and Skittles,’ Jehan waved their small sweets stack at Grantaire, ‘come on, we need to get your bloodsugar-level back up.’

A second later, Grantaire found a few Skittles being stuffed into his mouth. He sat back and sucked on the sweets. Their juices hit his taste buds and washed over them, leaving nothing but sweet fruitiness that covered the threatening taste of bile rising in his throat.

‘Thanks, Jehan,’ he managed to say eventually.

‘Always,’ they leaned against his shoulder, ‘we need to build each other up, R, if no one else seems to see us.’

‘We are literally hiding, dear,’ Grantaire pointed out and rubbed his temples with his shirt sleeve, ‘did you have a chance to look around the stands before now or did you just sneak in here and now your possibility to go around is down the drain?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Jehan started to braid their hair, ‘I had Baz save me a few things. He’s going to buy them in my name. He also made me take these.’

They pulled out two bottles of fizzy drinks and handed Grantaire one. For a moment, he looked at it, dumbfounded. Then, he tipped it against his lips and let the cool liquid run down his throat.

‘You know Baz is a keeper, right? You should never let him get away,’ he tried to glimpse around the statue and caught the sight of Bahorel and Bousset who stood at a table with Feuilly’s fan artwork, ‘Damn, I didn’t even know Feuilly would sell his stuff tonight, I should have made Joly buy something for me.’

‘Feuilly would give something to you for free,’ Jehan grinned, ‘why didn’t you offer some of your stuff?’

‘I wasn’t approached.’

Jehan patted his shoulder and leaned against him, ‘You should offer next time we organise something, Enjolras would love some input from you, I’m sure about it.’

Grantaire huffed out a breath, ‘’m not so sure about that, he won’t appreciate my weird ideas.’

He tipped the bottle back and sucked the drink out of it, just to have something to do. Jehan threaded their fingers in their hair and hummed quietly. A few people walked past their hiding spot, debating the performances. It sounded like this particular group could not quite decide who they favoured.

‘Hey, R, look!’ Jehan pointed past the pedestal Dionysos stood on, ‘Enjolras just came out!’

Their friend had left the auditorium to mingle. His hair had still not completely slipped out of the braid Grantaire had made for him and the few strands that framed his face stuck to the sweaty skin. He wore a soft smile and shook a few hands. Mostly, these hands belonged to elderly ladies who beamed at him and grabbed his arms, too. He seemed content enough to put up with them.

‘Our esteemed leader makes an appearance,’ Grantaire followed him with his eyes as Enjolras approached Courfeyrac and Marius who stood near one of the charities’ stand, a leaflet in hand, ‘does he seem stressed or upset to you?’

‘Not at all,’ Jehan craned their neck to peek around the statue, ‘he seems perfectly normal and alright. Do you think –‘

‘Montparnasse didn’t use an unobserved moment to say something? I doubt it,’ Grantaire wished he could get his hands on actual booze, ‘I think Enjolras has put on a mask.’

‘What are you doing, talking of masks?’ Claquesous stopped in front of the statue. He did not look at them and stared straight ahead into the crowd that bustled about the foyer but he lifted an eyebrow, ‘you are horrible at playing hide and seek. Both of you are. The trick is not to talk.’

He moved on, greeting Babet and Geuelemer who had started going over the buffet Musichetta provided. They embraced and started a conversation. Grantaire felt Jehan exhale softly.

‘’Sous is an alright guy,’ he assured quietly, ‘an asshole about almost everything but actually okay.’

‘I can’t bring myself to trust him,’ they emptied their drink, ‘I’m sorry, R, I know he’s your friend.’

‘If I needed all of my friends to be friends, I would end up isolated because they would realise that my presence is kind of redundant. Before you say anything, that’s happened before. I am not interesting enough to keep people in my life for longer than a couple of years.’

Jehan’s elbow between his ribs made him stop, ‘You do realise we’ve been friends for quite some time now, don’t you? You are an idiot, R, but my idiot which makes it a little better. I chose you to be my idiot.’

‘Sweet poet, my soul floweth over,’ Grantaire mocked them, a small smile back on his lips, ‘you will never stop telling me that I’m worth friendship, won’t you?’

‘Never,’ Jehan lifted a hand and rested it against Grantaire’s cheek, ‘now, I need you to smile. Enjolras will see you looking miserable as sin, otherwise, and we wouldn’t want that.’

Grantaire refrained from pointing out that Enjolras had other, better things to do than to pay him any attention. He was, after all, the one of his friends who had chosen to sit in the back rows instead of the front where he could show his support openly.

Jehan disappeared from his side when Enjolras disappeared back behind the scenes, Bahorel offered his protection as they used the last five minutes to scout through what was left at the charity stands. Their hair glistened under the soft light, Bahorel’s arm around their shoulders made them seem even smaller and more fragile than they came across as. Grantaire scooted around the statue he had hidden behind to catch a glimpse at his best friends. It seemed like Bousset had successfully nicked a few baked goods off Musichetta’s table, his cheeks were a little too swollen and Joly looked as if he was trying to scold him for something. Grantaire smiled at their antics. Too often, Joly would take on a mother hen role for Bousset who otherwise would undoubtedly have burned down several academy buildings by accident. Being his boyfriend was a full-time job, according to Joly who would never allow anyone else to try and talk him into letting Bousset take responsibility for his accidents. Seeing him next to Bousset, his glasses almost slipping off his nose because he used one hand to hold a plate of purchased macaroons and the other to hold onto his cane, made Grantaire ache a little. Joly’s hair was a mess and his knees not the strongest but he loved Bousset, anyone could see that.

Musichetta joined them and said something on the quiet that made Bousset’s eyes sparkle. She probably offered them more leftovers, Grantaire thought and decided to re-join the audience. He got up from his spot on the ground and stretched his stiff joints out. There were only a few people left walking around the foyer, he slipped behind a small flock of patrons to re-enter the hall in their shadow.

Sliding into his seat, he pulled nervously on the hem of his shirt and tried to keep his head as low as possible. Someone mentioned having donated to the packed lunch project in passing and he could not help but feel his heart flutter. Claquesous would take the piss out of you, he told himself, you’re growing soft after all. It took more than a simple realisation for him to consider himself an activist but he could understand what Enjolras felt when he implemented a change, small as it may have been, around the campus. It paid off to have an idea of where to do good.

People returned to their seats around him and Grantaire made room for them to pass him. With his feet tucked under the chair he smiled tightly at the elderly couples pushing past him with apologetic glances.

It took all of them a few minutes to settle back into their seats. Combeferre was in quiet conversation with dean Valjean and Professor Lamarque who had come down from their box to join Enjolras, Montparnasse and their fellow judges on the stage. Going by their expressions, they had had an entertaining evening despite their own obligations as judges, Lamarque waved at Enjolras who actually smiled back, holding on to a sheet of paper, squeezing it tightly in his hands.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Combeferre left Valjean and Lamarque, stepping back to the centre of the stage, ‘Welcome back for the final announcement of tonight. Shortly, we will announce the winner of Les Amis de l’ABC’s musical duel. Once again, I would like to appeal to you, give generously, everything goes to charity. Now, for our final announcement, I would like to ask Monsieur Jean Valjean to take the stage. Monsieur Valjean, as dean of our esteemed academy, how would you describe tonight’s event?’

Grantaire smiled softly. Cosette was the first to clap, jumping up in the first row. Marius followed her example, and a moment later, the first two rows were standing, being made up of Les Amis and academy students. Dean Valjean calmed the masses with an easy smile and his raised hands as he joined Combeferre.

‘Thank you for having me as a judge tonight, and another thank you directed to everybody who donated and bought from what our amazing students offered. It has been a musical pleasure to be here and enjoy the diverse programme we have been treated to. Judging the performances was not an easy job, I can assure you as much. Both Enjolras and Montparnasse came up with splendid pieces that captured the set theme perfectly. At the academy, we enjoy the fine arts for what they are – a way of expression and emotional statement. We have talked at length and discussed what we were looking for in these performances and how the theme was implemented. The decision, once again was not an easy one, the first three rounds were head to head for us. As my esteemed colleague, Professor Lamarque, expressed after the interval, it came down to the unprepared performance. Both of you managed to get us hooked on melody and variation alike,’ he turned to Montparnasse and Enjolras who had taken up positions behind him.

Grantaire joined into the light applause that rippled through the hall. Enjolras looked too collected to pass as relaxed and Montparnasse’s lips were twisted into a smile that was just about too easy to be real.

‘We have come to a conclusion, however,’ Valjean continued as the claps died down, ‘and as much as we regret not being able to crown both our amazing participants winner tonight, we decided that based on skill, emotions conveyed and passion, our winner is –‘

He stopped for a pregnant pause, winking at someone in the front rows. Grantaire wanted to bet it was Cosette, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, looking up at her father on the stage with a smile. The pause was interrupted by a single cough and Valjean smiled kindly into the room.

‘Enjolras.’

Les Amis jumped out of their chair, hugging and jumping on the spot. Valjean turned around and held his hand out for Enjolras to take. Again, applause surged up against the walls of the auditorium as Enjolras stepped to the front of the stage and bowed. Someone whistled and it took Grantaire a moment to realise that it had been Claquesous.

‘What are you doing, Montparnasse will hear you!’

‘Let him, your boy won and you need to celebrate that,’ Claquesous clapped him on the shoulder, ‘you should go up there and give him a nice, tight hug when he comes off the stage.’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘Stop saying things like that. There is no way I am going up there as long as Montparnasse is up there.’

He grabbed his coat and started to put it on, ‘I’m not staying to give anybody the opportunity to make a scene.’

‘Grantaire!’

The shout rang in his ears, drowning out applause, whistles and whooping. Montparnasse had stepped next to Enjolras, his eyes blazing with fury. A slight movement indicated to Grantaire that Bahorel had started to make his way to the back of the room, towards him. His expression was dark enough that everybody jumped out of the way to avoid bumping into him.

‘Grantaire, I owe you,’ Montparnasse sneered into the room, ‘this isn’t over!’

‘Leave it be, Montparnasse,’ Enjolras faced him, his face once again looking as if carved into marble. He looked out onto his opponent, stoically meeting his wild gaze, ‘we duelled, you lost. This was about the quarrel between us, nothing else. Grantaire is not part of this and he will not be dragged into it, walk away and keep your dignity.’

His voice echoed in Grantaire’s ears, clear and icy, his posture upright and sincere. He looked every inch the young aristocrat he tried to sweep under the rug with the same attention he gave to any of his rallies and appeals.

‘It is not over,’ Montparnasse pointed a manicured finger at Enjolras, ‘Just like Hyacinth died of his Apollo’s hands, Grantaire will break in yours. Ask him how long he can keep up the act. He’ll shatter again, disappointment proceeds him wherever he goes. Good luck with that!’

This time, no one could stop Grantaire as he left the auditorium. Bahorel, who had almost reached his row, was left shouting after him. He ran past Musichetta, darted through the foyer, through the entrance and into the street. His sides hurt, his lungs started stinging and his eyes watered in the icy air.

He did not stop until he had reached the dorms, opened his door and fallen down on his bed. For a moment, the darkness rose up to drown him.

Then, a quiet mew came out of the darkest corner and Adonis jumped onto the bed. He prowled around Grantaire, wrapping his tail around his wrist before settling in his lap, curling up into a purring ball. Grantaire combed his fingers through his fur, feeling the tension bleed out of him.

Adonis’ purrs and the soft fur under his hands relaxed him enough to send him to sleep eventually.

Chapter Text

He was about to down his first coffee of the day when a knock on the door echoed through the flat. Grantaire stared at the door over his cup, eyes still half-closed with sleep. He waited. Another knock rattled the door.

‘R?’ Bousset closed his robe as he stepped into the hallway, blinking against the light falling into his eyes, ‘Who’s that, why aren’t you answering?’

‘No idea,’ Grantaire slurped a sip of coffee, ‘I don’t want to open the door.’

‘Why?’

‘It could be someone I don’t want to see.’

‘Did you check your phone since last night?’ Bousset yawned, ‘Did you get any messages?’

‘Shut it off last night, didn’t want to get notifications,’ Grantaire refilled his cup from the machine.

Bousset opened the door with an eye roll and peeked outside, ‘Morning, Claquesous. Grantaire’s in the kitchen, go pester him. Did you bring breakfast?’

Claquesous patted him on the shoulder and stepped into the flat, his hair back in his face, ‘I’m not going to be long, don’t worry. P-M are going to return to the studio. We had a very long, intense discussion last night and set Montparnasse an ultimatum. If he doesn’t get his act together, we will start looking for a new singer. Voices can be replaced, after all. It actually shut him up for a minute and he hasn’t recovered quite yet. I just wanted to apologise and pass on apologies from Babet and Geuelemer. They felt we owe you after everything. And what I wanted to add is… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for pushing you last night, and for making you feel bad. Of course it should be your decision whether you talk about what happened and who to tell.’

He held out a bottle of Scotch, ‘It’s a good one, I am told. Babet said for you to enjoy it. He also said that you found someone good and you should invite him to the wedding, he offered P-M as wedding band. Without ‘Parnasse, of course.’

Grantaire smiled weakly, ‘Thanks, ‘Sous. It’s appreciated. Give me a shout when you’re back in town, will you?’

‘Sure,’ Claquesous threw him a salute, ‘take care of yourself, R. You don’t have to think about Montparnasse, okay? Concentrate on your art, show everybody what you can do with a brush and a bit of paint. Let me know when you get another exhibition going. And don’t sell the original print you used for the posters.’

‘Pardon?’ Grantaire blinked at him, mouth hanging open, ‘what do you mean?’

‘Come on, I will always recognise your work. Those posters you used to promote the duel with, that was your hand. Don’t sell the original, I want that for my flat.’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘I’ll keep it for you.’

Claquesous pushed his hair out of his face and put an arm around him, ‘Nice. See you around.’

He opened the door, only to turn around a last time, ‘It was for a good cause, Grantaire. Montparnasse might not see it but Enjolras does. Keep him around, he’s a good egg.’

Bousset closed the door after him with a grin, ‘Look at that, will you? Scotch from Patron-Minette and the promise to buy one of your pictures!’

He grabbed the bottle from Grantaire’s hand and studied the label, ‘And it really is not a cheap one, too. We should open this one tonight with dinner.’

‘It’s your and Joly’s date night.’

‘Exactly,’ Bousset grinned, ‘it’s called alcoholism prevention. If Joly and I drink it, you won’t. Oh, by the way, Musichetta’s joining us later.’

Grantaire stopped in his tracks, ‘Musichetta? I thought it was date night?’

‘Exactly,’ Bousset blushed and fiddled with the string of his robe,’ uhm, Joly and I invited her?’

‘What exactly did I miss?’ Grantaire pushed himself onto the kitchen counter, swinging his legs, ‘and when did it happen?’

‘She invited us after the birthday dinner and we got along pretty well. It got a bit awkward for a moment when Joly was afraid I would leave him for ‘Chetta but then we spoke about it and admitted that both of us liked her. Yesterday, we managed to ask her to join us. She agreed and we’re going to give it a try. Turns out, she likes us both,’ Bousset crossed his arms over his chest, ‘and neither Joly’s knee nor my butterfingers seem to change that.’

Grantaire could not stop the laugh from bursting out of him, ‘You guys are just amazing! Wow, that really is something to celebrate – who would have thought! I expect regular updates, of course!’

‘Thanks for not yelling at us or calling us perverts.’

‘Hey, did someone do that?’ Grantaire felt his smile drop off his face, ‘Do I have to punch someone?’

‘No, thank you. Although, I appreciate it. You’re truly getting back into your old form, you’ll be fighting again, soon.’

‘I don’t plan on doing that –‘

‘Oh come on,’ Joly came out of their bedroom, ‘you’ll remember the pocket money sooner or later. And don’t you think Enjolras would appreciate you showing passion or a black eye?’

‘What Enjolras would or would not appreciate is not part of the potential discussion, should I decide to fight professionally again.’

‘You should do a charity fight against Baz,’ Bousset giggled and hid his face in Joly’s shoulder, ‘I would pay so much money to see Baz pummel you into the mat.’

‘I’ll have you know that he still can’t do that,’ Grantaire recaptured the bottle of Scotch and stored it in the cabinet, ‘and now excuse me please, I have work to get to.’

He stuck his tongue out at them for good measure. Since he had just about finished his coffee and soggy breakfast cereals, he felt almost ready to take on the day ahead. With a double shift at the museum he had volunteered for to allow one of his colleagues to go out with her parents, his day was almost completely planned out already. It also meant that he needed to think about his lunch and dinner before leaving since his break would not allow for a tour to the supermarket or a deli. He kept protein bars in his nightstand drawer and could buy something else on his way to the museum.

Before he left, he checked his academical email inbox and found an announcement about the new pieces to be exhibited in the dorm hallways, foyer and staircase would be put up over the day. Someone in the art department had sent an accidental blanket email by answering to the student assistant who had sent the first email. The topic, a request to notify the chosen artists whether their pieces had been picked, made him roll his eyes. The pictures were never announced ahead, they were just put up for everybody to see. Some people just never learned how to switch off ‘respond to all.’

He went to grab his bag from under the desk and found a cat toy that gave off a squeak when his hand hit it. The unexpected sound made him jump and hit his head on the underside of the table top.

‘Bloody shit,’ he hissed and crawled out from the cave his desk sometimes seemed to turn into, just to find Adonis staring at him out of big, dark eyes, ‘are you happy? God, you’re no better than Apollo, making me uncomfortable…’

He threw the toy onto the bed which coaxed a meow out of the cat, ‘Yeah, now you complain. I should really take that toy away from you for a day.’

Adonis mewled pitifully and pawed at the toy. Grantaire rubbed one finger over his head, smiling at the way the cat leaned into the touch.

‘You little rascal. Keep an eye on my stuff whilst I’m gone, okay?’

Adonis followed him into the kitchen and watched as he poured cat food into his bowl. Purring approvingly, he started to prowl around his legs.

‘See you tonight, furry nuisance,’ Grantaire smiled, ‘scratch Bousset, if you like. He deserves it.’

Adonis ignored him, too occupied with his food already.

***

He passed quite a few of the posters he had printed for the duel. The shadows lingering over piano silhouettes followed him to the museum and haunted him there since he had put leaflets almost everywhere. He set about collecting them during the first half hour at work, ending up with a whole bundle in his hands that he threw away without another look back.

By the time he had finished his first round, gathering flyers and taking down the few posters he had actually dared to put up around the museum, the first tours started out around the museum. Grantaire took his place in the corner of the romanticism wing, notebook in hand and a pencil behind his ear. He was ready to be struck by inspiration.

Until lunch, he had followed up on several alarms triggered by bored children for fun, answered even more questions from interested couples and directed stray visitors towards the wings they were looking for with the help of the map he kept in the pocket of his uniform. He had just about settled back into the stool he had propped up in a corner after wolfing down a sandwich in the staff room, when a voice over his intercom informed him that someone had asked for him at the front desk.

‘Who is it this time?’ he asked, sighing into his radio.

His colleague at the front desk giggled softly, ‘The poet and seemingly, a lion.’

Grantaire groaned and left his place in the Romanticism wing and crossed the Early Modernism to get to the front hall. Jehan waved at him hard enough to make their entire body move, their hair was loose and carelessly pushed behind his ears. They looked colourful enough to pass as an artwork themself, stood in front of the poster of the special exhibition of the seventies-artist they showed in the refurbished rooms. Next to them, his hands buried in his pockets, blond curls peeking out from under a beanie, stood Enjolras. He seemed to study one of the leaflets they kept at the front desk, advertisements and information of other exhibitions, galleries and museums around town.

‘Morning,’ Grantaire threw them a lazy salute, ‘what are you doing here?’

Jehan hugged him, throwing his arms around him. His patchy, colourful poncho wiped across Grantaire’s face. It was soft, woollen and undeniably warm.

‘We are here to visit you, can’t you see that?’ they kissed his cheek, ‘Enjolras needed to be taken out of the house. He was a bit tense, Courf and Ferre asked me to walk him.’

‘I’m not a dog,’ Enjolras turned around completely, glaring daggers at Jehan, ‘and I agreed because you promised me breakfast or lunch. I haven’t seen a single snack yet.’

‘Ouch,’ Grantaire sighed and clasped his hand over his heart, ‘must you hurt me like that?’

Enjolras’ head whipped around, ‘You –‘

He broke off, blinking at Grantaire, ‘You’re wearing a uniform.’

‘Yeah, are you alright?’

‘I didn’t know you wore a uniform at work,’ Enjolras tried to shake off a stupor that had seemingly grasped him.

‘Well, I do,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘What, too elitist and forced into line for you?’

‘No, that’s not it,’ Enjolras cleared his throat and smoothed down a curl that had escaped from underneath the beanie, ‘You look nice.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire smiled weakly, ‘any particular reason you had me called down from work?’

‘Not really, no,’ Jehan grinned at him, ‘just wanted to say ‘hi’ and show Enjolras around. He has managed to life here for years without ever going through the museum in its entirety.’

‘We could not have that, of course,’ Grantaire grinned and nodded for them to follow him, ‘start with the special exhibition and go round chronologically afterwards. Come see me in the Romantics section later.’

‘Really R, the Romantics again?’

‘It’s my assigned spot.’

‘R, both of us know you could just go somewhere else. You just like to look at the pictures all day,’ Jehan patted his shoulder, ‘now, I just wanted to warn you. Enjolras, follow me!’

They grabbed his hand and pulled him along. Enjolras grinned back at him for a moment longer before they rounded the corner and disappeared. Grantaire shook his head and turned to the till. His colleague smiled at him, her eyes glazed over.

‘Grantaire, you never mentioned your friends were that hot,’ she mouthed, ‘can you introduce us?’

Grantaire groaned and returned to his post next to the doorway in the Romantics section. An elderly couple read the inscription next to the Delacroix, a group of teenagers stood around the picture of a goddess emerging after a bath and two students of the academy sat in a corner, sketching the artwork on the walls.

He, too, got his sketchbook out of his pocket and started a study of the bust of Victor Hugo that had been placed on a board across from the bathing goddess from where he could oversee the room. It amused Grantaire that someone had thought this to be the best position for him, even though half of the museum’s visitors would not get the joke.

‘Grantaire – good to find you here!’ Madame Lacombe, the curator, approached him with quick steps in her high heels, ‘I have a bone to pick with you.’

‘Madame?’ he blinked up at her and put his pencil away, ‘how can I be of service?’

‘Care to explain what has happened to you throughout the last two months? I have been getting reports of people praising your behaviour, attitude and helpfulness. Now, I do agree that the mentions we got before that were alright but now they are full of praise. I am just interested what started this new outlook on life and work ethic.’

‘I’m sorry, Madame, I don’t know what you mean,’ Grantaire shrugged.

He saw Jehan and Enjolras enter through the other door. Enjolras immediately strode towards a picture of the revolutionary council. It seemed like his eyes lit up at the sight of the faces of the revolutionaries gathered around their papers and bills. Grantaire chuckled quietly at the sight, catching Jehan’s eye and nodding towards their friend.

Madame Lacombe followed his gaze, pursed her lips and returned her attention to Grantaire, ‘Seems like I found the reason. Your friend is known around town. Les Amis de l’ABC, isn’t that correct? He won the musical duel last night.’

‘That’s accurate,’ Grantaire looked at her, curious as to what she could mean, ‘were you there?’

She nodded sharply, ‘These students follow a good cause. Are you with them?’

Grantaire straightened and nodded, ‘They are a tightly woven group of upstanding young people, I don’t think I fit their standards but they suffer my presence.’

His boss met him with an unimpressed look, ‘Well, your attitude has changed. Use your new ties and think of the museum. You might think of something for which you will need some rooms.’

‘You are offering us the museum for the cause, should it arise?’

‘Keep up the good work,’ Madame Lacombe turned on her heels and stalked out of the room, gifting a tight-lipped smile to some museum visitors.

‘Great,’ Grantaire grumbled and rolled his eyes, ‘hi there, long time no see.’

Jehan winked at him and pointed at Enjolras who studied the details of the picture, ‘He found out about the French paintings and insisted on skipping almost everything else. Curious enough though, he only looked up French pictures in here after I mentioned getting to see you again in the Romantics wing.’

‘Keep your thoughts to yourself,’ Grantaire nudged them in the side, ‘I can smell your smug self-satisfaction, you know.’

Jehan pushed him towards Enjolras with a grin. Grantaire threw him a sourly look before joining Enjolras in front of the medium sized painting.

‘Hey, enjoying yourself?’

‘Yeah, surprisingly, I do,’ Enjolras beamed at him, ‘amazing that you get to work here.’

‘It doesn’t get boring,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘can I answer any of your questions?’

‘This art piece shows the council, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, you can see Robespierre over there. Snazzy man, that one, his waistcoats are just amazing to look at. Impeccable fashion sense,’ Grantaire looked at the painting which he had studied countless times before, ‘I should get one for myself, shouldn’t I?’

‘I would like to see that,’ Enjolras’ lips turned up in a grin, ‘hey, until when are you working today?’

Grantaire checked his watch, ‘Ten minutes, why?’

‘I don’t suppose you’d like to join Jehan and me to grab a bite before going home?’

‘Sounds amazing. Give me ten minutes to finish my shift and three to get changed but then I’m all yours,’ he did not dare to avert his gaze as Enjolras gifted him another smile, ‘I could kill for something substantial.’

‘Substantial? Jehan insisted on going to a café or confectionary,’ Enjolras pretended to shudder, ‘sugar in its purest form for them.’

‘They are going to bounce off the walls,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘thank god we can just hand them over to Baz at the end of the day.’

‘I suppose, we are rather lucky in that regard,’ Enjolras nodded.

‘What are you talking about?’ Jehan leaned over their shoulders, ‘where we should go in a moment? I know this place that has the nicest meringues and where they put cinnamon in their coffee.’

‘Sounds…disgusting,’ Grantaire turned towards a young woman coming towards them with a map, ’just a few minutes now.’

Time seemed to pass sluggishly after Enjolras and Jehan left him, seconds stretching into several moments and moments into minutes. Finally, Grantaire saw a colleague enter the room to take over from him for the closing shift. He tried to keep the debriefing as short as possible, pointed out a group of teenagers that had come back to the room a few times, triggering the alarms repeatedly before he left, fighting the urge to sprint towards the entrance and the staff room. Madame Lacombe nodded at him as he left a couple of minutes later and Grantaire threw her a salute. The swivel door into freedom almost hit him in the back. Jehan and Enjolras sat on a bench in front of the building, wrapped up in coats and scarfs.

‘There you are,’ Jehan jumped off the bench, ‘Let’s go get hot chocolate!’

Enjolras rolled his eyes behind their back. Grantaire grinned and joined them at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Food?’

‘Food,’ Jehan linked their arms with both of them and started dragging them down the road.

Grantaire and Enjolras allowed them to lead them towards one of their favourite cafés. Jehan was, despite their stature, stronger than anyone would have presumed and once their mind was set on something, they could not be talked out of it.

They stopped jittering when they held a cup of hot chocolate in their hands and sat at a corner table in the small, homely café. It was not too far from the academy and Grantaire had wondered for a moment how he had never thought of entering after all the times he had walked past it on his way to and from work.

‘Did you apply to be displayed in the hallways?’ Enjolras’ question made Grantaire snort into his mug.

‘No, not this time. Even if I had finished something lately, I had so many pieces in the hallways and staircases so far, others deserve the space more than me.’

‘What about your saint? Your Sebastian?’ Enjolras leaned his elbows on the table in front of them, ‘that looked finished last time I peeked into your studio.’

‘Or the big one,’ Jehan clasped their hand around Grantaire’s arm, ‘what about the picture of the sea and –‘

‘Never!’ Grantaire heard the blood rush in his ears, ‘that one will never see anything but my studio or Lafayette’s office.’

‘Has he still got it?’ Jehan stared at him intently, ‘I thought you’d gotten your mark already.’

‘I did,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I think he liked looking at it. Who knows, I might be able to sell it to him.’

‘But would you like him to have the view?’

Enjolras cleared his throat, ‘I have no idea what you two are talking about. Care to undeceive me?’

‘Grantaire painted a really special painting and it would be a crime to keep it in a dusty office or in his studio forever,’ Jehan turned to face him, ‘I think everyone of us fell in love with it when we saw it.’

‘Why wasn’t I allowed to see it?’ Enjolras pouted dramatically, ‘Hey R, I love your art.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire threw Jehan a look, ‘but I handed it in ages ago.’

‘Shame,’ Enjolras got up, ‘I’m getting something to eat.’

‘Jehan, if you don’t stop throwing me under the bus, I will kill you,’ Grantaire threatened and ran his fingers through his hair, ‘you are the worst friend ever.’

‘Thank you, I aim to please,’ they patted his shoulder, ‘why didn’t you show Enjolras the painting?’

‘Has it occurred to you that maybe I painted an idealistic picture of him without his permission and that he might have a problem with that?’

‘You are painting this too black. Everybody around the academy knows that you artists just paint whatever you want.’

‘In that case he just needs to count back and will find out that I painted it before we were even talking,’ Grantaire stirred his cocoa.

‘You worry too much, dear,’ Jehan squeezed his hand, ‘I’ll leave you to it, need to see a man about a horse.’

They got up and patted his head before turning towards the restrooms. Their warm smile making sure that Grantaire did not lose his head until Enjolras came back. He set down two plates on the table, pushing one of them over towards him that carried a piece of Danish pastry that overflowed with custard.

‘Here, for you,’ Enjolras sat back down, grinning over his own pastry, ‘I thought you could do with something sweet after working all day.’

‘Thank you, you are amazing,’ Grantaire lifted the sugary goodness off the plate and sunk his teeth into it. Custard spilled over his fingers and he stuck them into his mouth to lick it off, ‘this is amazing.’

Enjolras laughed, a breathy sound, and when Grantaire looked back up, he found his friend staring at him with a smile, ‘Thank you.’

‘What for? What did I do?’ Grantaire blinked at him.

‘Yesterday. I know it wasn’t easy for you to come which made it even more important to me that you were there. Your support was very much appreciated,’ Enjolras smiled even wider, ‘winning was a confirmation of my skill, but seeing you there, in the room, despite Montparnasse’s presence was just as reassuring. I’m sorry, you were right about it, though. I’m sorry he used the stage to talk about you the way he did. You deserve better than that.’

Grantaire felt his throat tighten a little, ‘Thank you. You play beautifully but you know that, of course. I get why my mother chose you as her prodigy.’

‘Stop it,’ Enjolras’ cheeks were tinted pink, ‘she’s got you!’

Grantaire scolded himself for bringing her up, inner masochism getting the better of him, yet again. He smiled at Enjolras and took another bite out of his pastry which tasted of summer berries despite the cold outside.

‘Do you think it’s going to snow soon?’

‘Hopefully.’

They stared out of the window for a few minutes until Jehan came back, ‘Did you guys have a nice chat? Oh, pastry!’

They looked at the plate in front of Grantaire and he could see something light up in their eyes, ‘Back off, Enjolras got me that one.’

‘Did he now?’ Something else twinkled in Jehan’s eyes as they dipped a finger in the icing dripping of the pastry, ‘How very generous of him.’

Enjolras rolled his eyes at them but something fond, almost resembling a smile, toyed with the corners of his mouth. He pushed a curl out of his face and under his beanie before sticking his tongue out at Jehan. For a moment, they grinned at each other and exchanged glances. Then, as if someone had flicked a switch, Grantaire went back to finishing up his pastry, Enjolras pulled his phone from his pocket and Jehan started to scribble lines on their forearm.

‘Hey, I’m sorry…it’s just, we’re closing for the day,’ the young barista leaned over the table, an apologetic smile on her lips, peak customer service trained mask.

‘Golly, is it that late already?’ Jehan bounced out of their seat, beaming at her, ‘we’ll be out your hair in a second.’

They were out in the street and on their way back to the academy within minutes. Jehan skipped ahead, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire to try not to knock each other off the pavement and into the street whilst walking next to each other.

‘This day wasn’t too bad,’ Enjolras mumbled, ‘I didn’t even get bored.’

‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch,’ Grantaire retorted, ‘plenty can go wrong still.’

‘I would like to be optimistic,’ he winked at him, ‘do you wanna come by my music room tonight? With the duel over I can finally go back to playing what I like for fun. You could show me what you’ve been working on so far.’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘It’s nothing special and not nice enough to show anyone. Believe me…’

He could hear Jehan scoff from the front and saw them shake their head softly. Choosing to ignore them, Grantaire continued to push a pebble along the pavement. It occupied him until they reached the academy. He deposited of the pebble on the threshold, watching, as it skipped across the street.

‘Are you coming?’ Enjolras waited, holding the door open for him, ‘are you going to have something proper for dinner, more than a pastry?’

‘I will, Joly and Bousset usually keep something for me when I come back late. Don’t worry, Apollo,’ he slipped through the gap in the door and readjusted his bag over his shoulder, ‘I won’t starve.’

Enjolras merely closed the door behind them, ‘It’s better to ask. You never know.’

Grantaire was prepared to remark something in return but stopped in his tracks when he almost ran into the back of the crowd that occupied most of the foyer, ‘Bloody hell, what happened here? Did someone strip naked and lounge on the sofas again?’

He got a few laughs before one of the students turned around and resolved, ‘The new pictures are up and one of them is rumoured to be even better than what they usual pick.’

‘Curious,’ Grantaire lifted his eyebrows, ‘and all I want is go upstairs and sleep.’

‘Hey R,’ Marius and Cosette waved at them and started walking towards them, ‘it looks amazing.’

‘What does?’

‘The painting of course! I thought you’d said you would not hand in a picture for display,’ Marcus slapped Grantaire’s shoulder, ‘it’s marvellous, of course, but no one expected anything else from you.’

‘Marius, what are you talking about?’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘I didn’t hand in anything and even if I did, I have been exhibited way too often in the hallways, anyway.’

‘Then who painted this?’ Feuilly joined them, pointing towards the bare stretch of wall opposite from the entrance that held the blackboard to one side and some posters of extracurricular events and activities, ‘looks pretty much like the sketches Jehan has in their living room.’

A few people moved in front of them and allowed them to see the large-scale, gold framed painting that decked half of the wall. Grantaire felt his stomach drop to his knees. Catch Me I’m Falling, his masterpiece, the dream turned fantasy, displayed in front of the whole lyceum. The light figure, smile hidden behind long hair that caught both sunshine and threateningly dark clouds, the ideal haunting his quiet moments, exposed to the public of their living quarters.

He did not dare to look at Enjolras who had uttered a quiet curse, did not dare to move, could not muster up the strength to run away, upstairs and hide from the world, no matter how much he wished to. Instead, he witnessed how dozens of academy students inspected what he had left in professor Lafayette’s office to never be exhibited where Enjolras could see it.

Then, as if the evening had not already taken a turn for the worse, Bousset spotted him from the front and started clapping and pointing at him, ‘There he is! The creator of the masterpiece!’

Grantaire felt tears prick in his eyes.

Chapter Text

Adonis seemed to sense his turmoil the moment he entered the flat. The tomcat jumped off the windowsill and padded towards him, tail stretched into the air like a bottlebrush. He meowed quietly, leaning against his leg, a pitiful sound in the otherwise empty flat.

‘Hey, mate,’ Grantaire exhaled, sitting down on the floor to pet him, ‘yeah, I’m fine, how are you? Well? That’s good to hear…’

Adonis hissed and turned to the door, eyes glistening and narrowing down towards it. Grantaire sighed, wiping over his eyes with his sleeve.

‘No need lurking outside, come on in already,’ he called out, petting Adonis’ back.

Jehan opened the door, came in and sat down next to him. They wore an expression he could not pinpoint.

‘I’m not going to ask whether you’re okay because you’re evidently not,’ they placed a hand on his shoulder, ‘I just – someone needs to be there for you right now. Tell me what happened? Something wrong with the picture?’

‘Wrong?’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘It’s not supposed to be there, I didn’t hand it in to be displayed and it should gather dust in Lafayette’s office, nothing else! I did not give my approval of an exhibition, there was an actual reason behind why I only drew it for a fucking grade!’

Jehan rubbed his back, ‘You could write something, explain it and the intention behind it? I’m sure Lafayette wouldn’t have a problem with that until he is back in his office on Monday.’

‘My point is that I did not have Enjolras’ consent to paint the picture. I just painted it with no intention of it ever been seen by him. Lafayette went behind my back by putting it up for the exhibition,’ Grantaire curled his fingers in Adonis’ fur and ran them through it.

‘Oh love,’ Jehan moved closer and put their arms around him, ‘doesn’t that count as artistic license? You guys get to paint whatever you like –‘

‘I painted this almost two months ago and started it before I had even talked to him for the first time. He’s not an idiot, he can count two and two together and make the connection between the huge painting I kept covered whenever he came in and the picture identified as mine today. Feuilly has a wonderful eye for art and art styles but he basically told Enjolras that I really painted that one.’

‘What is it called again?’

‘Catch Me I’m Falling,’ Grantaire turned his head to hide his face in Jehan’s hair, ‘fucking ironic, isn’t it? I don’t think he should ever talk to me again if he has a bit of self-awareness. Who would want to talk with their stalker?’

‘You are not a stalker,’ Jehan squeezed his shoulder and moved a little, readjusting their legs, ‘you are an artist who got inspired. People have made art for other people for ages! Take Beethoven, he wrote Für Elise because he had a crush on her!’

‘Yeah, no one knows who he wrote it for,’ Grantaire snuffled, ‘it could be that he wrote it out of spite because they couldn’t play the piano well enough to perform it, it could be –‘

‘You’re not getting my point,’ Jehan ran their fingers through his tangled hair soothingly, ‘portraits of crushes and loved ones aren’t a new thing, music written about people isn’t a new thing and do I even have to start talking about poetry? I have written an entire anthology of mushy poems about almost everything about Bahorel. I could show you poems about his hair, arms, eyes, lips and the freckles on his shoulders.’

‘Baz has freckles on his shoulders?’

‘Very faint ones you can only see if you know where to look,’ Jehan shook their head, ‘thank you for distracting from the point again.’

Grantaire leant against them and allowed them to comb through his hair. Neither of them said a word for a few minutes, Jehan detangled Grantaire’s hair that had suffered from a day at work and the hair ties that kept it out of his face. Their fingers sorted through strands and tangles, made quick work of the knots and got rid of tangles. Grantaire still petted Adonis, feeling the anxiety leave through his fingertips until he was less tense.

‘How are you doing with being a dad?’ Jehan’s smile was audible, ‘Adonis seems happy.’

‘He’s a cat,’ Grantaire closed his eyes, ‘he’ll be alright. I feed him, pet him, play with him and he gets to sleep in my room – or leave, my window’s always open anyways.’

‘You’re a good dad.’

‘Speaking of which, I still need to feed him. He reminds us when we don’t do it, he scratched Bossuet recently.’

‘Oh the poor baby,’ Jehan reached past Grantaire to pet Adonis, ‘he’s going to feed you as soon as I’m done with his hair, promise.’

Adonis meowed in response, got up and stretched his legs. He strutted off into the kitchen and a moment later he could be heard lapping up water.

‘And we will need to feed you as well, kitty-daddy.’

‘Please don’t say that ever again,’ Grantaire groaned, ‘Joly and Bossuet left me some of their lunch. They are out tonight.’

‘Is it date night again?’ Jehan started stroking his hair, ‘what are they doing tonight?’

‘Going out with Musichetta.’

‘With Musichetta – what did we miss there?’

‘A budding romance,’ Grantaire grinned carefully, ‘I might end up having to deal with three cuddling lovebirds instead of two.’

‘You are welcome to come by whenever you need a break.’

‘And watch you and Baz? No, thank you,’ Grantaire shook his head and received a light slap to the shoulder, ‘okay, I’m sorry. You guys are just toothrottingly sweet.’

‘You know we are. And you will get to draw our wedding painting,’ Jehan pulled their fingers out of Grantaire’s hair, ‘okay, get food!’

‘Aye-aye, captain,’ Grantaire got up and stretched his arms over his legs.

‘You look just like your son,’ Jehan giggled and followed him into the kitchen, ‘what is for dinner then?’

Grantaire opened the fridge, ‘Sandwiches.’

He turned around to find Jehan staring at him with stern eyes, ‘Sandwiches? I hope you’re joking – you had sandwiches for lunch and a pastry in the afternoon. That’s it, you’re coming over now, for dinner.’

‘Am I?’ Grantaire slammed the fridge door shut and grabbed the cat food instead, ‘who’s in charge of dinner tonight?’

‘Bahorel,’ Jehan grinned at him, ‘and I think he was going to make a veggie stir-fry.’

Grantaire felt his mouth water with anticipation. Bahorel’s cooking, his stir-fry in particular, was legendary amongst them and regularly attracted visitors to Jehan and his flat when word got out that he was cooking.

‘Okay, I’ll join you,’ he took his sketchpad and pencils out of his bag, opened it on one of the first pages and held it out for Jehan, ‘here, by the way, that’s how it started.’

He showed them the first sketch he had drawn before starting the painting. It had started out with a study, the figure had averted their face, hair covered what could have given any identity away.

‘I decided to picture his face later on. All this mess could have been avoided if I had stuck to my initial plan,’ he shook his head, ‘I brought this upon myself and now I have to deal with it.’

‘Oh Grantaire,’ Jehan put a hand on his arm, ‘don’t say that. The painting is beautiful as it is and Enjolras had better be proud to have been your muse for it. If he isn’t, send him to come and see me, okay?’

‘Sure, Jehan, no one messes with you, isn’t that right?’

‘Not as long as they don’t want to deal with Bahorel as well,’ they opened the door for Grantaire, ‘don’t forget your keys, wouldn’t want to disturb the boys later.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and took his keys from the counter. He followed Jehan down the corridor and into their apartment. There were still people out and he could hear the bustle downstairs, voices chattering and discussing. In his mind they were all talking about Catch Me I’m Falling, gossiping about his brushwork and imagery.

‘I brought in a guest for tonight, Bahorel, hope that’s okay,’ Jehan called out and dropped their jacket on the ground just behind the door, ‘little beaten up emotionally but otherwise alright.’

‘So, Grantaire’s back in time for dinner?’ Bahorel waved from the kitchen, ‘hey can you pass me my phone? The group chat has blown up and I have no idea what that all was about.’

Jehan took his phone and unlocked it, their eyebrows shot up after reading the messages for a few seconds, ‘Well, nothing new there. You haven’t been out today, I guess?’

‘No, not much, why? Has something happened?’

‘R’s picture got exhibited,’ Jehan snatched a stick of carrot from the cutting board, ‘since when do you put carrot in this? Oh, and it’s the huge one he painted of Enjolras, the one he wouldn’t let him see? Well, he didn’t have his consent to paint him and Lafayette put it up without asking R. Big drama. Oh, and according to this, Courfeyrac and Feuilly are absolutely obsessed with it. They must have written about half of all these messages.’

‘Feuilly was downstairs,’ Grantaire said quietly, ‘he immediately recognised my style. I didn’t even know I had one.’

‘Impressionistic Realism,’ Bahorel muttered, ‘also, the carrots are nibbles. I know how hungry you get before I finish cooking, go wild. Grantaire, lay the table. No moping until after dinner. I’m going to hug you later.’

Grantaire saluted mockingly and got plates out of the cupboard. For a moment, they worked side by side, Bahorel finishing off the stir fry, Grantaire setting the table and Jehan shifting carrot sticks and checking their phone.

‘Enjolras is looking for suggestions for the next project,’ they announced and hopped off the counter a few minutes later, ‘”after the success of the duel we will have to notch up our performance,” he sounds every bit the leader, doesn’t he? No dissuading him from his cause.’

‘Thanks, Jehan, I needed to hear that right now,’ Grantaire set down the glasses and stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking, ‘I only just endured seeing Montparnasse again, the last thing I want right now is to think about how we could kindle Enjolras’ obsession with humanitarian goodness by pathological world improving.’

‘Jeez,’ Jehan rolled their eyes, ‘calm your horses. Give it a thought, you are an official part of the group and what you suggest will be heard. Your ideas aren’t even bad.’

‘Thank you, you are a true friend,’ Grantaire sat down at the table and crossed his arms, ‘I think I’ll steer clear of the group meetings for a bit.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Bahorel set down the pan on a dinner mat and handed him a ladle, ‘go ahead, guests first. Take now before Jehan gets their hands on it – or anybody else.’

‘Do you mean before anybody else gets their hands on the food or Jehan on anybody else?’

‘Who knows,’ Bahorel grinned, sat down and pulled Jehan in for a deep kiss.

‘Gross, not at the dinner table, guys,’ Grantaire tried to kick them under the table but seemed to miss, no matter how well he aimed.

‘Doesn’t matter, start eating,’ Jehan waved him off, ‘we’ll be with you in a moment.’

‘Yeah, I can see that, you have some deep digging to do,’ Grantaire started eating his portion of the stir fry, effectively ignoring the two people eating each other up on the other side of the table.

The food was amazing, Bahorel had perfected the recipe over time and turned it into something everybody enjoyed eating. Once Jehan and Bahorel joined him and started eating with cutlery and off plates, their conversation turned back to the amount of shifts and work Grantaire tried to cram into his schedule.

‘It’s because we get the Christmas bonus once the holidays start and families are expected to come in. Looking after kids gets paid better than making sure no pensioners get lost in the special exhibition,’ Grantaire helped himself to a second portion.

‘Just make sure you don’t take any shifts on the last day. We wouldn’t want you missing out on the Dean’s Prize,’ Bahorel winked at him, ‘we also wouldn’t want to deprive your mother of an opportunity to sniff at your presence at your academy.’

‘She’ll find another reason once I have left, I’m sure of it.’

‘Speaking of your mother,’ Jehan set their glass down, ‘what are you going to do once Enjolras wants to be introduced?’

‘Bold of you to assume it’s ever going to come to that,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘have you got any wine?’

‘You don’t do wine.’

‘Tonight I might, though. It might be time for me to get totally smashed.’

‘In that case, you’ll find an open bottle of white wine in the fridge. For red wine you will have to open the bottle we keep in the medicine cabinet.’

Grantaire got up and left the room to go check the cabinet in the bathroom. He found the bottle, sent a quick thank you to the heavens and returned to the table.

‘So – you’re getting drunk tonight?’

‘Are you going to try and stop me?’

‘No, I know better than doing that,’ Jehan shook their head, ‘you’re not working tomorrow, right?’

‘Nope, no obligations,’ Grantaire uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into his glass, ‘I can drink as much as I want and sleep in tomorrow. It’s perfect, isn’t it?’

‘If you say so.’

A knock on the door interrupted the beginning discussion. Jehan got up to open it, leaving Bahorel and Grantaire to sit in silence.

‘Hi Marius, nice to see you guys.’

‘Cosette insisted she could smell Bahorel’s cooking. We brought you chocolate, though.’

‘Always welcome. Come in, grab some plates and help yourselves.’

Cosette came in and waved at them, ‘Hi Baz, hello Grantaire. How are you, R?’

‘As good as can be expected under the circumstances,’ Grantaire lifted his glass, ‘I suppose you heard of –‘

‘The painting? It’s amazing, R! I was a little surprised you didn’t show it to us earlier but it looks absolutely beautiful, you caught a moment within a dream and captured it on canvas,’ Marius sat down next to him and gave him an awkward smile.

‘Is it true that Lafayette put it up without checking with you?’ Cosette set down a plate for her boyfriend.

‘How -?’

‘News like that travel fast, my dear,’ she patted his shoulder, ‘also, the group chat did pretty much overheat my phone earlier.’

‘Jehan was very communicative.’

‘So much for smelling my cooking,’ Bahorel shot his partner a look, ‘did you tell everybody?’

‘I only posted a small recap of today’s events, forgive me for actually answering people’s questions,’ Jehan shrugged, ‘we are friends after all.’

‘And it didn’t hurt when Enjolras intervened, right?’ Marius smiled cautiously, ‘He pointed out how –‘

‘Thank you, Marius,’ Cosette placed a hand on his and rubbed his wrist with her thumb, ‘I think we get the idea. Jehan was kind enough to elaborate on how the situation came to be.’

Grantaire poured himself a second glass of wine and emptied it in few gulps, only to refill it immediately. His friends moved on, talking about other academy gossip and whatever went on in their lives. He could drown it out easily, only concentrating on the wine in his hand.

The bottle did not hold up for long after he got started on it and within minutes, he felt the fog take over and cloud his brain. His resolution to build up his resistance to wine had once again been abandoned over more important things. As every time before, he regretted not having concentrated on it when he realised that his eqilibrioception could no longer tell whether he was sitting, standing or lying down.

‘Grantaire?’ Cosette nudged him, ‘Are you going to be okay going home?’

‘I’m living down the corridor,’ he realised just how slurred his speech had become and pushed himself out of his chair, ‘Can I keep the bottle?’

Somebody’s fingers took the bottle from his hand, ‘It’s empty, R, and it’s getting late.’

Bahorel nodded in the background of his blurry vision. Grantaire shrugged and stood up completely. If he was not mistaken, he swayed on his feet, there was no telling.

‘See you when I’m back amongst the living,’ he tried a two-finger-salute and almost poked himself into the eye, shook his head to get rid of some of the fog and eventually found the door.

‘Get home safe,’ Jehan kissed him on the cheek, ‘Please let me know how you feel tomorrow. I’ll happily come over and help you get back on your feet.’

‘You’re a good friend,’ Grantaire leant onto them for a moment, ‘taking care of me when I’m like…this. Pathetic.’

‘I am going to disagree, Grantaire,’ Jehan gave him a sad smile that he wanted to take off their face. Nobody should get Jehan to look as sad as they did but deep down he knew that reason was his behaviour most of the time, ‘Good night!’

He turned around and staggered down the hallway, fumbling for the wall to lean onto. The lights had been switched off and he could not tell just how late it was. A floorboard squeaked under his weight and he pressed a finger to his lips to remind his surroundings to be quiet in case people were already sleeping.

He thought about Bossuet and Joly and Musichetta and hoped they had gone back to wherever Musichetta lived instead of their flat. His dignity could only suffer so many blows before he was bound to end up puking in front of someone who he would rather not see that. More than that, he wished for his bed since he could be sure of his position and location once he lay down and pulled the blanket over himself.

He started looking for his keys three doors down from his to avoid standing in front of the flat like a drunk person looking for their keys. Grantaire congratulated himself for his brilliant idea, giggling into the dark hallway. With his key already in his hand it got a lot easier to pretend to know where the keyhole was, the fumbling was limited to a minimum. The door opened and Grantaire exhaled with relief when he realised that the flat was as dark as the corridor. Joly and Bossuet were out and he could slip into his room without having to answer all the questions he got asked when he came in drunk.

He managed to leave a proper two-finger-salute in the direction of the shadow next to the staircase that was shaped like Enjolras, giggled and shook his head at his accomplishment. Then, he moved through the door, only bumping into the frame once and closed it behind himself. Joly and Bossuet would not have appreciated coming back to an open door, he remembered that from the last time it had happened.

It took him a few more minutes but then he lay in his bed, blankets pulled up to his nose. Adonis had not been in the living room or his bed so he assumed the tomcat outside, checked the window and left it propped open with a bookend before passing out.

Chapter Text

He managed to avoid Enjolras for two days, one of them spent in his room, nursing his hangover. Joly and Bossuet had not come back until late afternoon and were not in the mood to talk to him. Neither was he, which left him relieved in the darkness of his room, curled up around his sketchpad, with earbuds in and music turned up. His pencil traced the forms of a face and some flowers around the figure. It was Jehan with a twist, something fragile yet strong dusted on their face. Maybe it was a character from a mystical place, a member of the fae. Grantaire smiled weakly. If one of his friends were part of a fairy court, it would be Jehan. He decided to discard the idea and change the face.

When Joly knocked eventually to let him know that they had prepared some dinner, ‘If you’re interested, Boss and I are pretty proud of the outcome. Musichetta gave us the recipe for a meatball lasagne and we managed to make it without messing up too much.’

‘And you left him in the kitchen? Alone? With the food?’

Joly blinked at him without saying anything for a moment, then, he shrugged and smiled, ‘I trust him.’

Grantaire nodded and grabbed a jumper from his desk chair, ‘Sure, that must keep him from dropping the pan or burn his hands. I’m going to join you in a moment, just need to…well, I was going to say tidy up but we know I won’t.’

‘Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t,’ Joly lifted an eyebrow before turning back around, ‘good, do your stuff. Food’s waiting.’

Grantaire pulled the jumper on and slipped into the bathroom to splash water into his face and wash his hands before dinner. He caught sight of his own face in the mirror and sighed. The dark circles under his eyes were something he could expect on an everyday basis and his hair flopped into his eyes but he only realised how long he had gone without a shave when he saw how dark his chin had gotten. He could feel the stubble against his fingers and groaned.

‘Are you okay in there?’ Bossuet laughed outside the door.

‘You guys didn’t tell me just how much of a beard-situation I have going on,’ he left the bathroom and dried his hands on his shirt.

‘It’s literally in your face, shouldn’t you know?’ Joly shook his head and handed him a warm plate with lasagne, ‘I just thought you were trying a new look.’

‘Because it does suit you, actually,’ Bossuet snaked his arms around Joly’s waist and rested his head on his shoulder, ‘gives you an air of the starving artist. Ruggedly handsome, I would say, and very, very attractive.’

Joly cleared his throat, ‘Which he only gets to say because I know how much he loves me, otherwise I would rage with jealousy and accuse you of cheating on me with Grantaire. Well, nothing I wouldn’t tap.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire sat down, ‘I worry more about what other people thought about it. Fuck, I haven’t shaved since before the duel – I faced Montparnasse looking like this? And I went to work yesterday looking like a homeless person!’

‘Oh boy, he’s got anxiety again,’ Bossuet grinned over Joly’s shoulder, ‘Grantaire, it does suit you. It makes you look nice, actually. Appreciate this for once. I’m sure people liked the way you look right now. Did anyone tell you that you should change it?’

‘No, because no one is that rude.’

‘Did you, by any chance, get a compliment?’

Grantaire shook his head and set down his plate, ‘Enjolras likes my uniform at work but that has probably changed now.’

‘Oh yes,’ Joly loosened Bossuet’s arms around his body, ‘I wanted to talk about that, actually.’

They sat down with him and Bossuet turned his attention to the food on his plate. Joly, however stared at Grantaire until he had chewed down the first few bites of his lasagne.

‘So, Jehan sent me a lengthy voice message last night about your painting and Enjolras seeing it – and maybe everybody we know knows about your aesthetic crush on him,’ Joly poured him some water, ‘did you really get drunk on Jehan’s emergency wine?’

‘I did. Try realising you fucked up without dealing with it or trying to forget the whole ordeal,’ Grantaire stuffed another fork full of lasagne into his mouth, ‘this is good by the way, can you tell Musichetta I say thank you?’

‘I’ll pass it on.’

‘By the way, date of three, how was it?’

Joly exchanged a look with Bossuet and they broke out in sly grins, ’We probably shouldn’t tell you too much since we don’t know where this is going. I mean, we went out for dinner and a stroll along the river.’

‘She took us home,’ Bossuet blurted out, his cheeks turning pink.

‘I figured, since you weren’t around this morning or lunchtime,’ Grantaire scratched his neck, ‘am I going to see her around the flat soon, then?’

‘Well, we are going to meet up again, soon,’ Joly said, cutting up his food, ‘if that answers your questions?’

‘I have lots of questions about logistics and stuff, like, how –‘

‘Not those questions,’ Bossuet choked on a bite of food, ‘You know how stuff works, the rest is down to our discretion. Pull yourself together, you have more stuff going on than us, anyway, let’s concentrate on that.’

‘What if I don’t want that?’

‘Not my problem.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and dug back in, ‘Well, no talking about it, then.’

Joly shook his head with a smile, ‘You should, though. Please don’t try to avoid Enjolras for ell eternity now. The duel proved to everybody that you actually care. Montparnasse saw you there and he made the connection that you are actually quite important to Enjolras. Don’t throw that away, you are friends after all and between his music and your art, you are pretty amazing. Admitted, Enjolras has his head in the clouds about a few things, and he might need someone to remind him of the boundaries of his undertakings every once in a while. So far, you have done a good job with that – with clever arguments, nonetheless.’

Grantaire felt the effect of Joly’s words warm his insides and take over a small part of his brain that was reluctant to follow his usual self-deprecating persona. He had to admit that his friends of the last years knew him well enough to push the right buttons to make him feel better about himself. It was a welcome change but did not happen too often.

‘Promise me you will not avoid Enjolras because you are embarrassed about having been inspired by him? The old masters didn’t apologise to the objects of their pictures.’

‘The old masters had people sit for portraits and didn’t rely on a brief glimpse on a person,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘what would that promise entail?’

‘Not shutting yourself off, coming to the next meeting and participating a bit. You know, showing you’re in for the money.’

‘But I’m not, Enjolras’ whole idea is completely detached from reality.’

‘Better don’t tell him that,’ Joly grinned at him, ‘we wouldn’t want to spoil the honeymoon phase.’

Grantaire let his head hit the table top. Bossuet petted his head with a small chuckle and rubbed small circles in his neck.

‘Listen, Grantaire, you have a tendency to brood and get lost in your thoughts. Please just consider going to see Lafayette tomorrow and then talking to Enjolras. Once you have explained the motivation behind the painting, he might actually agree with it. If he doesn’t already because that drawing is freaking beautiful as it is.’

‘Thanks,’ Grantaire mumbled into the wooden surface of the table, ‘I’m sure that’s the argument that will get Enjolras to forget how much he doesn’t like people being idolised the way I made him seem in the painting. That might be one of the bigger points about it.’

‘Now, now,’ Joly chipped in, ‘you are painting this black, again. Do you need chocolate to build you back up?’

‘I’d prefer booze,’ Grantaire sat back up and pushed his hair out of face. A few curls bounced around his ears and he raked his fingers through them, fluffing them up even more than they already were.

‘No booze,’ Joly wagged a finger at him with a serious face that did not suit him at all, not when the laughter lines around his eyes betrayed his stern façade, ‘Booze will make you forget temporarily and you don’t want to forget right now. You were just about to agree to face the challenges head on.’

‘Just about, Joly, do you hear that? I was just about to promise – really, this doesn’t really help,’ Grantaire scraped the last leftovers of lasagne off the plate and licked his knife clean, shooting Joly a dark glance.

‘Right, who’s doing dishes tonight?’ Bossuet pushed his chair back, almost tipping it over, ‘Oops.’

‘Don’t worry, you sit down,’ Joly kissed him and took his plate from him, ‘We’ll do it, won’t we, R?’

Grantaire got up reluctantly and shuffled into the kitchen, muttering under his breath and wishing for a fairy that took over the housework from them. Of course, nothing of that sort happened and he ended up scrubbing cheese and tomato sauce from plates and out of a baking dish before passing them to Joly who had sat down again to dry whatever Grantaire passed him.

Bossuet had switched the TV on and started watching some kind of nature documentary, it provided backdrop enough for Grantaire and Joly to work in silence. Once the dishes were back in their places in the cupboard, they joined him in the living room, Joly sitting down on the sofa an between his legs, Grantaire rolling up in the armchair just as a lioness began hunting a zebra foal on the screen.

‘Poor baby,’ he sighed and tilted his head back over the armrest. He spotted Adonis standing in the doorway to his room, tail tip flicking and eyes fixed on him, ‘Come on, boy, do you want to see the big cats, too? Do you want to cuddle up with me?’

Adonis meowed, clawing at the carpet in the hallway. Grantaire watched as he yawned and began stalking towards him. The tomcat jumped into his lap and curled up there but not before sinking his claws into his trouser leg for a moment of sharp pain that shot through Grantaire’s nerve endings.

‘Thank you,’ he started scratching behind Adonis’ ears, fingers finding their rhythm quickly, relaxing both him and the cat.

‘I admire the love you have developed for the hell spawn,’ Bossuet slid one of his sleeves up to reveal a few red scratches, ‘he can’t stand me for some reason.’

Grantaire chuckled to himself and nuzzled Adonis’ fur, ‘He has good taste.’

‘I could comment on namesakes loving R but I will refrain from doing so since I will have to fear his claws…’ Joly trailed off, his lips stretched by a knowing grin that Grantaire chose to ignore.

His friends’ mocking comments and eyebrow wagging bore no relevance to him anymore, at least that was what he told himself every time he started listening to the playlist he had created off all pieces he had heard Enjolras play. He searched the internet to extent to find piano versions of all the songs, and so far, he had succeeded. Something was amiss, it stared him in the face when he listened to these non-Enjolras versions of Chopin’s etudes and Beethoven’s sonatas but he could not pinpoint what exactly made the difference.

They finished the documentary on African desert life, Adonis fell asleep on Grantaire’s leg and Joly against Bossuet’s shoulder. Grantaire got up first to move the cat to his room, laying him down on his bed. The tomcat stretched in his sleep and yawned. The sight was cute enough to stop him for a moment to watch.

‘Grantaire, please,’ Bossuet’s strained voice from the living room made him shake his head and return to the common area, ‘He started drooling.’

Joly smiled in his sleep as they carried him into his bedroom. He, too, stretched when he hit the mattress and smacked his lips a bit. Bossuet tried to take off his cardigan but gave up a minute later to again turn to Grantaire for help. Together they managed to free Joly’s arms without waking him up.

Grantaire bid Bossuet goodnight and left the room. Turning to close the door behind himself, he caught sight of the warm smile Bossuet looked at Joly with, the way he almost touched his hair and sat down next to him to get changed. Grantaire closed the door and swallowed against a lump in his throat that seemed close to choking him all of a sudden.

A single sock had found its way under his bed, he reached for it and threw it into the general direction of the hamper. He had lain down on the floor of his room immediately after getting back, Adonis having spread out so much that he could not get under the blankets without disturbing him. The hard floor under his shoulders made him stretch his torso for once, sinews and muscles that were used to his horribly crooked stature protested against their unusually healthy position with pain and strain but Grantaire simply extended his arms and legs until he was spread out like a starfish or a crucified figure, whichever was more dramatic. He could not decide.

After half an hour spent in this position, he unlocked his phone and set a reminder to go and see Lafayette during his office hour the following day. The harsh light of the display made him squint his eyes shut, more and more, until they were closed entirely. When the phone hit his face, he was already asleep.

***

He stirred. Immediately, pain shot through his body, lighting up his nerve endings and snapping him awake. For a moment, Grantaire panted against the pain, trying to calm his breath enough to clear his mind. Fear settled deep in his bones, he searched his memory for pointers, symptoms of an episode proclaiming its arrival but he remembered neither the nausea nor the dread of it taking hold of him, no headache had forced him to his knees. Careful, as to not risk anything, he lifted an arm to fumble for his phone on the bedside table. His hand found neither bedside table nor his phone, instead, it hit wooden floor boards and a power cord. Grantaire convinced his eyes to open and take a look at what had happened to him. He realised his circumstances immediately when he did. He had fallen asleep on the ground in front of his bed, splayed out without a blanket or anything else underneath to support his back.

‘Fuck me sideways with a crowbar,’ he groaned and cursed, pushing himself up against the protest staged by his muscles.

‘Do you want to wash out your mouth now or shall I do it in a minute?’ Joly leaned against the counter in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in one hand and his cane next to him, ‘there are sensitive people around, you know?’

‘The only sensitive thing about you is your knee,’ Grantaire reached past Joly’s head to get painkillers from the top shelf of the cupboard and tossed them at his friend, ‘in exchange for your coffee. You shouldn’t drink coffee with these anyway.’

‘What makes you think I need –‘

‘You have your cane with you already and it’s not even eight. Take the bloody painkiller and give me that cup,’ he took it from an extended hand and downed it, ‘I’m in the bathroom.’

‘Go! Go and be happy,’ Joly grabbed his cane and pointed it at Grantaire, ‘see you on the other side.’

‘’Til we meet again,’ Grantaire responded and both grinned as they shouted at each other, ‘I am not throwing away my shot.’

‘Too early for musical theatre references,’ Bossuet yawned and pushed past Grantaire, his eyes not even half open, ‘why do lectures start this early?’

Grantaire left Joly to answer this existential question and shuffled into the bathroom. He took his clothes off, inspecting the damage done to his belly by the denim waistband of his jeans. The angry red imprints were sensitive to the touch and he winced when his fingers hit an especially deep one. He turned the shower on and stood under the hot spray for a few minutes before moving as much as a finger. The water massaged his stiff shoulders and soothed his back a little, allowing the muscles to warm up enough to be moved without pain. Thankful for the improvement, small as it was, Grantaire washed his hair and combed through the heavy mess of his wet curls. The soapy water swirled around the drain before disappearing. Grantaire felt like it carried away something that had burdened him. He still felt like a weight held him down but it had lost some of his bite, allowing him to feel almost human. Turning off the water, he reached for his towel and wrapped it around his waist. Next, he got his razor out of the cabinet and squeezed some of Bossuet’s shaving cream into his palm to smear it onto his face. Bossuet didn’t mind, in return, he used Grantaire’s moisturiser which would not have been used otherwise since Grantaire could not have cared less about the condition of his skin.

Once he rinsed the razor for a last time and dried his face with a corner of the towel, he felt even better. He combed his hair back and out of his face, allowing for a single drop to run down his back only to be soaked up by the towel, brushed his teeth and collected his discarded clothes, bundling them up. When he left the bathroom, Bossuet made a remark about his clean shaven chin and Joly wolf whistled; Grantaire flipped him off with a grin and slammed his door shut behind himself.

Adonis had already left and he was not sure whether he had been in the kitchen with his friends where they kept his bowl. Grantaire shrugged, more to himself than anybody else and threw the worn clothes in the hamper, gathering up the sock he had chucked on the ground close to the basket the night before. He opened his wardrobe to pick his outfit for the day, an outfit that would have to get Lafayette to take Catch Me I’m Falling off the wall in the entrance hall, an outfit that demanded an explanation. He caught sight of his half naked body in the mirror on the inside of the closet door.

He liked to imagine that he could see the change already that taking up boxing again brought to him, imagined his shoulders broadening and his arms and belly getting more defined. Bahorel teased him about the soft features he had accumulated and Grantaire knew he did not mean any harm. It still hurt on a level so hidden that he could not locate it. Maybe it was the knowledge that he had allowed himself to let go something he had actually liked about himself, maybe it was knowing that he had battled one extreme to end up on the opposite of the scale.

It made little sense to stare at the way he could see the faint outline of his ribs, Grantaire decided. He would continue to box, to gain muscle mass and eventually, fill out in a healthy way. Maybe, Bahorel had a few pointers for him in that regard.

He picked a fresh pair of jeans with only small paint splatters at the seams and a t-shirt that announced his love for a certain band he had not listened to in years but still cherished in the calm moments of his bedroom and studio space. There was a small tear just underneath the printed motif but he ignored it, knowing that his other shirts would have paint all over them, and tears, since the washing machine could not be trusted with cotton.

When he left the flat, his bag ready for the day and another coffee in a travel mug, he felt ready to take on the world, something he had not felt in some time. He met Feuilly on the stairs and nodded a greeting. A few students joined them on the next landing and Grantaire wished he imagined the whispered words that threatened to cast a shadow on his day. He struggled to decide which was the worst between ‘publicity stunt,’ ‘obsession’ and ‘undeserved favouritism.’ His stomach wanted to flip and regurgitate his sparse breakfast without further warning.

A hand on his arm almost made him jump, ‘Are you alright?’

Feuilly looked him over with a cautious look, his deep eyes seeming not quite convinced when Grantaire nodded sharply. A group of art students stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyes focussed on the canvas on the wall. One of them spotted them coming down and elbowed the one next to them. Grantaire wished for the ground to open up and swallow him – just him, not Feuilly who still held onto his arm.

‘Hey Grantaire,’ one of the students called out, ‘how does it feel so far up Lafayette’s arse?’

‘Have you got a nice view, crawler?’

‘Brownnoser!’

‘How can you show up here like it’s okay that your mediocre pictures get exhibited every time? Others deserve that exposure, too!’

The others joined in, calling out names, insults and abuse. Grantaire clenched his teeth and prepared himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He focussed on the doors, set to leave without being stopped by them, no matter how hard every word seemed to hit him. He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing the tears stinging in the corners of his eyes. A voice in the back of his mind piped up about him crying like a baby too easily, that he needed to do something about it. Faced with a group of students ready to tackle him, however, nothing came to mind that could have had an immediate effect.

‘Hey, idiots,’ Feuilly let go of his arm and pushed past him, ‘are you quite finished?’

In response, an empty juice packet sailed over his head and missed Grantaire by a few inches. Someone in the group shrugged and turned to face Feuilly.

‘What are you on about? It’s true – he takes exhibition space from other people who have stuff they would like to see exhibited as well. When was the last time you had one of your fans on display? Grantaire is just greedy and Lafayette seems to have lost it completely.’

Feuilly’s face went so red that Grantaire feared he might pop a blood vessel, ‘You absolute clown! When did I last display my stuff? Well, the most recent was put up Saturday morning in the administration offices, where everybody who is even vaguely interested in the academy will see them as an example of the brilliant work we do here, the diversity of methods and influences, the opportunities we are granted to explore our inspirations and new material. My fans have not only secured me a scholarship but also a job after I graduate, has your art done that for you? Any of you who seem to think you are high and mighty enough to go about running your mouths? The academy represents itself and what it stands for through the artwork picked by the whole teaching body when an internal exhibitions is decided! They look for passion, unique ideas and a special something, all things found in my fans and Grantaire’s work. Now, I could go even deeper but instead I want to leave you with a question: why is it that some names repeat themselves as the ones displayed in the academy rooms whilst I would not be able to tell all of you apart by your work? Think about why your pieces have not been chosen, if you even handed something in, instead of badmouthing the ones of us that have spent ages sweating blood over what you choose to call mediocre?’

He turned back around to Grantaire, grabbed his hand and pulled him out the door before anyone could make another sound. They were halfway down the street before Grantaire managed to form words.

‘Feuilly, you didn’t have to –‘

‘Don’t you dare,’ he was interrupted with a sharp pat on his back, ‘I am in full swing, don’t say anything that goes back on what I just did. You may thank me even though you shouldn’t have to, not for someone giving these idiots a piece of their minds. I lied, I know what they handed in for exhibition, and all of them are as uncreative as envious. One of them handed in a copy of a Nolde sketch, imagine that! They are never going to be exhibited with an attitude like that.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire dared to smile at his companion, ‘thank you for stepping in.’

‘No problem,’ Feuilly readjusted his backpack, ‘any Amis would have done the same and I know for a fact that you would do the same for me without hesitation. It’s not just common decency. It’s friendship. See you later, I have to go see Marat before his class.’

He took off running and left Grantaire to make his way to the campus. He had not quite processed what had happened when his phone buzzed with new messages in the group chat. Enjolras reminded everybody to come up with projects they could tackle before Christmas since they had some of their budget left and administration would take it away if they had too much left at the end of the year. Grantaire sighed, put his phone back into his pocket and made his way to the first class of the day.

He managed to concentrate on the content being taught, historic paintings taken out of context for propaganda reasons. A few times, paper balls were thrown in his direction but he realised quickly that most of his fellow students were terrible at aiming. Ignoring it got easy after some time and when one of the paper balls landed on their lecturer’s desk, he managed to snicker along with everybody else as the culprit was called to the front and made to pick up all the papers that had found their way onto the ground there.

Once he got to leave the seminar room for lunch, Grantaire picked his bag up from where he had left it and hightailed out of the door. If he wanted to get to Lafayette’s office in time for the actual office hour and before others, he needed to sprint along the river, disregarding traffic and pedestrians. Someone yelled after him but he was already off, focussed only on the distance he had to cover. The cold air stung in his lungs and burned on his face, his bag hit his hip a few times and he got almost run over just a street away from the offices but he managed to be in the second spot in the queue, after a female student who nervously clutched a wrapped canvas. Grantaire gave her a small smile as he fell into his chair and gasped for air. He felt like a fish out of water in the physical sense but the satisfaction he felt when another students showed up mere seconds later made up for it.

Lafayette’s door stood ajar so they all could hear him call in the first. The nervous student entered the office and closed the door, locking out any noises or words being exchanged behind it. Grantaire pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the group chat again. Some of Les Amis had suggested going out for lunch, he shot a quick response explaining where he was and wishing them a good time. He would have to make do with whatever he could buy to go. There were enough cafés and shops to grab a sandwich and drink before going back to use his studio time.

‘Next,’ Lafayette’s voice caught him off guard, he flinched and stared at the person next to him, a stocky student with a faint green undertone to his skin, for a moment before getting up and entering the office.

Lafayette sat with his back to the door when Grantaire entered, typing away on the computer – he could spot a corner of the art department’s website on the screen. The previously wrapped painting leant against the wall on one side, facing away from the spectator which meant nude study in academy terms.

‘Ah, Grantaire, haven’t had the pleasure of your visits in quite some time now, how are you, my boy?’ Lafayette got up and closed the door himself, pointing at the visitor chair in front of his desk, ‘Take a seat and take a biscuit.’

‘Sir, your attempts to turn into a real-life Professor McGonagall are successful,’ Grantaire grinned and fished a Jammy Dodger out of the tin.

‘And you like the biscuits,’ Lafayette returned to his chair, ‘what brings you here today?’

Grantaire stared at him for a moment. That his tutor might not even know what had driven him to sprint all the way from the lecture hall to his office and sit panting in front of the door had not crossed his mind. He tried to collect his senses, formulate a thought and croak it out without peppering it with accusations and unjust remarks.

‘Sir, I saw that my recent project ended up in the lobby of the dorms where – I mean, I didn’t hand anything in!’

Lafayette watched him, beady eyed as ever and with a smirk hidden in the corner of his mouth. Grantaire felt his gaze bore into his eyes, his hands started to feel clammy and sweaty.

‘It was a last minute change,’ his tutor took a biscuit and bit into it with passion, ‘I got to witness a musical duel the other night. Splendid entertainment, captivating performance and excellent judges. I have to say, if all extracurricular organisations spent as much time as Les Amis to round of their events, we would have a hard time getting any teaching done.’

Grantaire was sure he should say something about the group, the dedication every member brought towards the cause as well as their studies but Lafayette did not allow him to sort his thoughts, his distracted mind could only focus on one thing, ‘You were there?’

‘Of course I was, Professor Lamarque needed a lift to the auditorium. The old man doesn’t drive and I needed something to do on a Friday night. I dare say it was worth leaving the house,’ Lafayette gave Grantaire a wink, ‘and it made me realise just how many questions he raises.’

‘He – what? Lamarque?’

‘Of course not, boy! Your muse, you found him!’

Grantaire heard his blood rush in his ears, it made him feel light-headed and faint, ‘My…muse…’

‘No need to repeat everything I say. I was surprised to find out that your muse is one of Lamarque’s tutees, on the other hand, he spends most of his time drilling them to understand the emotional potential of music and melodies – just as I aim to pass on with colours and forms,’ a chuckle accompanied the words and Grantaire felt a pat on his shoulder, ‘I understand now what drew you to paint him. I cannot say that I ever came across him before but there is an air around him that makes you want to take out a pencil and sketch him, especially when performing. I suppose you get most of your motion sketches done easily now?’

‘No,’ Grantaire managed to form an explanatory thought at last, ‘it evades me, I can never draw him playing.’

‘Good, that means I have something to look forward to. Back to the questions, though. He raises them, without doubt and the answers are different every time you spot another one. My dear boy, if you painted a picture for every question, you could fill a museum with them.

Grantaire rolled his eyes reflexively, ‘Thank you, sir, very helpful.’

‘Don’t you go sarcastic on me, Grantaire, it’s no use. Let us just say I got inspired watching him, too. A spot opened up just before we set out for the concert and the board asked me whether I could think of an artwork to fill it. I know you did not hand that paining in for it to be displayed but everything else would have been a crime against it. Surely, you don’t mind it being in a prominent spot, giving you this kind of exposure?’

‘Professor,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘I do, actually. It’s not so much the comments about me being a favourite and being preferred, those will die down and I know you are above such petty things – but I did not have Enjolras’ consent to paint him and we were both taken by surprise when the painting showed up in the hall. I’m not sure he saw it as a compliment when he saw his face on a wall.’

Lafayette furrowed his brow and scratched his chin for a moment, evaluating what he had said. Something ghosted over his expression, haunted and filled with dread. Then, he returned the observant look Grantaire had cast him.

‘I’ll see what I can do, lad, don’t worry. Now, a question for you, a brash change of topic to make up for the distress: would you be interested in a collaboration? Don’t worry, I don’t require an answer on the spot, it’s a project the academy has tried to start before. We are going to put a list up before Christmas but if you are interested –‘

‘I came here to avoid being known as the teacher’s pet,’ Grantaire frowned.

‘And I still offer you a space because someone of your talent and capability is exactly what we are looking for.’

‘We?’

‘Big surprise, my boy,’ Lafayette smiled, ‘have another biscuit for the way?’

Grantaire picked a chocolate biscuit and grabbed his bag. He nodded the next student in line to enter after he left the office and popped the biscuit into his mouth. Before he started back, he dropped by the store and grabbed a few supplies he had been running low on. With a slightly fuller bag and an equally empty stomach, he decided to stop at the coffee shop on the corner to find out whether Éponine worked.

She did and judging by the way she looked at him when he entered, she had something to tell him. Her co-worker manning the coffee machine looked between them and whispered something in her ear. Éponine waved him closer and pointed to a table in the corner.

‘Sit there, you get your panini and coffee in a moment. I have stuff to discuss with you and I already regret to have to dump that on you,’ she pressed a few buttons on the till, ‘the usual.’

‘Thanks Ép, what would I do without your discount?’

‘Pay way too much for weak coffee,’ Éponine took his money and put it in the till, ‘sit down and brace yourself. It’s a big one but I think you owe me for showing up so little over the last weeks.’

‘Wouldn’t you agree that it is positive that I went a few weeks without another episode?’ Grantaire grinned and took his bag off his shoulder, ‘because it seems like that to me, Ép.’

Éponine rolled her eyes at him. Grantaire sat down in the corner and settled, watching her work behind the counter. Her hair seemed slightly messier and more tangled than it usually was and the circles under her eyes were darker and deeper than they had ever been. She seemed to run on sheer willpower alone, nothing else explained the way she held herself.

A few minutes later, Éponine set down a big cup of coffee and a steaming plate with a couple of paninis in front of him on the table. She sat down next to him and loosened the apron around her waist.

‘This is the biggest favour I will ever ask of you and I understand completely, if you don’t want to or don’t feel up to it – but at this point I don’t have an alternative,’ she sighed and ran a hand through her hair, ripping through a few tangles and knots, ‘I need you to allow Gavroche to crash on your couch.’

Grantaire almost spit out the first sip of coffee he had taken, blinking at her in disbelief. He set the cup back down and pinched the bridge of his nose. Éponine seemed to wait until he had caught his breath and got the coffee down until she said another word.

‘I know this is harsh, unplanned and surprising but please let me explain, it’s not going to take long,’ she toyed with a strand of her hair, ‘My parents left again. This time, they forgot Gavroche at home, he called me a few days ago to warn me before he came into the shop. I accommodated him in my flat but you know as well as me that my flat is a mess and not even remotely close to anything a kid his age needs.’

‘Sorry, pardon my interruption – but your parents forgot Gavroche?’ Grantaire shook his head, hyperaware that his mouth hung open, ‘How do you forget your own son?’

‘They have done that before but always with me, not him. I thought they had changed but then again, there is a reason I don’t talk to them anymore,’ Éponine sighed, ‘he’s got another few weeks of school until Christmas ahead of him so he would be there for most of the day, it’s just the evenings and late afternoons. I phoned my parents but they were pretty insistent that I could either pay for his ticket – which I can’t afford and wouldn’t do to the little nuisance – or look after him – which I would love to do but find myself limited by my living circumstances.’

‘And what makes you think I am your alternative?’ Grantaire rubbed his eyes, ‘I am the last person anyone should trust their kids with!’

‘I’ll have you know that my parents qualify for that title before everyone else,’ Éponine looked back at him with something in her eyes Grantaire had never seen before and wanted to see never again, ‘Believe me, Gavroche is better off no matter where he is, as long as it is far away from my parents.’

‘And you thought having him stay with Joly and Bossuet wouldn’t scar him for life?’

‘Try it? Please, for me – it would help me a lot until I have sorted out Christmas for us and know what to do with him then,’ she looked back to the counter, a few customers had come in and her co-worker seemed to wait for her to come back, ‘I’m sorry, I know this is the worst time and you have other problems to deal with but I need to tell Gav what will happen and another night with him in my bed will drive me crazy if I don’t have a backup plan.’

Grantaire had seen Éponine’s place before, a one room bedsit with a double bed which took up half of the space as it was. He agreed that it was less than perfect for a twelve year old since he would not even have enough space to open his books to do his homework.

‘This is a big request, Éponine,’ he eventually said, ‘go back to work, I’ll talk to Joly and Bossuet, they get to have a say in this but if they don’t agree, I’ll offer Gavroche my studio.’

‘Thank you,’ Éponine got up and hugged him briefly, ‘I’ll keep my phone close by.’

Chapter Text

He caught Joly just before he could disappear behind the already closing front door and held it open for him to pass through. His friend looked exhausted and the hand gripping the head of his cane was already white at the knuckles.

‘Hello Grantaire, how was your day?’

The lack of a quip or snarky comment made all too clear that Joly himself had had a tiring, testing day that accumulated in the stairs he needed to mount to get to their flat. Grantaire offered his services to help him and together they scaled the first set of steps.

‘Weird you should ask,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘I have something to discuss with you and Boss once we’re home. Is he back already?’

‘Should be, his classes were short ones today,’ Joly watched him for a few seconds.

Grantaire directed his gaze ahead stubbornly, what he had to ask off his friends and flatmates was a big enough sacrifice. Still, he hoped to help Gavroche in the long run.

‘You’re home early,’ Bossuet looked up from his tablet, ‘’specially you, Grantaire. What happened to using Monday afternoons for studio time?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Grantaire ran his hands through his hair with a deep sigh, ‘I just talked to Éponine and I have a question for you both. Turns out, the Thenardiers left again and left Gavinou behind. She can’t shelter him for much longer, her flat is simply too small. She asked me whether I – we – can take him in for some time until she figures out something that will be better than that. It’s a huge task but we are probably the only place with a pull out couch, living room space and people there to take care of him who she knows and trusts.’

Joly and Bossuet exchanged a look, ‘You want to help the kid, it’s only reasonable. Grantaire, all you are is a good person. And we support good people, so go ahead, call Éponine and tell her that the little nuisance can stay with us! Of course he can, so don’t make it sound like you needed to convince us much.’

Grantaire felt happy enough to hug and squeeze both of them but settled for a high five before he pulled his phone out of his pocket to dial Éponine’s number, ‘Ép, I have the best flatmates in the world! When can I come pick Gavroche up?’

‘Thank you, Grantaire, you are an angel. Gavroche will be over the moon to hear you’re helping out. I’ll ask him to come to the coffee shop tonight and bring the stuff he has at my place. It’s not much, only one bag but he has everything he needs; you could pick him up after we close,’ Éponine’s relief was clearly audible.

‘I’ll be there to pick him up. See you then,’ Grantaire ended the call and turned back around to his friends, ‘Right, we still have a few hours. Can I count on you to help me?’

‘Sure thing, what do you need?’ Joly sat up on the couch, dragging Bossuet up with him.

‘If you could prepare another set of bedding? And Bossuet, can you help me tidy up a bit?’

‘Grantaire,’ Bossuet cleared his throat, ‘If you take responsibility for the urchin, you should clear your space.’

‘Clear my space?’

‘Your room,’ Joly nodded, ‘your studio. Get rid of everything that may be harmful or interesting to him. You know that little bugger better than us but I bet he would love to taste whatever substances you have around down there. And I know you keep them downstairs!’

Grantaire opened his mouth, ready to protest, only to shrug a moment later, ‘You’re right. I’d better go, then.’

He turned around, threw them a salute and went back out, running downstairs as if he was being chased by hellhounds. There was a brief moment of panic when he slipped on one of the last steps and only just caught himself before he could seriously trip.

He unlocked his studio door and opened it – only to stop in his tracks. Seeing it with the intention of getting rid of everything that could potentially harm a young, curious boy like Gavroche made a difference after all. The mess between the used canvases, paint supplies and his belongings that found their way into the room seemed even worse than any time before. Grantaire sighed and rolled his sleeves up.

‘Let’s do this, start with the obvious,’ he sighed and pushed through a few paint splattered clothes on the ground, ‘right, what’s the obvious?’

He picked a half empty bottle up from the floor and inspected it for a moment before setting it aside on the windowsill. Within minutes, he had found more bottles in various states of emptiness in the clutter on the ground and put them to the one he had found first. The bin bags he kept in his studio to keep the floor paint free came in handy once he faced the sheer number of bottles that needed tidying up. Grantaire gathered together everything he could find.

Thirteen cigarette packs and nineteen bottles of different booze later, he had to lie down for a moment to take in the sight. He let his arms and legs flop over the edge of the divan, the picture perfect copy of a struggling Romantic in his art history books. The heap of useless stuff he had collected and put to the other side of the room was almost the same height as the bottles. He had ripped off a few bin bags to motivate himself to put everything away but the dread that filled him thinking of it all but glued him to the divan.

His phone beeped with a message from Joly, he opened it and read, ‘You must’ve hit a low point by now. Get up and off your arse, do it now, we’re off to the shops. Does Gavroche like fish fingers?’

Grantaire pushed himself up to reply to the message. Joly and Bossuet went out of their way to help him and Éponine only an hour after they had decided to shelter the boy, and he had not even managed to get rid of his stash. He rubbed his face, supressing a yawn before padding towards the pile of rubbish.

The door opened as he shook open the first bin bag, he heard the sound but could not be bothered to turn around whilst headfirst in the rubbish. He only turned around after the first armful of loose papers and shreds was in the bag.

Enjolras stood just inside the room, his expression somewhere between panic and disbelief. His hair had found its way around the tie still holding most of it back but a few strands were swinging over his ears. Grantaire drew himself up to say something, whatever it was his brain would decide to utter at that moment, maybe an apology for the inconvenience the painting had caused, maybe an explanation why he had drawn him. Instead, his brain informed him that Enjolras’ apprehensive look was directed at something closer than him than Grantaire bent over a pile of rubbish. His attention seemed to be occupied by the bottles and cigarette packs on the floor.

‘Grantaire – are you alright? What is this?’ his voice reverberated with the consternation of the righteous as he stepped further into the room, still not looking at him, ‘What is the matter?’

Grantaire could see the assumptions behind the careful worry on his face, the thoughts racing through his mind, and eventually, the determination to set things right. He scoffed. Enjolras’ display of invasive hypocrisy seemed to overwhelm him with the sticky, sweet smile his friend had put on again. He refused to become his charity case, not when he was in the process of getting his shit together and his studio sorted without help from Enjolras and his starry-eyed idealism.

‘Get out,’ he growled, ‘none of your business what’s going on here.’

Seeing Enjolras flinch gave him pleasure for a second. In an attempt to top his own efforts to get his studio back to himself, he grabbed the bottle closest to him and thumbed the cork off. Chugging the remains of the liquid inside – pastis, as his taste buds informed him, something he did not necessarily like – he could see Enjolras’ eyes widen with chagrin.

‘I thought you had come so far and then you go drown your nihilistic worries in booze again,’ Enjolras turned on the spot and rushed back to the door, ‘and I only wanted to talk! I’m sorry for intruding on your…whatever it is.’

‘A nihilist doesn’t worry,’ Grantaire shouted after him just before the door slammed shut.

He emptied the bottle and threw it in the bin bag he still held. Despite his demonstration, he felt empty after a few minutes. His mind, unoccupied due to the bovine nature of his task, raced against him, making up scenarios that could have brought Enjolras to the decision to come talk to him. Instead, he had assumed as much as he had when he came in, seen him look at the bottles and decided that he was in for a scolding, if he did not get the better of Enjolras first. Chugging the last gulps of pastis left in that bottle had left him with a sour taste in his mouth that seemed to spread. He had driven Enjolras away and nothing about his behaviour had come close to what he had wanted him to know. There had been no time for an apology or explanation, he had successfully ruined his chances to get Enjolras to see his vision and judging by his reaction, Enjolras was back to believing Grantaire was an alcoholic.

He threw the next bottle into the bag, yearning to see it smash into pieces but mindful enough to remember that glass shards and bin liners did not mix. One of his bottles, half-filled with the beautiful amber that was whisky, seemed to smile sympathetically. He shook his head, more alcohol would hardly help him sort out whatever needed sorting. More than that, Gavroche and Éponine counted on him. The easy way out, drowning his worries in booze, just like Enjolras had said, was not an option as long as other things needed his attention.

With that in mind, he pushed the thought of disappointing Enjolras again to the back of his consciousness and continued his clean-up. The bottles and cigarette packs disappeared in his bin bags without further temptation and when he carried them out the backdoor to dump them in the dustbin, he felt accomplished enough to smile to himself for a moment.

He went back inside, head light and shoulders sagging a little but when he opened his studio door again to go through it with a broom, he felt relieved. The tidy spaces between his easel, divan and the tiny cabinet were open and unoccupied, a positive result in itself. With his studio finished and his watch telling him that he had just enough time to go through his room as well, he walked up the stairs.

Halfway up, he stopped at the door to the music corridor, trying to hear whether someone played the piano but the sounds coming back to him were so many and so diverse that he could not tell two of them apart. Grantaire cursed his curiosity and opened the door. He snuck down the hallway, peeking into a few windows. Both Cosette and Courfeyrac were practising in their rooms, Combeferre was looking through some sheet music and Marius waved at him from his place in the middle of the room. Grantaire returned the wave awkwardly before ducking past Enjolras’ door. He could hear the piano from outside, no need to look into the room.

Enjolras was playing a piece that sounded like Schumann but Grantaire could not tell whether it was one of the Fantasiestücke or Kinderszenen. It captured him for a moment, the lamenting melody echoing through his brain as he tried to remember when and where he had heard the piece before since it did not immediately conjure up memories of his own playing and practise back at home as a child. It asked a question, barely tangible in his memory.

He fought off the desperate wish to peek into the room, the desire to watch as Enjolras strung together melodies and notes into a tapestry of sound that wrapped him up completely. It provided something to hold onto. Looking into Enjolras’ room, however, meant tempting fate. He had only just crossed Enjolras, doing it again would most likely end in tears and he could not tell, whose. It took all his willpower to turn back and leave the music corridor again.

The flat was empty, just as expected since Joly and Bossuet were not yet back from their shopping spree. They had left the living room tidier than it had been in weeks and even folded up the blankets that usually ended up in knots on the sofa. He passed through and opened his own door. Adonis looked up from his place on the window sill where he was sunbathing in the pale winter sun. His tail flicked lazily against the wall.

‘Hello there, lazy bum,’ Grantaire ruffled his fur and looked around, ‘where should I start, huh? Bed? Desk? Shelves – or maybe even the floor?’

He picked a t-shirt up from the floor and sniffed it, ‘No, that needs to go in the hamper.’

Adonis seemed to agree, meowing softly before hopping off the window sill. He left the room without another glance, leaving Grantaire to deal with the mess both of them had left in the room. It took him a moment to locate the messiest corners but once he had tackled those, his room looked inhabitable again. Adonis returned the minute he had finished, curling up on the bed and watching with half-closed eyes.

‘How nice of you to join me again,’ Grantaire groaned and lifted a box with painting supplies onto his wardrobe where it could gather dust until he wanted to try aquarelles again, ‘are you ready to have a child roam around the flat?’

Adonis purred, rubbing his belly against Grantaire’s pillow. He could see the tiny red hairs getting stuck there and sighed. Maybe he could get Jehan to brush Adonis’ fur every so often, he seemed to like his friend, despite the overly childish voice they used whenever they spoke to an animal. Grantaire did not see the point in changing his voice when talking to his cat. It seemed an unnecessary hassle that he tended to avoid, if possible.

The front door opened, he could hear it slam against the wall of the hallway, indicator that whoever opened it, did not have a free hand to catch it before impact. Bossuet laughed, probably at something Joly had said and then he heard his friends in the kitchen.

Grantaire let his look linger on his tidied room for a second before nodding approval to no one in particular. He grabbed his comfy green jumper from his desk chair and pulled it over his hair, took his beanie out of his backpack and petted Adonis’ head before leaving his room.

Bossuet and Joly were storing groceries in the fridge when he passed them, only poking his head in to let them know that he was leaving to pick up Gavroche. Joly, one hand in the freezer and the other holding an ice pack out for Bossuet who had, by the looks of it, bumped his head on the cupboard door, looked up and flashed him a smile.

‘Off you go, saving the young soul. We should throw the rascal a welcome party!’

Bossuet nodded, a little too enthusiastically for Grantaire to believe that they had not come up with the idea on the way back home, ‘He knows everybody as it is, anyway! And we want him to feel welcome for as long as he stays.’

‘Also, we haven’t had a dinner with everybody in ages,’ Joly added, eyes pleading.

‘That’s because you don’t want to cook,’ Grantaire reminded him before giving up, ‘but sure, we can have a dinner. But you do the organising, if it’s at our place! This is going to be your thing, I don’t have the time to worry about that as well.’

‘Sure, sure, leave the party-planning to us,’ Bossuet pressed the ice pack to his head with a grin, ‘since you don’t go out anymore.’

‘I have my reasons,’ Grantaire pushed himself off the door frame, ‘see you in a bit.’

He pulled the door closed and re-adjusted his beanie, pushing a few curls under the hat. The early evening caravan of students seeking the solitude of their studios had passed already and Grantaire could hear the instruments on the music corridors, voices from the poets’ studies and all styles of music accompanying the flow of ideas of everybody else. Whilst he stepped outside into the cold, he could hear Bahorel’s trademark dubstep playlist that angered him enough to make him work more efficiently whenever they were in their respective studio spaces. He turned and made his way down the street towards the coffee shop. The air stung his skin and wind blew under his jumper, making him wonder whether they had to expect snow before Christmas.

He had not wanted to believe Éponine when she said Gavroche would have only one bag filled with this belongings. The boy sat in a corner, sipping a hot chocolate whilst Éponine handed out the last orders. At his feet sat a gym bag and what he believed to be the boy’s school bag. Seeing Grantaire coming through the door, Éponine waved briefly and switched the coffee machine off.

‘I’m closing for the day,’ she explained, ‘Gavroche has everything he needs and some of the dry groceries I had in my kitchen. I can’t thank you enough, Grantaire, this is more than what I would ask from anybody and I already feel like –‘

‘I’m going to stop you right there,’ Grantaire wrapped his arms around her and kissed her cheek, ‘Joly and Bossuet didn’t think for a second before saying yes to this. We love Gavroche and we know about your situation. Don’t think we wouldn’t do whatever we can to make this mess better for you. And as for your parents – let them rot in the sewers. The important thing is that you and Gavinou are alright and we are going to work together to make sure that happens.’

He stroked her hair and waited for a moment, allowing her to collect herself before stepping back. Éponine’s eyes were glinting but she nodded and waved for Gavroche to join them.

‘Behave yourself, okay? And do your homework, this is not a reason or an excuse to waste the opportunities you get at school. I’m going to try and come by, if Grantaire allows me to –‘

‘Hey, of course I do, anytime!’

‘– and try not to annoy him, okay? Have you got everything? I will see you soon,’ Éponine hugged her brother who seemed torn between embarrassment and gratefulness for her initiation. He clung to the bulging gym bag next to him for the duration of the hug.

Grantaire nodded, ‘Just send me his timetable, school, afternoon activities and stuff later tonight. He has a space in our living room and Joly’s making fish fingers, if I’m not mistaken. There was also talk of a welcome party soon so I expect to be able to inform you about that in the near future.’

Éponine waved after them before turning back around to the counter to finish her day. Grantaire led the way for him and the boy who seemed uncharacteristically quiet. The bag seemed to grow heavier the closer they got, Grantaire took it out of his hand and slung it over his shoulder without comment. Gavroche kicked a stone into the street and let his hand glide over some fence posts.

‘Hey kiddo, you okay?’

‘How do you think I am, my parents left without me to go – well, we don’t even know where they went. I came home and the flat was empty, my bag sat on a chair and a note told me to get out before new tenants arrived. Ép was nice enough to listen to me curse them,’ Gavroche kicked another stone, ‘what does it say about you when your parents decide that you are the expendable one?’

‘You are no expendable, Gavinou,’ Grantaire put his free arm around him.

‘Apparently I am, they took my brothers, my sister – but not me,’ Gavroche wiped his nose on his sleeve, ‘they made a decision and carried it out.’

‘You get to stay with people who genuinely care about you, though,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘and I don’t just mean me and Éponine.’

‘Do you mean your friends? The ones that were there for Joly’s birthday?’

‘Yes.’

‘They are new friends, right? You never introduced me to them before,’ Gavroche nodded carefully, ‘Are you going to let me hang out at their places?’

‘If you don’t annoy them and they allow you to be around.’

Gavroche grinned and continued next to him, up the stairs, through the door and the entrance hall. They climbed the stair up to the dorms, Gavroche weaving his hand into Grantaire’s when they reached the second landing. He did not react or say anything. The boy deserved this moment, as hard as it was for him to adjust to the new situation, he was stubborn enough to hate the weakness it showed for him to seek the comfort of a warm, reassuring grip around his hand. Grantaire tried to fumble for his keys whilst holding onto the bag with the same hand.

Gavroche took the keyring from his fingers and unlocked the door, ‘There you go, old man.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and followed him into the flat, carrying the gym bag into the living room to set it down on the couch. When he returned to peek into the kitchen, Gavroche was trading high fives with Joly and Bossuet. They leaned against the counter, listening to the words spilling from his lips as he was talking a mile a minute.

‘So now you’re here, shall we eat?’ Joly grinned and nodded towards the four plates he had set aside for their dinner.

Gavroche looked into the oven and looked up at them with shining eyes, ‘You really made fish fingers? That’s amazing, thank you so much! Grantaire really has the coolest friends.’

‘And he is pretty cool, as well,’ Grantaire dipped his finger into the creamy mashed potatoes Joly cooked to perfection, ‘Just so you know.’

Gavroche rolled his eyes and took the plate Bossuet handed him. He slipped past Grantaire and sat down in the living room, legs crossed and cutlery in one hand. Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire joined him, the TV was switched on and then they dug in in, not speaking for the first few minutes.

Grantaire’s phone buzzed a few times in his pocket, probably with messages from Éponine. He continued eating his dinner, pushing back the thoughts that wanted to take over and show him just how bad of a decision he had made. Joly smiled at him with a twinkle in his eyes. It reminded him that he was not alone in the situation, that his friends would support both him and Gavroche with all their possibilities. It calmed him down a little as he collected their dishes and brought them back into the kitchen once they had finished.

‘Get ready for bed,’ he ruffled Gavroche’s hair, ‘this is a lot to take in and you have a whole school day ahead of you tomorrow. Use the bathroom first whilst I feed Adonis.’

‘Who the hell is Adonis? And it’s way too early to go to bed,’ Gavroche got up from the sofa, looking around.

‘I adopted a cat,’ Grantaire murmured and rattled the cat food box.

Apollo shot out of his room, meowing demanding as he stroked around his legs. Gavroche stared at the cat, his jaw hitting the floor.

‘You have a cat! A real cat! And you named him Adonis?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s awesome! Can I pet him?’

‘You can cuddle and play with him all you want in the morning and if he lets you,’ Grantaire briefly rubbed Adonis’ head and smiled, ‘but first you get ready for bed!’

After that, Gavroche shuffled into the bedroom without another word about unfairness and pleading for a longer evening.

Chapter Text

Waking up to a child in the flat was little different to their usual routine. Grantaire woke Gavroche up before making the first cup of coffee and the boy padded into the bathroom, still half asleep, an arm curled around a seemingly very old cuddly toy. Grantaire put the sofa bed into day mode and folded up the blanket he had put out for Gavroche, drank his coffee and got dressed, all before the bathroom was vacated and he had to get the cereal from the top of the cupboard.

‘We should probably store that a little closer to the squirt, what do you say, squirt?’

‘Call me that again and they will never find your body,’ Gavroche took the cereal and a bowl, ‘are you really awake before seven? Don’t tell me that’s normal!’

‘Class at eight,’ Grantaire shrugged and poured some of Joly’s orange juice into a glass and set it down in front of Gavroche, ‘when do you need to leave?’

‘Soon,’ Gavroche told him through a mouthful of cereal, ‘I can take the bus, my student card covers all of the city centre. And I have football after school, can I just come back here when that’s done?’

‘Of course,’ Grantaire opened one of the drawers in the kitchen and rummaged through its contents, ‘take the spare key and try not to lose it, this is the fourth spare key I had to get made, Bossuet loses them quicker than we can store copies.’

Gavroche put the key in his pocket and returned his attention to the cereal bowl in front of him. Grantaire finished his second cup of coffee and put the mug in the sink.

‘Ready?’

‘Almost,’ Gavroche scooped the last of his cereal out of his bowl, ‘I need to go brush my teeth. And get my bag and books.’

‘Off you go then,’ Grantaire shooed him off his seat, ‘and don’t forget your phone when you leave, wouldn’t want you stranded somewhere.’

‘Not gonna happen,’ Gavroche stuck his tongue out at him and ran out of the room.

He came back with his backpack a few minutes later, filled a water bottle in the kitchen and stuffed it into the side pocket. Grantaire threw him a pack of oat biscuits Joly kept behind the more sugary snacks he and Bossuet would rather go for. Grantaire caught it with a grimace and dumped it into his backpack.

‘See you later,’ a coat rustled, the door clicked shut and Grantaire was left in the kitchen, wondering whether he should have made sandwiches for him.

He remembered his own classes and obligations soon enough and left as well, closing the door carefully since he had not yet heard Bossuet or Joly stir. They had been more fortunate with their classes and started their Tuesdays hours after him.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre left their flat as he walked past. Grantaire pulled his scarf up into his face and tried to move past them without their attention focussing on him.

‘Hey Grantaire, how are you?’ Courfeyrac’s blinding smile slowed him down for a moment, an arm was placed around his shoulders and then he felt himself being pulled into a hug, ‘I was a little worried you had turned full romantic poet and killed yourself!’

‘Courf!’ Combeferre shook his head, ‘Sorry, Grantaire, of course we never assumed anything like that. You disappeared for a couple of days and Jehan only knew that your painting was not supposed to be exhibited. A little worrying was understandably to expect.’

Grantaire winced and tried to escape Courfeyrac’s hug, ‘I’m okay, the whole thing was a little discombobulating but by now I have spoken to Lafayette. I just needed to sort the whole thing before I could face anyone really affected by this mess.’

‘A mess?’ Courfeyrac’s mouth hung open as he stumbled along next to him, ‘what are you talking about, you singlehandedly painted the most beautiful painting anyone at this academy has ever produced! Even the professors talk about it, across the departments.’

‘Cosette heard them yesterday, over lunch. You are the talk of the town,’ Combeferre nodded, ‘and in case you meant Enjolras –‘

‘Please,’ Grantaire brushed Courfeyrac’s hand off, ‘don’t start. I’ll try and catch him eventually and apologise but I don’t need you meddling now, sorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Courfeyrac found his smile again, ‘you will have to do worse things to actually insult us.’

‘People keep forgetting that we live with Enjolras,’ Combeferre grinned.

They parted ways in front of the building, heading towards different departments and parts of the town. Courfeyrac waved after him, Grantaire waved back and started out towards the first course of the day.

In between theoretical lingo and case studies it was easy to forget everything outside the walls of the academy. When Grantaire packed his things together to make his way to the museum, he found a few messages from Éponine who asked about Gavroche’s first night with them. He replied, informing her that he had seen the boy off to the bus and had a relieved thank you message within minutes. Grantaire put his phone away eventually and picked up speed to get to his shift on time.

The museum seemed to burst with visitors. Grantaire felt his eyes strain after a couple of hours, he felt his knees protest against both standing and sitting and his shoulders sagged against his will. Madame Lacombe checked in on him a few times, pretending to have official insurance business in his wing but the worried look on her face betrayed any neutrality she usually feigned towards them. Grantaire made sure to seem lively and smiled a little when she entered the room the next time, answering and elderly man’s question in detail.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, he ignored it in favour of another customer enquiry and waited until he was back in the break room to check his notifications. Once again, the group chat had accumulated an impressive number of messages. Combeferre had been the one to kick it off, asking who would be up for a dinner at their flat, ‘no discussion of anything Les Amis, just dinner.’

Enjolras objected to it with five long, extensive messages, each arguing that Les Amis business should be discussed. He reminded them of the looming Christmas Charity Event, something Grantaire had never associated with them. The lack of contributed ideas seemed to annoy him more than what Grantaire concluded to have been arranged by Combeferre and Courfeyrac without asking Enjolras in the first place. Almost everybody else had already agreed that a dinner would be a nice idea – including Bossuet and Joly.

Grantaire stored his phone in his bag, grabbed his beanie and coat off the hook and waved a goodbye at the closing shift. He ducked out of the backdoor, into the cold late afternoon. A few solitary snowflakes sailed from the sky and melted on the pavement in front of his feet. He felt a moment of excitement flow through his veins but it receded immediately, leaving more space for the thoughts he harboured.

***

Gavroche sat on the couch with his homework when he entered the flat and pulled his beanie off. Water drops fell to the ground, giving away just how much snow had fallen and melted on his head.

‘Oh no, I know that look,’ Gavroche looked up and pulled a grimace, ‘You are questioning every decision you ever made. Éponine looks exactly like you when she thinks about contacting Dad.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘no stupid decisions from me today. Do you want to join me in the studio? It’ll be quieter and I don’t mind to have someone working in there.’

‘What are you going to draw?’

Grantaire sighed, ‘No idea. What would you draw if the topic was Baroque With A Twist?’

‘Baroque was all the kings, Versailles and the really boring books, right?’

‘What do you mean, boring books?’

Gavroche rolled his eyes, ‘It’s all damsel in distress, court and romance. No one seems to be anything less than honourable and the hero always makes the right call. Look at The Three Musketeers, it’s almost boring.’

‘Excuse me? The musketeers were awesome, the true heroes of baroque France, defending the king as a symbol of everything to be aspired –‘

‘Have you told Enjolras of those views?’ Gavroche grinned at him before beginning to pack his backpack, ‘I think you should draw musketeers.’

Grantaire showed him the door and Gavroche jumped down the stairs in front of him with a giggle that made him smile against all his efforts not to. In fact, Gavroche was quick enough to seem impatient by the time he reached the studio door.

‘Don’t you dare stress me out right now,’ Grantaire unlocked the door and held it open for Gavroche to slip past him, ‘divan is your territory, as long as I can work in peace and silence.’

‘Aye, aye captain,’ Gavroche dropped his bag and began to rearrange things around the divan to make some room for his books.

Grantaire found an empty sheet of paper, big enough for what his professor had set as coursework. He fixed it on the easel, got his pencils out of a drawer of the cabinet and pushed one behind his ear before drawing as much as the first line.

He tried to remember the last time he had read The Three Musketeers, remembered the battered, worn out book on the shelf, the front cover more detached than actually covering. There had been a Fleur-de-Lys on the front, with swords crossed behind it.

‘I can work with that,’ he mumbled, more to himself than Gavroche who seemed to be occupied with biology, anyway.

Grantaire let his pencil explore the size of the paper, filling it into the corners and along the edges with sketches and scribbles, and rubbing out everything that didn’t fit the aesthetic until they made up an ornate frame. He took a step back and let his gaze wander over what he had created so far.

‘It’s empty,’ Gavroche’s voice interrupted his stream of thought, ‘it’s not even really visible.’

‘It’s a sketch,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘I’m going to fill the centre with something else. The only problem for me might just be that it has to scream baroque.’

‘You have baroque paintings in the museum, don’t you?’

‘Yes but this is more than a copy. I have to reimagine baroque styles and themes, otherwise it is hardly creative,’ Grantaire set the pencil down and pulled his hair back, out of his eyes, ‘and my mind is empty. There is just no way to come up with something new, it’s all been done before.’

Gavroche held a book out in front of him, ‘Would you rather do my French homework?’

‘Nope, I’m good,’ Grantaire shuddered, ‘by the way, what should we have for dinner?’

‘Pizza.’

‘Keep dreaming, pick something healthy!’

Gavroche rolled his eyes, ‘Since when do you care –‘

‘You are staying with us in what is supposed a normal surrounding. That includes a balanced diet and exercise,’ Grantaire took the pencil back up, ‘and I care. It might have been not very visible but I have actually started boxing again. You should come along, get all that energy out of you for once.’

Gavroche rolled his eyes, ‘Anything’ll be fine for dinner.’

He returned his attention to his books and Grantaire stared at his sketch. The frame was nice enough to leave it but his brain refused to give him an idea to put in the centre.

‘Baroque with a twist,’ he mumbled, ‘that’s the worst theme we’ve ever had. Everybody will think of the Dutch masters, naked women and fat angels. Landscape is not permitted and musketeers are somewhat predictable. I need more ‘bam.’ Something that shows that my mind comes up with good ideas, new ideas…innovative art.’

He pushed the pencil in his hair tie, walked around the easel and flopped down on the floor in front of the windows. A ray of pale winter sun fell on his face and warmed his skin a little but the sun sank quicker and quicker, hanging low over the roofs. It burned in his eyes but did little to get rid of the darkness in his brain where he wanted to have an idea fit enough for a canvas.

‘I’m going upstairs,’ Gavroche pushed himself up on his feet, gathering his books, folders and pens together and shoved them into his bag, ‘see you for dinner?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire turned around to flash him a smile, ‘I’ll be up in a minute, too.’

The door clicked shut a minute later and he was left alone again. Grantaire pulled his phone out and typed baroque twist on a whim. At first, the results he got were unsatisfactory, showing some kind of fashion style, flowery, flowy textiles that seemed summery and colourful. He closed the app and groaned out his frustration.

‘What am I supposed to do with clothes, why can’t there be some kind of baroque building feature named the twist, for fuck’s sake,’ he felt like kicking his backpack across the room, ‘but no, all there is is a dance no one even can do –‘

His fingers moved without further prompt, typing and entering twist dance in the search bar. Immediately, the pictures filled the display.

‘Jackpot,’ he murmured, a cautious smile re-appearing on his lips, ‘there we go, mood board here we come!’

He packed up, picked up the piece of paper and locked up after himself and ran along the corridor, past a dazzled Bahorel who came out of his studio with a clay figurine. Grantaire could see the surprise in his eyes but did not stop. Instead, he leapt up the stairs, taking three steps at once. With all the thoughts rushing through his head, he could barely contain himself. It took him a moment to realise that his feet had stopped next to the music corridor.

‘Force of habit,’ he scolded himself, ‘you should know better.’

He still opened the door and snuck through the dark corners. The sound of a single piano echoed from Enjolras’ music room. Grantaire smiled to himself, regretting his every choice as he inched closer to the door.

The melody was instantly recognisable on its own, a soft ripple of notes, streaming from the keys. Grantaire felt it pierce his skin, surrounding his heart and warming it from the outside, just for a moment as he was tempted to sway on his feet. He had never heard it played on one single piano before and it took him by surprise just how well it fit, the lament of the tortured soul pouring into the open room.

Something about Swan Lake was magical beyond the plot. The music, entrancing as it was, transfixed him in his spot, leaning against the wall next to the door. Someone had taken him to see the ballet, once upon a time whilst he had still been open to the magic of the combination of classical music and dance. The Finale at the end of the first act still left an impression of exquisiteness that never seemed to fade.

Grantaire wanted to find out why Enjolras had chosen the piece in all its dramatic sadness and foreboding nature, the crescendo of the gliding melodies and accompaniment, when the tune changed ever so slightly. The key change and following hopeful motif reminded him that even Swan Lake had its bright moments. He turned around the corner a little more to peek into the room as the piece came to a fulminant climax.

Enjolras sat hunched over the keys, finishing off the last sequence, left hand producing a vibrato. His hair covered most of his face but Grantaire could see the grin on his lips. It was directed away from the piano. He said something, inaudible to the eavesdropper beyond the door, a short quip followed by silent laughter as the last note found its way out of the room. He seemed content enough despite the dark and serious piece he had played and Grantaire found himself wondering how often he had heard Enjolras play something that did not represent his mood in that very moment. The curiosity to know who he had played for made Grantaire almost step out of the shadow that covered and hid him.

Gavroche sat in the arm chair in the corner, legs throw over the arm rest, a book in his hand but no backpack in sight. It made Grantaire realise just how much time he had spent in his studio before he had had an idea. Gavroche and boredom did not mix, he supposed he had left the flat to explore the building a little more. Coming across Enjolras or any of Les Amis, people Gavroche had met before, seemed inevitable at some point. Grantaire trusted the boy to come up with an explanation or excuse as to why he was present in the dorms, according to Éponine, he had gotten himself into worse situations – and out of them.

Enjolras in the music room directed a question at the boy who clapped his hands and shouted something the muted sound of his voice resembled a plea and Grantaire assumed he had been granted requests by Enjolras. The next piece seemed to require some assistance since Enjolras filed through a stack of sheet music, pulled out a couple of pages and set them down on the music stand.

The Fugue No. 5 in D major, part of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, was a staggeringly underappreciated and underestimated piece in Grantaire’s eyes. Hearing Enjolras play it with the amount of feeling and sensitivity as he did, his fingers barely stroking the keys, changed his perception of the piece. He had always seen it as a test to get through, the melody picking up in speed, dynamics and difficulty as it went on. Of course, Enjolras mastered it again, dominating the treatise when he entered it. He made it seem simple and Grantaire longed for a chance to watch him play again, be closer as the long, thin fingers cast a spell.

He remembered their clash in his studio a moment later, the look of disgust or disappointment on Enjolras’ face haunting him as he closed his eyes to escape the memory. Who could tell which was which with Enjolras who kept both disappointment and disgust in a similar fashion. They seemed interlinked most of the time, anyway. Enjolras made a sport of being disgusted by what disappointed him. In that, at least, he was consistent.

Grantaire allowed himself to watch as Enjolras concluded the Fugue to Gavroche’s approval and applause. He bowed curtly on his stool, a smile on his lips that seemed to get brighter when the boy held out a hand for him. The offered high five was exchanged and Enjolras said something to him that made him laugh again. They were clearly getting on and Grantaire felt a small twitch seeing them so relaxed around each other. He tried to imagine himself being carefree in Enjolras’ presence but his mind could not live up to the task. The mere thought was second-guessing anything he ever did.

‘At least Gavroche has found someone to talk to,’ he sighed before he turned away, this time to finally return upstairs and prepare food for the boy.

Chapter Text

The Musain was packed, every seat was taken and full glasses stood on every table. Students and pupils had gathered in the taproom and everybody seemed to have their spot in the room.

Joly and Bossuet had reserved themselves a table in the middle of the room and munched on the dessert platter, both with strong ales in front of them. Jehan stole Bahorel’s chips and dipped them into a mix of mayonnaise, barbeque sauce and balsamic vinegar, making their partner and Feuilly, who shared their table, retch with disgust. They sat on Bahorel’s lap, one arm around his shoulders, and conversed about a rhyming monologue that caused them difficulties. Feuilly watched them, eyes wide and fingers trembling around his glass. His panic about the way Jehan ate their chips seemed to be more powerful than the conversation going on at their table.

Marius and Cosette occupied a table on one of the sides where they shared a piece of cake on a perlwhite plate, feeding each other with forks. For them, nothing else seemed to exist. Marius whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, she replied and made him blush and Grantaire rolled his eyes walking past them. Dean Valjean had a lot to put up with in his opinion, having Marius as a son-in-law could only mean he had the patience of a saint. A few moments later, just as Grantaire had spotted an empty table in the back of the room, Marius accidentally brushed his hot chocolate off the table, causing enough commotion to get everybody’s attention. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras looked up from their spot in the front of the room where they had been bent over a table filled with various papers and leaflets. Upon seeing Marius’ red face, they laughed and turned back to their business. Grantaire set down his bag and got his sketchbook out. He had sketches to complete and wanted to keep up with the plans Les Amis made for their Christmas charity event, as announced by an email about the order of business. The choice promised to be a tough one as it was, the triumvirate had nominated three charities, one for each of their leaders. Between rainforest, ocean clean up and an LGBTQ shelter in the Middle East, however, Grantaire struggled to pick a favourite. He was able to relate to each of the causes, saw the importance of all three and was confident about matching their three leaders to a charity. However, he was not sure about one of them benefitting from their Christmas appeal.

Grantaire had spent the entire forty minutes it took him to walk to the Musain brooding, thinking about the way Gavroche had stared on his hands after telling him about the kids at school. He had begun to understand the boy more with every day he spent at their flat and read his behaviour without a thought. Gavroche had been deeply upset and Grantaire could not help but think about how to help him.

‘Ladies, gents and those of us who know better,’ Courfeyrac clapped to get everybody’s attention and jumped on a chair, ‘Welcome to this week’s meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC – welcome to everybody who is here for the first time, most of us don’t bite but I would steer clear of Jehan, if I were you. Our agenda for today has only two items: feedback on last week’s event and the next upcoming, the Christmas charity.’

Combeferre took a stand in front of everybody, pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat, ‘The musical duel we conducted last Friday was an enormous success, all things considered. Not only because Enjolras won and proved his worth against Montparnasse but also because we have gained momentum, judging by the number of new faces in this room tonight. The cooperation with Musichetta and the Corinthe has proven its potential and selling our artwork was one of the better ideas we have come up with so far. Our joined efforts have raised enough money to donate five hundred pounds to each of our charities.’

Applause interrupted Combeferre who readjusted his glasses and grinned self-complacent, ‘This of course is a major achievement and we are incredibly proud of it! The money actively aids softening the blow some people are dealt every day. We would also like to announce that Feuilly filmed the whole thing and the recording will be made available for a small contribution which means we are not even done collecting money!’

Again, Combeferre had to pause to wait until the applause interrupting him subsided. He patted Enjolras’ shoulder with a grin and showed Feuilly a thumbs-up.

‘Our next goal has to be as ambitious as that,’ Enjolras got up, ‘and that goal is the organisation of our Christmas charity event. Courfeyrac, Combeferre and I have nominated three charities who might be up this year. They follow the best causes and we should try and come up with ideas to collect as many donations as possible, all with a cheerful spirit.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and continued the sketch he still worked on. Jehan turned around

Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras looked up from their spot in the front of the room where they had been bent over a table filled with various papers and leaflets. Upon seeing Marius’ red face, they laughed and turned back to their business. Grantaire set down his bag and got his sketchbook out. He had sketches to complete and wanted to keep up with the plans Les Amis made for their Christmas charity event, as announced by an email about the order of business. The choice promised to be a tough one as it was, the triumvirate had nominated three charities, one for each of their leaders. Between rainforest, ocean clean up and an LGBTQ shelter in the Middle East, however, Grantaire struggled to pick a favourite. He was able to relate to each of the causes, saw the importance of all three and was confident about matching their three leaders to a charity. However, he was not sure about one of them benefitting from their Christmas appeal.

Grantaire had spent the entire forty minutes it took him to walk to the Musain brooding, thinking about the way Gavroche had stared on his hands after telling him about the kids at school. He had begun to understand the boy more with every day he spent at their flat and read his behaviour without a thought. Gavroche had been deeply upset and Grantaire could not help but think about how to help him.

‘Ladies, gents and those of us who know better,’ Courfeyrac clapped to get everybody’s attention and jumped on a chair, ‘Welcome to this week’s meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC – welcome to everybody who is here for the first time, most of us don’t bite but I would steer clear of Jehan, if I were you. Our agenda for today has only two items: feedback on last week’s event and the next upcoming, the Christmas charity.’

Combeferre took a stand in front of everybody, pushed his glasses up his nose and cleared his throat, ‘The musical duel we conducted last Friday was an enormous success, all things considered. Not only because Enjolras won and proved his worth against Montparnasse but also because we have gained momentum, judging by the number of new faces in this room tonight. The cooperation with Musichetta and the Corinthe has proven its potential and selling our artwork was one of the better ideas we have come up with so far. Our joined efforts have raised enough money to donate five hundred pounds to each of our charities.’

Applause interrupted Combeferre who readjusted his glasses and grinned self-complacent, ‘This of course is a major achievement and we are incredibly proud of it! The money actively aids softening the blow some people are dealt every day. We would also like to announce that Feuilly filmed the whole thing and the recording will be made available for a small contribution which means we are not even done collecting money!’

Again, Combeferre had to pause to wait until the applause interrupting him subsided. He patted Enjolras’ shoulder with a grin and showed Feuilly a thumbs-up.

‘Our next goal has to be as ambitious as that,’ Enjolras got up, ‘and that goal is the organisation of our Christmas charity event. Courfeyrac, Combeferre and I have nominated three charities who might be up this year. They follow the best causes and we should try and come up with ideas to collect as many donations as possible, all with a cheerful spirit.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and continued the sketch he still worked on. Jehan turned around and blew him a kiss.

‘Your annoyance is obvious, sweetheart,’ they warned with a slight head-shake, ‘Enjolras can smell it.’

‘I’m not annoyed,’ Grantaire shrugged and looked back down onto his sketchbook, ‘I am creating my alternate pastime.’

‘I can see that,’ Jehan grinned, ‘Enjolras still won’t like it, if he sees that you are preoccupied. But that’s yours to take up with him, I suppose.’

‘I’m sure of it but I’ll not disappoint myself dealing with him,’ Grantaire put another pencil line to the sketchbook.

‘What are you even drawing, dancing musketeers?’

‘Baroque with a Twist,’ Grantaire answered them, ‘I didn’t have a better idea.’

‘Because that’s brilliant,’ Jehan squealed louder and clapped their hands.

‘Shhh,’ Grantaire swatted at them.

‘You could partake, you know? No one would be mad at you for contributing,’ energic steps came towards him and stopped when Enjolras stood in front of him, ‘or have you got anything better to do than working for a charitable cause?’

‘That’s rich, coming from you, Mr Let’s-collect-money-without-actually-doing-something. Naming a charity and then standing in the shopping centre with a donation bucket truly is the pinnacle of charity work. What happened to hands on, actually doing something, being the change in the world?’

Enjolras frowned, his face darkening, ‘You don’t have to come to our meetings, or contribute to our cause, if you don’t want to, you know? If our goal inconveniences you so much, you can go home, draw your silly little pictures and leave us to it!’

‘What a way with words you have,’ Grantaire put his pencil back behind his ear and shut his sketchbook, ‘truly, Enjolras, it’s almost like back in the days. Remember? When Les Amis stood on campus every Wednesday, handing out flyers, shouting chants, creating new banners for different causes and being…a general pain in the ass with how open you were about the whole cause you were always chasing – and changing every week. What happened to packing bags for the homeless and disadvantaged people? There are so many of them right on our doorstep and you can’t find a charity closer than hundreds of kilometres away? Why didn’t you pick something like a startup that makes metal straws? Don’t misunderstand me, that’s important, too but why? The people are more than ready to take to the streets, the political climate is a mess – it has probably never before needed so little to get them to join. So why aren’t we putting ourselves out there as a group of social people? Show the people that we actually care about them? And, what a coincidence, isn’t that what Christmas is all about?’

He felt a hand on his arm, trying to hold him back. Grantaire looked back over his shoulder and saw Jehan staring up at him with wide eyes. He had not realised that he had gotten up, paced around the table and come to a halt in front of Enjolras who looked at him, mouth set in tight lines.

‘What do you mean, Grantaire? Consumerism? Capitalism?’

‘Love, man,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘Love, family, get-togethers. People get to spend time with each other, despite their differences. And yet, every Christmas, children from troubled backgrounds and disadvantaged families wish for a Christmas together with people who care about them, without being reminded that they will not get what they wished for – and I am not talking about the new phone or chemistry set. They won’t have a roast dinner or crackers, they won’t get hugs and blissful moments. So fuck all of this! Fuck this whole idea – you became so political, you forgot to be human!’

Tears burned in his eyes. For a brief moment he imagined himself far away from the Musain and its patrons, far away from Les Amis and Enjolras with his undoubtfully stern, disappointed look and wrinkled forehead that told him to sit down and drink, rather than attempting to debate.

He knew that he had ousted himself. After his outbreak, no path led back to the peaceful consumption of alcohol in the back corner. The door had slammed shut behind him with the same force of his words hurled at Enjolras.

It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop and Grantaire felt his chest heave heavily. Everybody around them seemed to stare and wait for them to move or say something – and yet, Enjolras and Grantaire remained standing in the middle of the room, not making a sound.

Enjolras’ hand trembled in between them where he had probably tried to reach for him. The lines around the corners of his mouth were set once again. Then, he opened his mouth.

‘What do you suggest, then? Or was that all you wanted to get off your chest? Have you got anymore senseless ideas or can we return to the things that actual matter?’

‘Oh no, not by far,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘we should make the charity event about those traits, organise a Christmas event that combines donations with fun activities for children in need.’

‘You don’t get to –‘

‘Enjolras, there are always more important issues and things to talk about, I have more important things to talk about, because humans are selfish and will do first whatever seems closest to them. You can try and fight for the bigger picture but in the end, even your friends might choose to go home and take care of their lives first before joining the revolution. This time you have the opportunity to open people’s eyes for something close to home, something that is so unavoidably in their faces that they cannot avoid it,’ he felt his fists shake and stuffed them into his pockets.

Enjolras still stood in front of him, staring – but this time, with tears in his eyes.

‘Trouble’s brewing,’ somebody behind them whispered, Grantaire thought he recognised Marius’s voice.

‘Get out,’ Enjolras pressed out, his voice freezing with the ice of disappointment and anger, ‘get out before I get carried away. You have ten seconds before I will slap you across the face without a second of doubt.’

Chapter Text

The town was quiet and cold. Darkness flooded the alleys and streets, wrapped houses in blankets of starlight and muted any sound made on the sandy path near the river. An owl hooted in a black, leafless tree. The stars’ reflection on the water surface made it seem like thousands of diamonds swam downstream.

Grantaire had found a bench and sat down on the back rest. He had left the Musain in a hurry without looking back. The night air had been like the punch in the face he had just avoided. He had pulled his earphones on after he had crossed the first street, turned the volume up and listened to his music loud enough to make his eardrums vibrate.

Once he reached the river, he found a bench to sit on. With his notebook and the music to occupy himself, time flew past. His phone buzzed a few times and he assumed the Les Amis meeting concluded when he checked his notifications and saw a few messages from Jehan. He pocketed his phone and continued to sketch. The pencil in his hand felt as if it was part of his fingers as he put line after line in his notebook, completing a picture.

His fingers and toes grew cold, then his arms and legs. When he could no longer feel what his hands were doing, he put the notebook back into his bag and remained seated on the bench. His ears tingled with the cold and he felt the uncomfortable frozen wood under his legs.

Grantaire fumbled for his phone and changed his music to an even louder playlist that roared in his ears, no matter how cold they were. He held on to his phone in the darkness of the night that was only interceded by the streetlamps along the riverbank. The light painted patterns around the currents on the water surface, reminiscent of the night he had spent there with Enjolras, painting the calm ripples on the silver waves. He stared ahead, trying to banish the thoughts about Enjolras, toying with his phone. His contacts opened up and he scrolled through them, thumb hovering over both Claquesous and Montparnasse for a moment as he wondered what he would call either of them for and why he still kept the latter’s number. The wish for the calming effects of a bottle of cheap booze gnawed at the corners of his mind and he wished for the relief it brought.

He slipped off the bench eventually, put his bag over his shoulder and set off back towards the academy. On his way, he tried to pry the thoughts out of his mind and get rid of the sense that overcame him. He passed a supermarket that was still open and decided to grab some snacks. As he walked towards the tills with crisps and chocolate, however, it seemed impossible to walk past the brandy on the shelf.

The bottle weighed heavy in his bag as he continued onwards and his exhausted mind suggested easing its weighed with a few gulps. Grantaire opened the bottle and chugged a quarter of its contains on the spot before continuing down the road.

He reached the academy another stop at the next supermarket and another bottle of spirit later. Fumbling for the keys, he swayed on the threshold and tried to find the keyhole. The cold still bit at his limbs, and his fingers did little to support his wish to enter the building.

Eventually, Grantaire managed to unlock the door and stumbled into the foyer. The wall space across from the entrance was indeed empty again but he could not bring himself to care what exactly had happened to his painting. He stared at the empty hooks for a moment before he decided to retreat to his studio, rather than climbing the stairs and trying his luck on the lock of the door there.

The diwan, his old friend through long nights and bad decisions, seemed to sigh deeply as he stretched out and buried his head in the cushions. He left the brandy on the table, next to his notebook and pencils. Grantaire groaned into his pillow and pulled his jumper over his head, the studio spaces were heated reasonably well and he wanted to avoid waking up drenched in his own sweat.

Again, he went through his music and selected a gentle playlist that did not attack his ears as he leant back and closed his eyes. Sleep came easy after that.

***

‘Grantaire?’

‘Mhm.’

‘Grantaire!’

‘Yes, I’m awake.’

‘Then show it, man. You have a worried kid on hand.’

‘Gavinou?’

‘Yes, goddamn,’ Bahorel tipped water over his face, ‘get up and to fucking work. Gavroche woke us up this morning because you weren’t there.’

‘That kid gets too attached,’ more water hit his face, ‘would you stop that!’

‘Only if you stop being a fucking idiot! Gavroche moved in because his parents left him alone, and a week later you decide it’s a good idea to just disappear overnight? You are responsible for him now, so don’t go pulling stunts like that. What were you even thinking?’

‘I didn’t want to wake him up. He sleeps in the fucking living room and it was late, he would have woken up,’ Grantaire wiped his face dry and sat up.

‘How nice of you. Are you sure it’s not the obvious proof of those bottles there?’ Bahorel nodded in the general direction of the empty bottles, ‘You caved in, didn’t you? Got drunk after your fucking entrance at the Musain yesterday?’

‘I meant every word.’

‘I know. We all knew, hell, Enjolras knew! And he treated you like a joke, which he really shouldn’t have done, I know! The moment you left, he got yelled at from all sides. Even Marius was cross with him. And it worked, somehow.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Courfeyrac and Combeferre sided with you. They agreed you had a point and we needed to re-evaluate our proposition when it comes to the Christmas charity. Cosette pointed out that people are more likely to donate money for a cause of which they can see the effects close up.’

‘To which effect?’

‘We’re doing it. Enjolras agreed to support your idea of the Christmas charity. You should probably still talk to him, I don’t think he’s used to a debate partner walking out on him like you did.’

‘He threatened to punch me.’

‘I know, we all heard him,’ Bahorel sighed and patted his back, ‘and I’m sure he regrets that now. Go see him and try to have an actual talk.’

‘Sure. You pay for the funeral?’

‘If I say Yes, will you talk to Enjolras? I think you really need to sort out a few things. Because, belive it or not, you have similar interests at heart.’

‘Keep talking, it sounds so nice,’ Grantaire groaned and buried his head in the cushions.

Bahorel’s hand landed on his shoulder, grabbed his t-shirt and pulled. Grantaire flailed his arms and lashed at him but could hardly break his fall as he fell to the ground.

‘Thank you,’ he coughed, ‘I’m up, I’m up – don’t you worry.’

He grabbed his belongings, chucked the empty bottles in the bin and pulled his jumper back on. Bahorel followed him, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his lips.

‘Go find Gavroche before you apologise to Enjolras for being as hot-headed as him. And make him apologise as well.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and threw him a two-fingered salute as Bahorel turned to the left to get to his studio, leaving him to make his way back upstairs. It took him longer than expected, the dread of what expected him at the end of the climb. He cleared his throat and stomped his feet a little before actually opening the door.

‘Hello there,’ he dropped his bag in the hallway and walked through to the living room, ‘Gavroche, you here?’

‘Grantaire?’ The boy sat on the sofa, his phone in one hand, the other in a bag of crisps, ‘Bossuet said you’d be back soon. That was yesterday evening!’

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire sat down next to him, ‘I really am. I was back really late and didn’t want to wake you up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier but I was out of it by the time I got back. Do you think you’ll be able to forgive me?’

‘Idiot,’ Gavroche shook his head, ‘you got drunk and were too ashamed to come home. Joly told me what happened between you and Enjolras last night. I thought you had fallen asleep outside the door or in the park. My father once slept behind a dumpster because he couldn’t remember how to get home. I’ve seen the whole thing before.’

‘I didn’t sleep behind a dumpster. I have my studio.’

‘Doesn’t make it better,’ Gavroche grumbled and continued playing on his phone, ‘you didn’t tell Joly or Bossuet either. We all sat together after they came back without you.’

Grantaire ran his fingers through his hair. He wanted to tell the boy just how sorry he was for distressing him, leaving him and his friends to wait for a message that did not arrive.

‘Did you sleep a little?’

‘Yes,’ Gavroche finally looked up, ‘wasn’t fun.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you going to see Enjolras now?’

‘He’s probably gonna yell at me. Or hit me. And I would agree, I deserve it.’

‘No shit, Sherlock.’

‘You gonna be grumpy for the rest of the day?’

‘Nah, just until Enjolras has given you a piece of his mind. You won’t need my held grudges then.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire pushed himself back up with a sigh, ‘I’m going to shower and prepare something to eat. Are Joly and Bossuet out?’

‘Downstairs. I want chocolate.’

‘Pancakes it is,’ Grantaire smiled weakly before seeking the solitude of his room for a moment to find fresh clothes and take a shower, ‘don’t start baking without me, okay?’

He found his comfy clothes, grabbed a fresh towel out of his closet and set off back to the bathroom. Within minutes, the warm shower made his shoulders feel more relaxed and woke him up a little. Despite his shower, he still felt the heavy weight of having disappointed almost all of his friends in one way or another. And, beyond that, it had taken him only a few hours to accomplish it.

‘Are you done yet?’ Gavroche knocked on the door, ‘I want my pancakes and I don’t want to eat more chocolate spread without them.’

Grantaire stopped the water, ‘I better find you far away from the toppings when I come out. It’s no good eating pancakes without anything on top.’

‘Hurry up, then. You owe me.’

Grantaire wrapped his towel around himself and let his head hang for a second. Gavroche held dominion over him, despite what he was willing to admit. He had intended to do better and be someone who did right by him. Breaking after less than a week showed him just how ambitious he had been in his decision. His fingers had begun to shake and he had wished he could blame it on something other than withdrawal.

‘There you are,’ Gavroche greeted him when he left the bathroom, face smudged with chocolate, ‘I thought you had tried to drown yourself after making a scene in front of your piano player.’

‘Pianist. The proper word is pianist,’ Grantaire sighed and ruffled Gavroche’s hair, ‘let’s go make some pancakes.’

‘Can we listen to music?’

‘Sure.’

‘Can I have your phone?’

Gavroche hopped on the counter with Grantaire’s phone and proceeded to scroll through his playlists, whilst Grantaire mixed dough and heated the pan. He picked one with more upbeat songs and swayed on the spot, whistling through his teeth. Grantaire bobbed his head in time with the music and tapped his foot, whilst baking the first batch of pancakes.

He slid them onto a plate and motioned for Gavroche to assemble whatever toppings he wanted. Gavroche grinned and held out a hand, demanding the pancakes to be handed over. Grantaire tossed the next pancake and set the pan back down, humming along to the next song that came on.

‘When are you going to see Enjolras?’ Gavroche paused the music, ‘are you going to his music room later?’

‘No, I don’t think he would want to see me this soon after. I think it’s safe to say that we both can hold a grudge. And he is potentially even better at it than I am.’

‘You are both complete muppets,’ Gavroche rolled his eyes, ‘and to think that you call yourselves adults.’

‘Hey,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘don’t push it too far.’

He had to turn away to hide his grin. The boy started a different playlist; piano chords flooded the kitchen and then, a bar in, a violin joined and took the melody. Longdrawn notes merged into a wistful, melancholic, yet hopeful tune as the tune soared high. The piano never left its harmonies and completed the pleasant music.

‘Really? Are you kidding me, you are playing Elgar?’

‘What’s so bad about the song, it sounds nice.’

‘That piece,’ Grantaire waved the spatula at him, ‘is called Salut d’amour, not really what I expected you to go for.’

‘So what, I like mushy music and you keep it in a playlist called Meeting at Midnight. Who’s the lovey-dovey fool now?’

‘I never said anything about love,’ Grantaire flipped another pancake, ‘hey, did you hear that?’

They fell silent for a moment. A quiet knock on the door had them exchange looks, Grantaire shrugged and hopped off the counter, ‘I’ll get it.’

Grantaire turned back to the stove and slid another pancakes onto the pile on the plate. The violin still flattered its piano backing and flittered around the kitchen. He hummed along and moved his feet to the soft sound.

‘Hi, I was promised pancakes?’

‘Enjolras!’ Grantaire dropped the spatula which missed his foot by mere centimetres, just as the melody picked up in strength, passion and force, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘You invited me over for pancakes?’ Enjolras stood in the kitchen door and pulled on the sleeves of his jumper, ‘The text?’

‘Oh, the text,’ Grantaire threw Gavroche a stern look but the boy just shrugged, grinned and dipped his fingers in the chocolate spread, ‘I have pancakes, yes.’

Enjolras came into the kitchen and joined Gavroche at the counter. Both watched Grantaire as he finished off another batch of pancakes.

‘Do you take sprinkles and chocolate sauce?’

‘Oh yes please, sir,’ Enjolras took the plate Gavroche held out for him with a smile, ‘I brought strawberry sauce by the way, Courf is hardly going to miss it.’

‘Stealing from a comrade? How could you,’ Grantaire turned around to face them with a grin, ‘but I also love strawberry sauce.’

‘I had an inkling,’ Enjolras set down the sauce, ‘and I wanted to talk to you.’

Grantaire switched off the stove and slipped the last pancake onto the pile, ‘Take yours to the living room and pick a movie, Gavinou. This is going to be a very lazy day.’

Gavroche grabbed his plate and left the kitchen. He looked through the DVD collection on the shelves when Grantaire checked a few moments later.

‘He should be busy for a few minutes,’ he told Enjolras, ‘we can talk. But I would just like to mention that I am sorry for challenging you like that last night. I had had a weird conversation with Gavroche that was still on my mind when I came to the Musain and it clouded my judgement.’

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras put a hand on his arm, ‘even though you challenged my patience, I should not have snapped at you. Yes, you tested my determination but you showed clear passion in that moment and I dismissed that. You must have heard that all of them yelled at me afterwards and voted to hold the Christmas charity as you suggested.’

‘Bahorel told me,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘do you really consider it?’

‘Consider? We are a democratic society, despite everything you might believe. What did you have in mind for the actual event?’

‘Not much,’ Grantaire admitted with a shrug, ‘a flea market, second hand clothes? Food, music, games?’

‘Where would you stage such a thing?’ Enjolras took another plate and pulled a pancake off the pile before squirting strawberry sauce on top of it, ‘You would need a lot of space and the possibility of a flea market doesn’t make it easier.’

‘My boss offered the museum the other day.’

‘The museum? A Christmas charity event for kids in the museum? Well, Jehan would be down, I suppose,’ Enjolras smiled and shook his head, ‘their head is full of fantasies that take place in a museum.’

‘And if you believe Bahorel, most of them have already been lived and converted into reality,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘they sure have a weird mind, I give you that.’

‘I picked a move,’ Gavroche yelled from the living room, ‘are you coming soon?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire shouted back. He turned back around to Enjolras, ‘listen, I said things yesterday, things I don’t mean –‘

‘You meant them. Don’t take it back now. It was refreshing to see you get that passionate about something,’ Enjolras gave him a cautious smile, ‘now, shouldn’t we be eating pancakes and watch whatever doubtful movie Gavroche picked?’

Grantaire nodded, grabbed the plate of pancakes and the strawberry sauce and motioned for Enjolras to take what was left of the toppings. They joined Gavroche who waited patiently, the menu of a Disney movie still flickering on the screen.

‘You took your time,’ he made grabby hands for the pancakes, ‘I was close enough to starting without you. Have you settled your silly argument? Actually, do you ever not argue? No matter who I ask, everybody keeps telling me that you can’t be in the same room for too long.’

‘Who said that?’ Grantaire asked through a mouth full of pancake.

‘Bahorel, Bossuet and your freckly friend at Joly’s birthday dinner,’ Gavroche shrugged.

Grantaire exchanged a look with Enjolras, ‘Marius.’

‘We have settled our argument,’ Enjolras concluded, sitting cross legged in an armchair, back straight as he cut his pancake, ‘Les Amis are going to organise a charity event for children from disadvantaged backgrounds who wouldn’t get to celebrate Christmas otherwise, seizing Grantaire’s idea.’

‘Grantaire’s idea?’ Gavroche turned around to look at him, Grantaire busied himself with his plate, ‘Are you telling me that –‘

‘He fought passionately for it,’ Enjolras nodded and scooped up another pancake from the pile, ‘including screaming at me that I am not human enough to care about the closest problems to our society. Basically, I was forced by our friends to reconsider my point. Could you hand me the sprinkles, please?’

Gavroche stared at him for another moment before turning and throwing himself into Grantaire’s arms, burying his face in the crook of his neck, ‘Thank you. You are the best!’

Grantaire wrapped his arms around him and cleared his throat. He patted his hair softly and smiled, trying his best not to cry.

Over the head of his young lodger, he could still see Enjolras bite back a smile that still lit up his eyes. A raised eyebrow arched over the amused face and Grantaire threw him a warning look. He lasted all of three seconds before he had to scrunch up his face to stop a tear from slipping down his cheek.

Chapter Text

‘Are you sure about this?’ Enjolras whispered, following Grantaire through the living room.

He tiptoed past the sofa, carefully avoiding the coffee table and the used plates in front of it. Grantaire could feel him close behind him, breathing quietly, the borrowed sweatpants and cosy socks gliding over the hardwood floor.

‘I am confident in saying it’s one of my better ideas,’ he whispered, ‘definitely one of the better ones in the past few days.’

Grantaire pushed his room door open with one foot, taking the last steps carefully, entering his room without switching on the light. Enjolras followed him closely, stepping past him to fold back the blanket and moving the pillows closer together. He stood bowed over the mattress for a moment, stretching out the covers.

‘I think it’s ready,’ he stepped back with a smile, almost hidden in the dark, ‘you sure you can handle it?’

‘Always doubting me,’ Grantaire suppressed a strained groan and moved closer, ‘I can handle a small boy and a few careful steps.’

He set Gavroche down on the bed, trying not to move him in the roll he had curled up into. The boy mumbled in his sleep, turned his head and pressed his face into the pillows. Grantaire pulled the blanket over his body and tucked him in lightly.

When he stepped back, he had a smile on his lips that stretched the corners of his mouth, ‘He’ll sleep bedded soft and warm. That’s the best I can do for him right now. Poor little thing, I might have let him down once too often.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Enjolras left his room carefully, looking back over his shoulder, ‘Gavroche is willing to forgive you a lot more than a night spent worrying. He is a wonderful little rascal, really, I don’t know too many kids but he seems special.’

‘Oh he is, he definitely is,’ Grantaire pulled the door closed and faced Enjolras with a smile, ‘hey, would you care for dessert? I think we still have some microwavable chocolate puddings.’

‘Seems alright to me,’ Enjolras sat back down and watched as Grantaire scooped up the used cutlery, ‘why didn’t you close the door completely? What if we wake Gavroche?’

Grantaire smiled and grabbed the catfood off the top of the fridge. He filled one bowl and poured water in another. Setting them down, he peered over his shoulder and beckoned softly.

Adonis meowed, prowled into the living room and stretched his body in front of the sofa before eventually joining Grantaire in the kitchen. He mewled and pushed his head into the hand Grantaire offered him.

‘Good evening, monsigneur,’ Grantaire cooed and stroked his fur, ‘how nice of you to join us. I know you only come for the food but I am willing to offer you all the pets and strokes in the world.’

Adonis mewled again and flicked his tail under his nose. Grantaire chuckled through the mouthful of fur he got and got up.

‘Enjoy your meal, your highness.’

‘What is that?’

‘That, Enjolras, is my cat, Adonis. I found and adopted him.’

‘When?’

‘When I went out with Claquesous.’

Enjolras arched an eyebrow, ‘So it was a drunken decision?’

‘Of course it was. But one of the better ones, I wouldn’t part with Adonis, even if I was promised eternal sobriety.’

‘You really named your cat Adonis?’ Enjolras grinned and leant forward to catch another look at the cat, ‘I mean, he is a handsome lad, no doubt.’

‘He definitely is,’ Grantaire rejoined Enjolras in the living room, ‘and now he even has a home.’

Adonis meowed his approval from the kitchen, making both chuckle.

‘Shall we head downstairs? You should bring your sketchbook,’ Enjolras smoothed his hair down and behind his ears, ‘I had some time to study more Chopin.’

‘You had me at ‘bring your sketchbook’,’ Grantaire grinned and grabbed his bag from where it still sat, ‘you still comfortable in my old sweatpants?’

‘Jeans did get quite painful after the third movie,’ Enjolras winked at him, ‘I have a lot of room in these pockets.’

‘You’re welcome. I’m sure you appreciate my waist-located padding now,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘getting back in shape is harder than people appreciate.’

‘What do you mean?’ Enjolras opened the door for both of them.

‘I have started training again. With Baz. It’s slow work but I’ll get there eventually,’ Grantaire grabbed his keys and stepped into the hallway, ‘he will love to tell you all the stories of how often he has knocked me onto my butt.’

‘I’m sure there are many of that.’

They closed the door and walked towards the staircase in the darkness of the hallway, not needing any light after years of practice and experience. Enjolras hummed a tune as they took step after step, something eerily familiar. Hum turned into whistle and Grantaire, recognising the tune, stared at him in disbelief.

‘Are you seriously whistling the Marseillaise?’

The whistling stopped, ‘Why not? It’s catchy.’

‘You have a point,’ Grantaire chuckled and skipped a few steps ahead, ‘Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrive –‘

‘Yeah, Grantaire? There is a reason why you don’t study music and I think I just found it,’ Enjolras looked at him with something Grantaire would have called an endearing smile, if it had not been coming from Enjolras.

‘I will consider myself burned, then,’ Grantaire waited for Enjolras at the bottom of the stairs, ‘I also offer you a burn in exchange, to be delivered at any time. I might just have to speak to Jehan beforehand.’

‘Do that,’ Enjolras unlocked the door for them and switched the light on, ‘there you go, the armchair is yours. Please use this time, sketch something or start planning the Christmas charity.’

‘Yes, my captain,’ Grantaire stuck his tongue out at his back as Enjolras went through his sheet music, ‘will get right to it.’

He took his seat in Enjolras’ armchair and pulled his feet under his body. Whilst Enjolras opened a music book, he opened his sketchbook to a new page and licked his pencil, determined to put something to the paper, commit to an idea that was going to stay on the blank space, fill and enrich it.

‘Chopin,’ Enjolras leaned back on his stool and tapped his lips with a pencil, ‘I had a look at a few etudes recently, have you got any favourites?’

Grantaire looked up and blinked at him, ‘Favourite Chopin etude? There are a lot of them, Apollo, don’t you know that? I have listened to most of them at least a few times and – wow, I really don’t know.’

Enjolras nodded carefully and set the music book down on the piano. He studied the notes carefully for a moment and set his hands on the keys. Grantaire settled back into the seat and let his legs dangle over the armrest.

A first note tested the waters, hanging in the air between them. Another note followed, clinging to the first with the might of a thunderstorm that continued into the next bars and runs.

‘Classy,’ Grantaire murmured and nodded along, ‘Torrent. Good choice. I always felt swept off my feet hearing this.’

‘Allow me to sweep you off your feet then,’ Enjolras’ voice interwove with the melody, caressing the scaling notes and skipping left hand.

The rolling accompaniment, the exulting runs and breakneck flying changes flooded into the room between them. Without another word being uttered, Grantaire got to his work as Enjolras leaned into every single note, coaxing its essence out of the simple sound it omitted into the air. His head dart back and forth, he seemed to jump on the stool as his feet worked the pedal and his fingers seemed to stab the keyboard. A small ritardando held Grantaire’s thoughts on edge for a moment as higher scaling notes ebbed into a seceding succession. His fingers never stopped working, the ritardando being no exception, one note chased the next, toppled over the suspense arc and hurried to complete the picture of the rolling sea or waves the piece painted.

Grantaire could see the water in uproar, it seemed so clear in front of his eyes. The grey waters restless, threatening everybody who turned their back. In a way, it seemed like a piece he should have come across before. It called out to something in his mind, something that seemed to linger and wait for him to explore it a little more. The melody rallied his thoughts, shook them up and made him eager to get something done. Enjolras looked up over the piano and gave him a small smile. His hair had once again slipped out of its tie, Grantaire could not recall seeing him in his music room without being slightly dishevelled.

The almost abrupt ending of the etude made him set down his pencil. Enjolras stared into his music book, no movement betraying his thoughts as he massaged his fingers.

‘Are you okay? Did you pull something?’

‘I’m okay,’ Enjolras moved on the stool, ‘I love the etudes but tonight calls for something else. I play these all the time, I should play something else.’

‘You wanted to come here for some Chopin.’

‘Yes, but I could also play Beethoven, Grieg, Mahler or Bach.’

‘Or Händel, Ravel, Elgar or Bruckner,’ Grantaire grinned into his sketchbook, ‘Saint-Saëns would also be an option. But then again, anything you play will be amazing.’

‘Stop it.’

‘I mean it,’ Grantaire nodded to emphasise his words, ‘just play what you feel like playing? A piece that mirrors your feelings and puts you at ease for a bit?’

‘You mean play what I want, not thinking about assignments and practise schedules,’ Enjolras shut the etude music book and tapped on the piano with his fingers, ‘your mother wrote an article about that, once. Have you read it?’

‘I gave up on my mother’s articles when she laid into my practise habits,’ Grantaire shrugged and crossed his legs at the ankles, ‘I suppose it tells you not to play music you are not set to practise? No playing for fun and pastime?’

‘No, she actually wrote about how it would improve to have pieces to play that don’t require the pressure of success and recitals,’ Enjolras pulled a magazine out of a stack of files and opened it to a dogeared page, ‘here, she talks about how much you enjoyed playing the Well-Tempered Piano for fun. Was that before you stopped liking Bach?’

Grantaire bit down on his lip, ‘It was before I stopped liking a lot of things.’

He made himself smile, forcing it to seem normal. It hurt at the corners of his mouth but Enjolras seemed to buy it. The thought of his mother making money off stories about his ruined childhood and the influence she had taken on his development as a musician – up until he could no longer bear it – made him feel a blinding rage that to surpress he had gotten too good at. Enjolras, however, still emulated his mother, not knowing what stood between her and her son, not thinking about anything that could disturb the peaceful happy family she painted in her articles and interviews. No one even questioned why her precious son was never around when she visited the academy which, according to her latest interview, held out to him by Enjolras, was one of her favourite places in the world.

‘Will your mother be back for the Christmas gala and Dean’s Award?’ Enjolras’ question ripped him out of the pool of darkness, pity and despair he could drown himself in whenever he felt like it; its edge never crumbling under his feet, waiting for him to finally jump.

Grantaire looked over the magazine and met Enjolras’ gleaming, happy eyes, the eyes of somebody who had met their childhood hero and had not been disappointed. He seemed to glow, giddy with the excitement of the possibility of another meeting.

‘I don’t know. Valjean makes quite the secret about it,’ he answered, seeking the excuse rather than the disappointing truth of lacking communication between him and his mother, ‘if she is, I would probably be the last one to know.’

It sounded like a joke. And Enjolras took it as such, judging by the grin that captured his face.

‘She’ll be proud to see you receive the Dean’s Award, then,’ he swivelled on his stool, blowing a loose strand of hair out of his face.

Grantaire spluttered, ‘You are joking, right? There is no way in hell I would –‘

‘Hey now, you painted the single most impressive painting that an academy student has ever produced. The governours have to put you up for a nomination; otherwise, I will have to get Les Amis on the case.’

Grantaore swallowed and shook his head, ‘Don’t you have a piano piece to play?’

‘I will get there,’ Enjolras waved him off, ‘did Lafayette tell you what happened to the painting?’

‘Not after I threw a tantrum in his office, demanding it be taken down,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I don’t really care. I’ll won’t see it again until the end of the term when we get all the artwork to carry it over to the studios.’

‘Will you display it again?’

‘Do you want to see your face off a wall again? I begged Lafayette to take it away because I was mortified of the way it made me seem – to others and to you.’

‘Why would you worry about that?’ Enjolras filed through his music library, ‘The painting is breathtakingly beautiful; you captured a mood so distinct and looming, I stared at it for a good five minutes before Combeferre told me it looked a bit like me.’

He began another piece. This time, a calmer melody enthralled Grantaire. It was soothing and hopeful, solemn and majestic as it set out to paint a picture. A quiet, hammering accompaniment left enough space for the melody that nestlded itself in Grantaire’s ears. He hummed along under his breath as his pencil made wide movements, finishing long brushes and lines.

The careful keychange, scaling the melody in higher octaves and biding developments had his attention immediately. Grantaire followed them, his foot tapping as the speed picked up marginally. A crescendo section had him on the edge of his seat one second and made him sink back into the armchair as it picked up. He felt dizzy, his eye lids seemed heavy and the world turned in front of his eyes. It seemed to stop, screeching to a halt silently, and the vertigo it inflicted on his brain made him squeeze his eyes shut to avoid toppling over in the chiar. The melody continued a little on the muted side, still driven but softer. Grantaire opened his eyes again and gasped for air. The next crescendo hit a spot behind his ribs and he closed his eyes another time to avoid the whiplash. Listening turned into an emotional rollercoaster: another soft section was ended by another powerful crescendo that had him struggle to breathe before the melody bled into something so soft Enjolras’ fingers hardly touched the keys.

As the last note faded into the room between them, Enjolras looked up and lifted his hands off the keyboard. His foot on the pedal kept the wavering tone up in the air as he turned around.

‘That was beautiful,’ Grantaire swallowed, ‘Beethoven?’

‘Pathétique, second movement,’ Enjolras smiled, ‘by the way, I never minded you painting that picture.’

‘You didn’t?’

‘Actually, it was flattering to think someone would actually spend time working on something I inspired, somehow. I don’t think artists should be held responsible or harassed about where they get their ideas from. It’s called Liberal Arts for a reason. Anything else would be censorship, I cannot demand you regulate your inspirational flow.’

‘That sounded way sweeter than you probably meant it to sound,’ Grantaire clicked his pencil, ‘I’m still sorry about just…painting it.’

‘I have to say, it would have been nice to know about it. Imagine the thrill to see what it turned out or just getting to see it before anybody else,’ Enjolras smiled, a little tense around the eyes and with too stiff shoulders, ‘I was happy to see you getting the credit you deserve, for once. I had a very long, very intense talk with Feuilly and Courfeyrac. Although, Combeferre joined us as well at some point, I think. He shared some wonderful insight in your technique, did you know he started studying art but stopped when Lafayette got him tickets to see the touring orchestra that rented the auditorium a couple of years back. He was supposed to make up a project about displaying music in pictures – instead, he went on to compose a cello concert and changed courses.’

‘I did not know that,’ Grantaire sat up, ‘he must have been inspired, then.’

‘Totally,’ Enjolras closed his music book, ‘he didn’t stop to come watch movies with Courf and me.’

‘Was that before they got together?’ Grantaire followed Enjolras’ every move as he got some crisps out of the small cabinet.

‘No, actually, must have been shortly before or after their first date. I am not too sure about the exact timings,’ Enjolras shrugged and held the snacks out for Grantaire, ‘I don’t think they would know when exactly they got together. I, in return, would then insist on it being when Courfeyrac did unspeakable things to my apron…’

He trailed off and shook his head.  Grantaire, on the other hand, was too afraid to ask what Courfeyrac had done to his apron.

Chapter Text

He got back later than he had expected. Enjolras and his secret crisps stack had kept him, despite the lack of any more piano playing commencing in the room, leaving the air between them still and calm. They had made tea, eaten crisps and come up with preposterous ideas for the Christmas charity. Between a bouncy castle in the sculptures wing of the museum and jousting with the exhibited suits of armour, Enjolras had asked him a few times just how much he had had to drink beforehand. Grantaire knew he did not believe him when he proclaimed to be sober.

As he flopped down on the sofa, his notebook hit the coffee table. It seemed to drop heavy, filled with ideas and keywords, thoughts and prompts they would have to think about more with Les Amis before setting things into motion.

Grantaire stretched out on the sofa and pulled a blanket over his feet. He buried his head in the cushions and pillows, rolled into the backrest and closed his eyes. As he drifted off, he could imagine just how colourful and lively the museum would be once everything was agreed on.

***

When he woke up again, it was with a heavy weight on his legs and his face pressed into a pillow. He blinked through a curtain of his own hair brushed over his eyes and groaned as the weight on his legs shifted.

‘Did I wake you up?’ Gavroche shovelled cereal out of a box and into his mouth, ‘Sorry, but I wanted to watch that.’

Grantaire tried to brush his hair out of his face, scrunched up his nose and yawned. Gavroche was watching an animated programme about superheroes, he seemed glued to the screen whilst he ate his cereal, spreading crumbs over the blanket covering Grantaire’s legs, on which he still perched.

‘Why did I wake up in your bed this morning?’

‘Because you fell asleep on the sofa and made it impossible to have a conversation anywhere else.’

‘You could have taken Enjolras to your room,’ Gavroche grinned and winked at him, hissmall face lighting up, ‘I don’t think he would have minded spending some time with you in your dark room, sitting on your bed, having to feel instead of see –‘

Grantaire whacked a pillow over his head, ‘We carried you without dropping you, squirt, is that really what you want to go on about?’

Gavroche shrugged, ‘Just saying. Enjolras doesn’t seem too bothered by your multiple flaws, at least not as much as other people probably would be.’

‘What do you mean?’ Grantaire pushed himself up and retracted his legs from underneath the weight of a twelve year old who tried to make it hard for him, ‘please, explain my many flaws to me and I will get Enjolras to rethink Les Amis’ Christmas charity event.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ Gavroche set down the cereal box, ‘you say stuff like that and it’s supposed to be a threat; but all I hear is you trying to be tough. You are a kitten, that’s why Adonis loves you so much, he can take care of you. You are soft.’

‘How is that a disadvantage?’ He ruffled his hair, ‘All I hear is that I’m a nice person to be around.’

‘And you have a point,’ Gavroche gave up and scooted to the far end of the sofa, ‘You are the best. But I don’t need to tell you that. You allowed Éponine to store me here whilst my parents lost another of their kids due to their own shit being more important than something they created. You went to a Les Amis meeting to yell at Enjolras who you definitely stare at too often and make googly eyes at, and you got him to think about your idea and follow up on it. If Enjolras asked, you would paint him as the leader of all countries and give it away for free. If Enjolras wanted you to draw a Christmas portrait of him and his wife and kids, you would do it and smile because it made him happy. If someone outed you in a public place, you would shrug and defend them. If Montparnasse came back and asked you to forgive him, you would do it. That’s what I mean when I say you’re soft.’

Grantaire cleared his throat. Something in Gavroche’s look made him aware of what the boy had gone through in recent days. His eyes, still round and child-like, expressed a hardness Grantaire had only seen in adults, adults who had been through so much that they had given up almost all hope. The hard blue behind a veil of barely hidden incomprehension hardly made up for the softness Gavroche still showed around his cheeks. Grantaire did not plan on being the person to point out these clear indicators of childhood to the boy.

‘If that makes me soft,’ he began, clearing his throat again, ‘then I don’t want to change it. If kindness and an open mind make me soft, so be it. I allowed Éponine to bring you here because I had a talk with my flatmates first. I challenged Enjolras over something that I think is continuous in his approach to activism – and I do not make googly eyes at him. Yes, I would paint Enjolras again, and again, if he asked. If someone outed me in a public place, I would tell them they are years too late to actually embarrass me about who I am. And if Montparnasse came and apologised to me, I would tell him that I forgive him, yes. Because that’s the kind of person I am and it’s the best I can be.’

‘You drink too much.’

‘I am legally allowed to.’

‘You don’t talk to your parents.’

‘With my mum? No, thank you.’

‘You don’t tell your friends when you feel horrible.’

‘What good would it be to drag them down?’

‘You told Ép.’

‘She was in the coffee shop and wanted to know why I looked so bad.’

‘You still haven’t told Joly and Bossuet what happens when you have an episode.’

‘I really shouldn’t have told Éponine. She tells you everything!’

‘I’m her brother!’

‘You are twelve.’

Gavroche opened his mouth, ready to respond.

‘Are you two arguing?’ Bossuet entered the room, a blanket pulled around his shoulders, ‘Stop it, you are going to wake Joly.’

‘I trust you are perfectly capable of doing that yourself,’ Grantaire watched as the blanket got tangled and jammed under the door, closing it behind his friend with a slam as Bossuet pulled it free, ‘that should do the trick.’

A moment later, as he had expected, Joly stuck his head out of their bedroom; he yawned and leaned heavily on his cane, ‘What’s going on out here? Some people are trying to sleep.’

‘It’s Sunday. A day off, you should enjoy your free time,’ Gavroche returned to his cereal box.

‘Yes, I should. But then again, why would I get up? Every minute I am awake, I miss a minute I could spend in my bed, asleep with a pillow under my head.’

He sat down next to Grantaire and held out a hand towards Gavroche, motioning to share his cereal. The boy rolled his eyes but handed over some sugary treats.

‘I have homework to do,’ he declared and shrugged, ‘don’t have much time else. Éponine told me I could do my work at the coffee shop.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Grantaire agreed with another yawn, ‘I’ll drop you off once my feet stop being all pins and needles. Can you move off my legs, please?’

Gavroche did as asked and slid off his seat. They finished the programme, Joly and Bossuet curled up on the loveseat, Grantaire and Gavroche on the sofa. It took Gavroche only the last minutes to finish the cereal. Once the credits crawled over the screen, they moved again and got ready. Grantaire pulled his jumper over his head and pocketed his phone and keys in his joggers. Gavroche brushed his teeth and grabbed his bag from where he had left it in the hallway, pretending like he was impatiently waiting.

They passed a few students who looked at Grantaire, seemingly wondering what he was doing with a child, on a Sunday morning, in the university buildings. They ignored them masterfully, Grantaire opened the door and Gavroche slipped past him.

‘Shall I come by to pick you up later?’

‘I’m not a baby,’ Gavroche snuffled, ‘I could actually just come back, I have the key.’

‘True,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘don’t know whether Joly and Bossuet will be in, though, and I might head to the gym. Shoot me a text when you have enough of your sister?’

‘I’m telling her you said that.’

‘You need to pay more attention. Stuff like that should only be said to people who care,’ Grantaire ruffled the boy’s hair with a smirk, ‘Plus, Éponine will never take any of my shit badly.’

Gavroche furrowed his brows and seemed lost in thought until they reached the coffee shop. He pushed the door open and waved at Éponine behind the counter. She replied in the same manner and motioned for him to come up to the counter.

‘Grantaire said a bad language word,’ Gavroche peeked out under his hat and scarf, back to where Grantaire had stopped in the door.

Éponine stared at her brother with an impervious look before she shrugged and turned back around, ‘Grantaire has kindly taken you in after our piece of shit parents left you here. He can use whatever words he wants, for all I care.’

Grantaire could not resist the grin that spread over his face. He strutted past the boy, clapping his shoulder which got him a puffed out chest and a tiny huff.

‘Morning, Ép,’ he got a hug and a tired smile from her which seemed enough to show him that she was neither rested nor overworked, something seemingly perfect for Éponine’s usual schedule.

‘Morning,’ she handed him a mug of coffee, still steaming and filled to the brim, ‘how are you holding up with the little nuisance around the flat?’

‘Surprisingly well, yet relieved you are going to take him off my hands for a day,’ Grantaire grinned back at where Gavroche was in the process of setting up his home office, everything included he would need for his homework, ‘are you okay around here?’

‘It’s my brother, Grantaire, he’s been trying to drive me mad for twelve years now and so far, he has not succeeded,’ Éponine gave him a soft nudge to the shoulder, ‘Relax and enjoy the day off babysitter duty. What are you going to do with all the free time?’

‘Probably harass Baz into training. If that fails, scavenge Jehan’s kitchen and lock myself into the studio.’

‘Sounds like a plan, do you want a muffin for the walk home?’

‘Thank you, Ép, but I’m really trying to lose weight, rather than gain it,’ Grantaire motioned towards his belly, ignoring Gavroche in the back of the room who had begun to giggle.

She waved him out of the door with a comment on him being a bad customer after she had already gotten him the coffee for free. Grantaire waved a goodbye and wandered down the street, back towards the dorms. In the distance, he could see a few people leave, believing them to be Combeferre, Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Subsequently, despite he told himself something else had been reason for his decision, he did not stop on the music floor and walked straight past his own flat in favour for Jehan’s.

They stood in the kitchen, apron around their waist and wooden spoon in hand. In front of them, on the stove, stood a huge pot that smelled like everything Grantaire ever associated with Christmas. Cinnamon, nutmeg, orange, ginger and cloves seemed to dominate the mix as Jehan stirred and sniffed.

‘What are you brewing today?’ Grantaire peeked over their shoulder, ‘smells heavenly!’

‘Mulled grape juice and mulled wine jam,’ they pecked his cheek, ‘you are most welcome to help me with the heavy lifting, I don’t feel like doing it.’

‘Sure,’ he straightened the jam jars that were set out to be filled, ‘will I get a glass to compensate me?’

‘Yes, but only the grape juice version for you, this year. You ate too much of it last year.’

‘That was whilst I had to stay with my parents for two weeks over Christmas. Your jam was the only spark of hope during dark times, and I made sure it kept me warm.’

‘You are getting more and more self-destructive by the day, Grantaire. I don’t like the look of what you are getting yourself into – again! We were in this exact position, a few months ago, a year ago. Will you ever remember just how unwell you were at times?’

‘I do remember but it is really just my business.’

‘Except now your friends know what to look out for. You have Gavroche living with you. You have taken on responsibility and none of your friends will allow you to stay in your room for longer than a day.’

Grantaire lifted the heavy pot off the stove, ‘Sure. Help me with the jars. Can you hold them whilst I pour?’

‘Sure, I’ll just grab the gloves,’ Jehan slipped past him, ‘what are your plans then, this Christmas?’

Grantaire filled the first jar, ‘No plans at all, I’ll stay here, work and watch all the movies and shows I didn’t get around to finish before. Maybe, I can even get a head start on next term’s assignments – or some other drawings I meant to finish ages ago.’

‘But Grantaire, that’s not Christmas at all,’ Jehan looked up at him in shock, ‘it’s not even close to what I wished you were going to say. It sounds sad and lonely, everybody else will go home, the academy buildings will be absolutely abandoned!’

‘I know,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘better than last year’s disaster, though. I will never again go home for three weeks of bullying and belittling. Christmas at home is torture, Jehan.’

They pulled a face that expressed their clear disapproval of Grantaire’s decision, ‘You know all of you would take you back home, don’t you? My parents would love to have you.’

‘Your parents have to deal with Baz at it is,’ Grantaire panted and moved along the line of jars Jehan held still in their place for him, ‘I appreciate your concern but I promise you, I’ll be fine.’

They finished filling the jars, Jehan closed and sealed them before lining them up neatly in one corner of the kitchen. Grantaire still smelled and tasted the jam when Bahorel came back from an errand Jehan had just shrugged about. He dropped his bag in the hallway and proceeded to crack his joints, one by one.

‘What’s Grantaire doing here already?’

‘Hoping to get you into the ring again,’ Grantaire shrugged, grinning at his hands rather than looking at his friend, ‘Gavroche is with Éponine and I get to not think about him for a day.’

‘Well, why didn’t you lead with that? I just finished a sculpture and need to do something requiring no fine motoric skills at all,’ Bahorel let his heavy hand fall onto his shoulder, ‘your wish is my command. We can easily spend the whole day at the gym –‘

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Jehan raised themselves on their tiptoes and kissed their boyfriend, stopping him from saying another word.

Grantaire shook his head, rolled his eyes and licked the jam off the spoon Jehan had used to stir. Jehan pulled back a moment later to reprimand him and take the spoon away, waving it at him for a moment, almost as if to threaten him with it.

‘I see, I have to kick you out, don’t I? The minute I pay attention to Baz, you will nick whatever jam you can get and the same goes the other way,’ Jehan scolded both of them with a smile.

‘Get your kit, we’re leaving,’ Bahorel stuck his tongue out at Jehan, ‘since we are not wanted here.’

‘You are wanted, just keep off the jam,’ Jehan pecked Bahorel’s cheek, ‘oh, but if you do head out, I could do with some ingredients. There’s a list on the fridge that you can take when you leave.’

‘Of course, my little slave driver,’ Bahorel ruffled their hair carefully and smiled down at them as Jehan stood snuggled in his arms, ‘I’ll drag Grantaire along and get your ingredients. What were you thinking of making?’

‘It’s a surprise, actually. I had the idea this morning,’ Jehan tapped Bahorel’s nose, ‘get me the ingridients and burn off some energy, both of you.’

Grantaire threw him a kiss and slipped out of the room to get his boxing kit. The house seemed quiet, whoever could spent time in their studios and worked, a last attempt to get something done that turned out noteworthy. The Dean’s Gala hung above others like the sword of Damocles. Grantaire could not be bothered to think about the self-important celebration of talent condensed in the academy, rewarded with a book token and a laudation given by the respective tutor or another noteworthy student. The art department, despite its vast influence amongst the departments, seemed to struggle to nominate anyone who was not Feuilly to the point where he had decided not to stand as nominee. This decision had been tied with Feuilly’s status as scholarship student, as he received more funding every time he got nominated and won the prize. It seemed only fair to let him have it, since it helped promote and further develop the extraordinary art Feuilly produced.

Pulling out of the race whenever his name appeared on an official notice board had seemed the smartest move, Grantaire thought as he unlocked his door, not, that it had ever been the case that he had seen his name up there with Feuilly.

Chapter Text

Timing was, as Enjolras stressed in a first Monday morning text, pivotal. Grantaire tried to follow his reasoning for whatever he suggested in the group chat but gave up when he started to ask insurance questions. He was ready to throw the towel in and exit the group, when Feuilly chipped in with the question whether Enjolras had met with anyone from the museum. That halted the flood of plans, suggestions and questions for a minute that Enjolras used to text Grantaire directly, asking for a contact at the museum. Grantaire, in turn, texted Madame Lacombe to tell her that an opportunity had arisen to shed some light on the museum and for him to take her up on her offer. After learning about what the event was going to be about, she agreed to meet Enjolras for official arrangements.

It surprised Grantaire to see just how much of an effort Enjolras had made when he met him in the foyer. He had brushed and fixed his hair, wore an ironed shirt – Grantaire had it on good authority that Combeferre did the ironing for their whole flat – and seemed to have polished his shoes. It would have been too much, had he not picked on his nails which seemed to be enough stress on him.

‘There you are,’ Enjolras sounded too relived to come across as condescending as he was probably going for, ‘you are late!’

‘You are a pain,’ Grantaire skipped the last few steps and landed at the bottom of the staircase, ‘I’m here now, what more did you want? I don’t understand why I needed to come, anyway.’

‘You are our contact,’ Enjolras owned the door, motioning for him to get outside, ‘I’m not going to see Madame Lacombe without the person who arranged the meeting in the first place!’

Grantaire had not set foot in Madame Lacombe’s office since his job interview which had been a farce to begin with. Lafayette had recommended him and in theory, that was all she had needed to know. With Enjolras by his side who nervously swayed on his feet as they waited to be allowed in, however, Grantaire meant to feel the pressure of the actual organisation.

Madame Lacombe’s PA asked them into the office and held the door open for them. Grantaire entered a step in front of Enjolras and tried to hide just how his nervousness had affected him. His leg continued to bob after they had taken a seat in front of the curator’s desk.

‘Gentlemen,’ Madame Lacombe set her chair in place, ‘you want to arrange a charity event on the museum grounds before we close for Christmas.’

‘Yes, and we are very grateful to you for seeing us,’ Enjolras shuffled on his chair, ‘as Les Amis de l’ABC, we try to shine a light on issues dear and close to all of humanity, sometimes farther afield, sometimes closer to home. For Christmas this year, we had the idea to adopt a course that would affect our direct surroundings. Our goal is to enable children from socially deprived backgrounds to experience and enjoy the Christmas spirit. For that, we need a venue important enough to get us attention, and ready to be taken over by an external organisation for a day. Les Amis are proud to be part of society and our goal goes beyond watching. As such an organisation, the museum would get enormous media attention and press out of it, something that I would dare call a desirable outcome for you and the institution. After all, providing cultural education to everybody includes children from disadvantaged families but as such, they are often not able to –‘

‘Is he always like that?’ Madame Lacombe turned to look at Grantaire, ‘My, my, what a fiery spirit! Seems like the next student revolution has found its leader.’

Her comment, because Grantaire could not think of another reason, made Enjolras blush. He leaned back into the chair and awaited Madame Lacombe’s next words with tense muscles.

‘However, your idea has potential and shows you genuinely care,’ Grantaire stifled a snigger, ‘what exactly have you planned for this charity event of yours?’

‘We discarded the idea of jousting in the suits of armour.’

‘A very wise idea, Grantaire,’ Madame Lacombe shook her head, ‘Enjolras?’

‘Crafts, Christmas stories, a small treasure hunt and a gift wrapping station,’ Enjolras placed a tidy note on her desk that bore his neat handwriting, outlining their plans and how they would arrange it all.

‘This shows some craftsmanship,’ Madame Lacombe set down her glasses, ‘and I am almost willing to grant you full access. Who can you offer as guarantee, in case something happens? You will hardly expect me to take two students’ word as insurance. We are dealing with historical and cultural artefacts, after all.’

Enjolras offered her a polite smile, ‘Are you acquainted with Professor Lamarque?’

‘A wonderful man, ever the gentleman. He provided a lovely composition for the re-opening after we refurbished and renovated. We were introduced years ago.’

‘He is my guarantee. You are more than welcome to discuss whatever you feel needs further work with him. He fully supports Les Amis and our undertakings,’ Enjolras had put on a serious face, ‘I have permission to speak in his name in this regard.’

Madame Lacombe turned to smile at Grantaire, her lips in a tight smile, ‘Grantaire, you didn’t mention that your friend was a student of Lamarque’s.’

‘Tutee, actually,’ Grantaire grinned, crossing his arms, ‘although, we also have Professor Lafayette’s name to offer.’

‘Lafayette,’ Madame Lacombe stopped him with a wave of her hand, ‘you must know about his reputation around here! Ever the artist, unreliable, never taking things seriously, spending money faster than he can earn it!’

‘Oh, I know,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘it was worth a try.’

Madame Lacombe huffed and turned to face her computer. She typed away on the keyboard for a few moments and Enjolras seemed to grow tenser with every second. He sat on his chair like a squirrel that spotted a cat, ready to bolt or jump, whatever would get him to safety.

‘I can offer you the entrance hall. Grantaire, you’ll function as security and contact name.’

‘But Madame –‘

‘You have worked for us long enough to know that I am not asking,’ she put her glasses back on, ‘you do a great job, Grantaire. After all these months, don’t you think I can trust you with a task like that?’

‘Madame, I am literally the least responsible person that you want on the job. You are asking for it to go all wrong,’ Grantaire found his lungs deprived of air for a moment as he leaned back in his chair, away from his boss who watched him closely out of hawk-like, observant eyes.

‘You are going to be the contact detail,’ she repeated and unscrewed a shiny fountain pen that usually had its place on her desk, ‘you have the museum and some freedoms, we will provide subtle security and the event will be advertised as a joined invitation by the museum and your student group.’

‘As Les Amis de l’ABC and the museum’s invitation,’ Enjolras sat up straight, a spark rekindled in his eyes.

Madame Lacombe pursed her lips for a moment. Her expression froze mid-movement and Grantaire thought he stared death in the face for a moment. His boss’ determination to present the museum as a grateful host and inspiring, charitable organisation were only met by her stubbornness. Between her and Enjolras, he feared, they would lose the museum as venue.

‘Fine,’ Madame Lacombe all but chucked her pen to the side, ‘further arrangements are to be made once I have heard back from Lamarque.’

She motioned for them to leave.

‘Thanks,’ Grantaire nudged Enjolras in the hallway, ‘that was my boss and if you succeeded, I won’t enjoy working there ever again.’

‘Oh come on,’ Enjolras grinned at him, ‘she’s not so bad. Looks like we got our venue, though, now we can get planning and ask around for who wants to cover what.’

‘What you mean is that the group chat is going to blow up with people talking over each other and spamming the whole thing,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘it’ll be hard to filter out the actual contributions.’

‘We have organised other events like that. Believe me, I can filter it all out. Now, that’s that sorted. Are you working later?’

‘No,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘Any particular reason you’re asking?’

‘Courf and Ferre had this idea to organise a spontaneous dinner for Gavroche. Would you be interested in that? They seemed to have a lot of ideas about what they would put together,’ Enjolras let his shoulders slump for a moment, ‘I agree with Courf, it would be nice for him.’

‘Don’t tell me you have a sweet spot for the little nuisance,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘that’s how he gets you. Once in his net of cheeky comments and constant nagging, you can’t escape him again.’

Enjolras looked up from his phone for a moment, ‘Did he tell you he came to see me in my music room when he first moved in?’

‘I saw you. Walked past the room in the evening. You seemed to have a little fan in him.’

‘He certainly does like the idea of overthrowing all structures and systems that damage those who cannot stand up for themselves. Give me a year and he will be ready to build barricades and defy –‘

‘Tell me now, honestly, are you grooming an army of teenagers to take over the world?’ Grantaire looked at Enjolras with big eyes and feigned shock.

Enjolras replied with a smile and continued onwards down the street, Grantaire following him. He typed away on his phone, composing a rather lengthy text. Grantaire felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and pulled it out.

‘Asking for people to step forward with ideas for the charity event?’

‘Yes. Have you got an idea?’

‘Not really,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I’m no good with kids.’

‘That’s a plain lie. Gavroche loves you! You tend to make yourself look small but there is no reason for that,’ Enjolras kicked a pebble, ‘Think about it, I’m sure you can contribute. Other than that, would you mind designing a poster?’

‘Christmassy poster? Sure, I can draw something up.’

Enjolras seemed happy enough with his answer. He strutted down the street with a whistle on his lips after having secured the museum as a venue.

***

Gavroche came back from school and dropped his bag in the hallway. He waltzed past Grantaire who leaned in the kitchen door with a cup of tea and dropped on the sofa, a book in his hand. He opened it and lifted it up, closer to his face.

‘You okay?’

‘Mhm.’

‘We’re invited for dinner.’

‘Where?’

‘Courf and Ferre’s.’

‘Is Enjolras going to be there as well?’

‘I believe so,’ Grantaire grinned over his cup of tea as Gavroche lifted his eyes off the book, ‘is that the decisive factor for you?’

‘It makes a difference, I guess,’ Gavroche nodded, ‘why dinner?’

‘Apparently, Courf likes you enough to organise a Welcome-Party. For you, I should clarify,’ Grantaire set the cup down, ‘don’t know when and where exactly he lost his senses.’

‘When?’ Gavroche looked up at him with big eyes, ‘when are we going over?’

Grantaire checked his watch and grinned at him, ‘Right about now, if you’re hungry.’

A moment silence between them was interrupted by the boy’s rumbling stomach. Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘Go wash your hands and get ready. We need you to get fed.’

They crossed the hallway and knocked on the door, Gavroche seemed jumpy next to him. Combeferre opened the door and the boy slipped past him, leaving him with Grantaire between greeting and entering the flat.

‘That boy…,’ he sighed and held out the bottle of white wine he had bought along, ‘freshly bought today. Courf mentioned he would prepare fish.’

They moved on and found Gavroche already involved in a conversation with Enjolras and Courfeyrac. His hands seemed at risk of hitting somebody passing in the face as he gestured wildly. Judging by Courfeyrac’s enraptured expression, the boy had dug up a tale of extraordinary fascination.

‘Isn’t he cooking?’ Grantaire watched as Combeferre opened the bottle and got some glasses out of the cupboard, ‘not for me, please.’

‘No drink? He abandoned that an hour ago. I mean, he loves cooking but he gets distracted too easily.’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘I’m trying. Don’t blare it into the world, though, it’s new. So you ended up cooking?’

‘As always,’ Combeferre sighed dramatically and stirred a pan, ‘I think I should get them to set the table, we are expecting a few more people.’

‘We do?’

‘The whole of Les Amis agreed to stop by. We like Gavroche!’

‘He does have a certain effect on people, true,’ Grantaire nudged Combeferre in the side, ‘run on and put them to work, I can take over here. I’m not completely useless in the kitchen, after all.’

‘Thanks, R,’ Combeferre took the wine glasses and returned to the living room.

Grantaire could hear him bark orders at Courfeyrac and Enjolras, getting them to extend the table and lay it with, ‘matching sets, goddamnit, Enjolras!’ He grinned and stirred what looked like a prawn risotto and rice.

‘Busy at work?’ Enjolras leaned in the door frame, a glass of wine in his hand, ‘Smells amazing.’

‘Well, I didn’t cook it in the first place,’ Grantaire set aside the wooden spoon before looking up, ‘Oh wow! Don’t move, stay as you are!’

‘Sure, but why?’ Enjolras chuckled.

Grantaire shook his head, he stepped closer to the door and extended a hand, ‘May I?’

Enjolras nodded, a hint of confusion in his eyes. Grantaire cleared his throat and weaved his hand in his undone hair that curled around his shoulders and framed his face. A strand or two fell into his eyes and obscured his expression a little. Grantaire pushed a few strands around and created what he thought to be perfection.

‘May I take a photo? For future reference,’ he asked carefully, ‘I think I might want to draw something resembling you again.’

‘Go for it,’ Enjolras smiled, his voice quiet and gently, ‘you don’t have to ask.’

Grantaire got his phone out and snapped a few photos around Enjolras. It took him about ten to get the angles right but eventually, he was satisfied with the outcome and showed them to Enjolras for judgement who nodded.

Grantaire returned to the stove and Enjolras got a few things out of the cupboard, ‘Would you like something to drink?’

‘Nah, I’m good,’ Grantaire dipped a spoon in the pan to taste the sauce, ‘Combeferre didn’t salt it enough. Oh, do you have any lemonade or coke?’

Enjolras opened the fridge and nodded, ‘I’ve got some for late night study sessions. Shall I get Gavroche a glass?’

‘Hell no,’ Grantaire whirled around, ‘please don’t! I need to get him to bed tonight. Could I have some, though?’

‘You want a coke?’ Enjolras sounded surprised, ‘I mean, sure!’

Grantaire heard him open a bottle and pour a glass. It was placed next to him a moment later and Enjolras returned to the living room.

The doorbell rang and people poured in. Cosette and Marius dropped of a huge bowl with a cooled dessert, Jehan pestered him for a few minutes before Bahorel dragged them away and Joly and Bossuet came to laugh at him. Eventually, Feuilly came to join him in the kitchen.

‘You truly are slaving away here,’ he refilled his glass from the fridge, ‘Enjolras mentioned you offered to tie things up in here?’

‘It was more a case of Combeferre needing to shout at Courf and him,’ Grantaire filled a bowl with sauce, ‘but it does look like I’m about done. Is the table ready?’

‘I believe it is,’ Feuilly peeked into the bowls, ‘this looks promising.’

‘Courf planned the meal, Combeferre cooked it, I just finished it off.’

‘You know what they say, too many cooks spoil the broth.’

Grantaire stuck his tongue out at him and took the first bowl into the living room, ‘Feuilly doesn’t get food, he said it wouldn’t be nice. Courf, where do you want this? There’s more in the kitchen, if anyone wants to give me a hand.’

‘Feuilly! How could you say that?’ Courfeyrac got up from where he sat.

‘It was a joke, Courf, I was kidding. Your cooking is amazing.’

Grantaire spotted Marius hiding a cough in the corner of the room after Cosette elbowed him in the ribs. He grinned and set down the bowl in front of Gavroche who sat enthroned at the head of the table.

‘Okay everybody, dinner is served,’ Combeferre ushered them towards the table, ‘does anybody need a top-up?’

Wine glasses were raised and he went around the table with two bottles. Enjolras got up from the table and got the opened bottle of coke from the fridge, placing it next to Grantaire on the ground, watched by their friends. Grantaire caught Jehan’s watching eyes, they nodded softly and smiled.

Gavroche tried to pester Combeferre into giving him some wine but was put off by Courfeyrac who promised him there was wine in the sauce. Marius began serving and Combeferre sat back down, bowls were passed along the table and food distributed.

Enjolras lasted almost fifteen minutes of chit-chat before he cleared his throat, ‘I’ve been thinking. Since all of us are around now, how about we collect ideas for the charity event? As I – be quiet, Grantaire – as I understand, it is partly that you brought the idea up to help Gavroche.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘This was supposed to be a friendly dinner, not a rally.’

‘Grantaire –‘

‘Just once, boys, just once!’

‘Friends, brain owners and those without,’ Jehan pushed their chair back, ‘Grantaire, that’s you right now. There is really no need whatsoever to start an argument now. Gavroche is having a really nice evening, all of us are. I, for my part, am going to offer reading Christmas stories, Enjolras.’

Grantaire busied himself with his cutlery as his friends one by one came forward with their ideas for the event. They ranged from crafting Christmas decorations with Cosette to a treasure hunt with an elf, as Courfeyrac explained his idea. Bossuet and Joly had thought of a sitting-down activity in wrapping presents and volunteered Musichetta’s involvement with food which Bahorel agreed to help with. Combeferre and Marius had come up with a few games and Feuilly suggested making Christmas cards. By the time they had gone around the table, a few of them watched Grantaire as he refilled his glass.

‘What?’

‘Are you going to support us?’ Enjolras leaned his elbows onto the table.

‘Yes, of course I will. Feuilly, do you want help with the cards?’

‘Sure, thank you,’ Feuilly grinned widely, ‘Enjolras, what have you planned for entertainment?’

‘I was thinking,’ Enjolras wriggled around on his chair, ‘we could maybe put together a little music group or orchestra, playing Christmas songs and stuff. We should get enough instruments together to pull it off.’

‘That is a good idea, Enjolras,’ Combeferre grinned, ‘if everybody agrees, I will compose a list of instruments we play between all of us.’

‘Wonderful, Ferre,’ Enjolras turned to Grantaire, ‘will you join us? I know you play, I know you play well. Will you support us?’

Grantaire squirmed on his chair, ‘Maybe. If you need me.’

Enjolras’ radiant smile in response to his answer made him believe that, just once, he had made the right call. He continued his meal and the conversation, trying not to think about the likely situation that he would be called to actually play in front of people.

Chapter Text

Enjolras came to see him a few days later as he primed a few canvases for further use in his studio. He had opened the windows in order to get the gesso smell out of the room immediately. The cold air flooding in made it harder to handle the white sludge but he worked on it nevertheless, music blaring from his speakers on the table. He had finished a couple of smaller canvases and had just about begun priming a large scale canvas, when the door opened.

‘Hey there,’ Grantaire felt the corner of his mouth twitch in an attempt to smile, Enjolras did not need to say much for him to recognise his voice, ‘what are you working on?’

‘Preparing canvases,’ he answered, without looking up, ‘it takes a bit of time and I had nothing else going on.’

‘Finished your shift?’ Enjolras came closer, Grantaire could see his shoes appear at the edge of his peripheral vision.

‘I have. I also finished my lessons for today,’ he grinned, ‘what about you?’

‘Just had a tutor session with Lamarque. We spoke about my next project.’

‘Oh, interesting! What did you come up with?’

‘I need to compose something, can you imagine? Compose something in accordance with a theme Lamarque will come up with.’

‘Sounds pretty neat,’ Grantaire set his brush down and pushed his hair back, ‘I’m sure you’ll smash it.’

‘You have never heard me play anything original.’

‘I have heard you play.’

‘Thank you,’ Enjolras sat down on the divan, ‘I have another question for you, since you were involved in the organisation.’

‘Shoot!’

‘When should we have the Christmas charity?’

Grantaire looked up and met Enjolras’ gaze. He put the brush aside and pushed himself off the ground a little to relieve his knees for a moment.

‘You are serious about that,’ he coughed as he stood up completely and walked over to the divan.

Enjolras looked up at him over crossed arms, ‘You are invested in the matter, it’s only fair for you to be part of the decision. Feuilly and Bahorel suggested the day before the gala. Which means a lot of organisational stress but could be managed.’

‘Do you think you could handle it?’ Grantaire shook his head softly, ‘It is going to be a lot, and you will definitely be nominated. You always are.’

‘That’s easy to say,’ Enjolras scrunched up his nose, ‘rumour around the academy has it that you get nominated almost every year but no one has ever seen you at the gala because you decline it every single time.’

‘Maybe,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘there is no point in me showing up, anyway. The governors would take one look at me and decide to revoke any funding they ever approved.’

‘That’s just your insecurities speaking,’ Enjolras’ cheeks turned a bright pink, ‘I think you should go to the gala next time you’re nominated.’

‘And then what? Me, in my constantly paint-smeared clothes, mop of hair and extra padding? Honestly, I could send better people running than a group of self-indulging, pretentious old men.’

‘Shopping, barber, gym,’ Enjolras pulled his shoulders up, ‘seems like you started working towards a betterment of the situation. I’m sure Courf would gladly take you shopping and to get a haircut.’

Grantaire ran his hands through his hair. The curls bounced back from his fingers and settled against his neck. His hair had grown long enough for him to put his hair up and wear it in a bun, something he had grown accustomed to.

‘Is my hair too long?’ he tried to find an answer in Enjolras’ eyes, ‘it has been growing for a while.’

His fingers found a knot and busied themselves with untangling it. Enjolras shrugged and fumbled with the hem of his jumper.

‘In the end, it’s up to you, of course, but if you are worried about what impression you leave with the governours, you can do something about that. The ball is in your court.’

‘So, charity event on the day before the gala,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘sounds like a sound idea. Get organising, then.’

‘Sure, we’ll all be demanded a lot,’ Enjolras smiled, ‘and it’ll be worth it, in the end.’

Grantaire wished for the same confidence his friend had. It seemed to be one of the things that did not rub off on other people easily, if there was the slightest doubt in their hearts. As it was, however, Grantaire did not feel entirely comfortable in the wake of Enjolras’ blazing enthusiasm.

‘Oh and Grantaire,’ Enjolras got up, ‘could you draw up a sketch for flyers or posters?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire nodded and fumbled for his sketchbook, ‘I’ll send you pictures later.’

‘Thank you, just don’t make it tacky.’

‘Sure thing,’ Grantaire made a mental note to slip in a suggestion that was made up of glittery objects and everything Christmas, just to piss him off, ‘you’ll have them before tonight.’

***

Their promotion plan for the charity event was rushed but well-organised. Enjolras approved a shiny but untacky version of the Christmas flyer and asked Grantaire to print them. Courfeyrac agreed to help him with both print and distribution of the leaflets. They spent the better part of their after school hours in the printery to produce enough flyers to hand out and put in different places around town. At this point, Courfeyrac had black fingertips and Grantaire sweated in his soft jumper.

Les Amis had offered to take a stack of leaflets each from their hands when they were finished. Courfeyrac set up a corner in the lobby and handed out the first leaflets whilst Grantaire still tidied up the printery. He joined his friends in time to see Joly and Bossuet head off to the coffee shop and Bahorel put his headphones on to put up the flyers at different points en route his usual run.

‘There you are,’ Enjolras beamed at him and held his hand out, as if to welcome him, ‘are you putting flyers up at the museum?’

‘Of course,’ Grantaire took a seat next to Courfeyrac, ‘who’s taking them to the academy?’

‘What would students want with that kind of event?’ Enjolras shook his head softly, ‘We are organising a children’s Christmas charity event.’

‘Doesn’t mean there aren’t kids around the academy.’

‘Grantaire has a point,’ Combeferre pushed his glasses up his nose.

‘Yes, Enjolras, there are students with children, Enjolras. Not everybody waits until they have graduated, Enjolras.’

Enjolras caught his gaze and seemed to evaluate the situation and his words closely. Then, he rolled his eyes but his lips twisted into a grin.

‘Okay, I’ll drop them off at the academy then. Any nurseries you have contacts to?’

‘I could do that,’ Cosette squeezed past Jehan, her hand raised, ‘I did an internship a couple of years ago, I might be able to salvage that.’

‘Gavroche promised to take some to his school,’ Grantaire took a stack and set it aside, ‘tomorrow, he’s leaving with these in his bag.’

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t treat them the way I treated all the letters home to the parents,’ Courfeyrac coughed, ‘Mum pulled them out of my bag after the summer holidays started, along with some moldy school lunches.’

‘Okay, stop the chatter,’ Enjolras clapped and grabbed a few flyers off the table between them, ‘there is work we have to do.’

Grantaire followed his friends out of the academy building into the street. A thin layer of snow had fallen and covered the pavement. They split up on the next corner, Bahorel jogging off, Combeferre disappearing without a word and Courfeyrac bouncing around them until Enjolras cleared his throat and motioned for him to leave as well. Grantaire checked his watch and shrugged.

‘I better get going or the museum is going to run short of a guide around the classics. Apparently, it’s a birthday party.’

‘They really are selling off the whole thing,’ Enjolras shook his head, ‘do they tip you?’

‘If it’s a professor’s birthday, yes.’

They parted ways, walking in opposite directions; both with a destination in mind. Grantaire followed the river, his thoughts jumping from one detail to the next until he reached the museum and slipped into the staff changing rooms.

Once he had changed and put the flyers in place, he could focus on his guided tour through the museum. By the time they had reached the second exhibit, he had managed to get his mind back on track and talk solely about the art in front of them and not the sparkling flyer, the mucked up prototype he had slipped Enjolras, which he had spotted peeking out of his friend’s coat pocket.

***

When he got to leave after another two sets of guided tours, the stack of flyers seemed to have shrunk a little. He doubted many of the people who had taken a leaflet had children or were their target audience for a charity Christmas party but he trusted enough of them had grandchildren or knew people who were in a different situation. Grantaire could, despite everything else and all he would tell Enjolras, if spoken to about it, not help feeling proud. He had placed the flyers and distributed a small amount of them himself to interested parties in his tour audience. The pride to have achieved something filled his chest as he walked home to continue working in his studio and for a moment, he could almost imagine what Enjolras felt whenever he achieved one of his goals.

He heard the voices as soon as he opened the front door. People chatting, laughing. Grantaire followed them, towards the art floor. A suspicion ran down his spine, cold as ice and the realisation that he may have to face a situation, too uncomfortably similar to another. He rounded the corner.

‘There you are! We were waiting for you,’ Enjolras smiled up at him, he sat on the ground next to the studio door.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac sat with Gavroche who, in turn, lowered his head into a book. His friends had gathered outside his studio and everybody seemed to have brought something along. Grantaire climbed over Marius’ legs, a tin of biscuits and a thermos flask to get to the door.

‘This is your call,’ Jehan stepped forward, a hairband with mistletoe stitched to it on their head, ‘you tell us whether we can have a nice Christmassy evening.’

‘I…I have been priming canvases,’ Grantaire said carefully, ‘it might smell in there.’

He unlocked the door, ‘If that doesn’t drive you away, welcome!’

Gavroche jumped onto his feet, scooped his books together and ran past Grantaire to flop down on the divan. He called for Enjolras to help him with his history homework. Jehan carried the biscuit tin and flask, Combeferre and Courfeyrac brought fruitcake and Bahorel held a basket with cups. Marius and Cosette brought sweets and crackers, and Joly and Bossuet had apparently collected pillows.

Only Feuilly stood awkwardly in the hallway.

‘You okay?’ Grantaire stopped the door with one foot.

‘I had a genuine question about your art,’ Feuilly sighed, ‘but now, I belive, I have completely forgotten what it was about.’

He shrugged and walked past Grantaire to steal a few biscuits and join Cosettein humming a few Christmas chorals. Grantaire tried to determine how he felt about playing host to everybody else in his studio but did not feel reluctant at all.

Instead, he put a whiteboard up on his easel for everybody to collect their ideas for the Christmas event, had a few biscuits and joined Gavroche and Enjolras to take part in their political debate. Someone passed him hot chocolade in a mug, Christmas music began to play from his speaker and someone shouted about possible charade and Pictionary games later on.

It felt like Christmas, Grantaire thought, the best he had had in years.

Chapter Text

Grantaire came back from the craft store with more eco-friendly glitter and glue than he had thought ever to be needed by a single person. Courfeyrac had sent him out to get some exercise, breathe fresh air and run his errands for him, too. Grantaire had decided to be a good friend and help him out with his recently bought trinkets. He needed to ask Courfeyrac what he planned to do with all the crafting supplies he had picked up from the store, he thought. His friend would owe him an answer or explanation for what he put Grantaire through. The next opportunity would be dinner at their place for all Les Amis; the flat of three had invited, and Combeferre cooked, which meant everybody would actually give it a try. The absence of food poisoning lurking around them was impossible to ignore.

He shouldered the front door open and slipped through the gap between door and frame, bumping his funny bone on the wood. A string of curses and swears slipped off his lips, strung together like pearls on a necklace. He almost dropped the bags he carried and only just found his balance before he could slam into a low table in the lobby. A single container slipped off its perch on different boxes and packets, almost in slow-motion but Grantaire stared helplessly, hands full with bags as it toppled over an edge, slid over the outer barrier of the bag and fell to the ground where the lid popped off. A flood of sustainable, but nonetheless obnoxiously purple, glimmering glitter particles poured out over the carpet and scattered in all directions.

Grantaire watched, horror-struck as the debacle unfolded before his eyes. A few students who had been by the stairs had stopped and turned around as the container his the ground. One or two chuckled but Grantaire shot daggers at them and shut them up.

He heard a door open on one of the floors higher up and threw back his head. A familiar head of dark, unruly curls peaked over the railing and disappeared again before Grantaire could get a proper look. It was still obvious who it was and he would not let him get away.

‘Courfeyrac, come down and help,’ he shouted and brushed his hair back, ‘this is your mess now.’

He came downstairs, Combeferre and the hoover in tow, a sorry smile on his lips and his fists in his pockets, ‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t planned. At all. We’ll take care of it now, thank you for your services. Shall I take that stuff?’

Grantaire handed him some of the parcels, ‘What exactly is all this and what do you need it for?’

‘I am planning the treasure hunt,’ Courfeyrac shrugged, his head bowed a little but his eyes full of spirit and mischief, not half as embarrassed and apologetic as anybody else would have been, if their friend dropped the glitter they had ordered.

‘And you need this much glitter?’

‘Of course!’ Courfeyrac crossed his arms over his chest, enraged Grantaire had dared to ask, ‘It’s a treasure hunt with an elf, of course I need all this glitter.’

‘Hey, elf prince,’ Combeferre waved at his boyfriend, ‘we have a lobby to clear and dinner to prepare, can you hurry up and move your pretty arse a bit faster?’

‘You love my arse,’ Courfeyrac stole a quick kiss off Combeferre’s lips with a sweet, loving smile that made Grantaire pretend to throw up, before hurrying up the stairs.

Combeferre shook his head, ‘Sometimes I really don’t know how I got myself into a relationship with him of all people. Seems like yesterday when Enjolras introduced us. What a coincidence, surprise and twist of fate.’

‘You do love him though, don’t you?’ Grantaire began to restack the packages in his arms, ‘otherwise, you wouldn’t put up with his eccentricities. The rest of us get to leave when Courf dials it up, but you remain firmly by his side.’

‘I guess that’s what it’s all about,’ Combeferre had to yell to be louder than the hoover, ‘If you love someone with all your heart, you will see their weaknesses, the ticks and idiosyncrasies but they will be part of them and without them, something crucial would be missing. Courf can be wired and hyper and a general pain in the arse but all his sudden moves and wild ideas would never cancel out his huge, golden heart and sincerity. He is a good friend, a wonderful boyfriend and a big child with a spring in his step and the sun in his heart.’

‘And a lot of glitter,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘it’s amazing to see you two like that. It keeps my hopes up for myself and the future.’

‘You’ll find somebody,’ Combeferre patted his shoulder moving past him, ‘now, are you ready for tonight’s dinner?’

‘What is it about, anyway?’

‘I think Enjolras had an idea,’ an ominous grin wandered over Combeferre’s face, ‘it might have something to so with the Christmas orchestra Enjolras talked about.’

Grantaire merely rolled his eyes before beginning his ascension of the stairs, the remaining craft supplies in his arms. He looked back down into the lobby and barely suppressed a laugh; the glitter particles were stuck so deep in the carpet, all the hoover did was spread them around the room. They twinkled in the pale afternoon sun like colourful stars.

The door to the triumvirate’s flat stood open, Grantaire pushed it open completely with his foot and entered. He smelled the dinner simmering in the kitchen but he turned his back on it and proceeded down the hallway towards the shared room.

‘Courf, I’ve got your stuff,’ he called, ‘where should I drop it?’

‘Do not drop it in here, idiot!’ Courfeyrac came hurrying out of the bathroom, ‘Enjolras would kill me, if something like a glitter explosion happened in the flat. Be careful and set them down on my desk, there’s a good boy.’

Grantaire followed his instructions and swatted Courfeyrac’s backside in retaliation for the ‘good boy,’ prompting his friend to shriek and dive behind the sofa. He heard him giggle into a pillow and try and shuffle further out of his way.

‘What in the name of everything sacred is going on in here?’ Enjolras cleared his throat, sticking his head out of his room, ‘Courf, I’m trying to think and write! Hi R.’

‘Grantaire threatened to drop glitter in the flat,’ Courfeyrac wheezed, pointing an accusatory finger at Grantaire who still stood in the middle of the room, ‘he already did it in the lobby!’

Grantaire saw the eyebrow move, rise up and loom over them with the mix of curiosity and disbelief he would likely have felt, if someone else told him something similarly outrageous. A smirk, barely noticeable but to the trained eye, broke out on Enjolras face. Grantaire patted himself on the shoulder for having gotten to know him well enough to distinguish between Enjolras’ smiles and smirks.

‘I’m sure you got that the wrong way round, Courf,’ Enjolras joined him in the room, smiling almost fondly at Grantaire as if he had not seen him in ages, ‘you are usually the one to glittercoat the whole room.’

‘In this case,’ Grantaire crossed his arms with a grin, ‘I did indeed drop a container of glitter in the lobby. Although, I should add, I bought it for Courf along with a lot of different other things that all played a part in me dropping it. Ferre is hoovering the lobby at the moment, I really should go back downstairs and help him, by the way.’

He turned and brushed past Enjolras with a quiet apology, ‘I’ll see you later at dinner.’

Knowing the craft supplies safe in the back room until Courfeyrac got to them was little assurance that he would not have to deal with more glitter debacles. It was a matter of time, the Christmas charity was likely to involve even more glitter, judging by what Courfeyrac had let on. He only worried about being made responsible of the tidy up at the museum, he did not put it past Madame Lacombe to have him come in and do a deep clean. She would be likely to hound him down and make sure he got rid of every tiny particle.

Combeferre seemed relieved to see him come back to help out. They finished the job in silence, not willing to yell at each other whilst the hoover outroared them both. Grantaire rolled up the cord whilst Combeferre made sure they had not overseen anything in the corners. He even crawled under the little table next to the stairs and wiped down the railing with a tissue.

‘Your boyfriend definitely doesn’t need that much glitter,’ Grantaire grumbled and picked up the hoover, ‘you can have Christmas decorations without glitter. A few years ago, Enjolras would have tied his knickers in a knot for this but now that there’s an eco-friendly alternative, it’s okay. Go Courf, what a pity he won’t use purple anytime soon.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Combeferre sighed, ‘he might have backup somewhere in our bedroom.’

‘And if,’ they reached the first landing, ‘I’m not afraid of Courf, glitter or not. Someone needs to tell him that glitter and neon aren’t enough to save him from water balloons and homemade slime. Gavroche certainly has a recipe.’

Combeferre giggled for the rest of their ascension, reminding Grantaire that behind his glasses and stern focus on music and Les Amis co-leadership, Combeferre was with Courfeyrac for more than one reason alone. Of course, the overwhelming chemistry between them was reason enough for them to be the iconic couple they were. They looked out for each other, behind the jokes and good humour, defended each other to other people and bickered with each other until no one listened to them anymore. It was only after they had put on their show that they allowed themselves to be sweet with each other. However, they still enjoyed a joke on their partner’s account and Grantaire loved playing into their expectations. Coming into the rather big, close knitted group of friends had meant opportunities to share with them had been unknown to him before. Just taking part was enough for him, even if he did not dare to step over some lines and cringed at himself whenever he put himself in a situation that saw him challenged.

It was nothing new, his mother had challenged him often enough for him to know how he reacted to it. Thanks to his own stubbornness, he would then refuse to back down. She had become angry and hurtful, Grantaire had bottled it up but sometimes felt like he had never learned how to respond to criticism and harsh comments the right way.

Since joining Les Amis on a more regular base, he could see why he and Enjolras clashed over and over again, with differing levels of insult and sulking after every time they butted heads. Maybe it was their combined stubbornness in different aspects that led to their disagreements. Maybe they both needed a lesson in social behaviour.

Maybe it was something else entirely and he did not know what he dealt with. Grantaire shrugged the thought off and grinned at Combeferre as they reached the top floor. He handed over the hoover.

‘I’ll get my people, see you in a bit when Courf has successfully burnt dinner.’

He could hear Courfeyrac shout from the inside of the flat, something about his food being impeccable and Grantaire having no taste whatsoever. With a smile and a grin, Grantaire went back to where Gavroche peeked out the doorway.

‘Where were you?’

‘Courfeyrac needed some things done. How are you, did you finish your homework?’

‘Not quite, I need to write something about medieval justice systems.’

‘Ask Enjolras over dinner, he’ll be delighted,’ Grantaire poured himself a glass of water and as he drank it, felt like he washed down glitter as well.

‘Grantaire,’ Gavroche sat back down on the sofa, a grin on his face that would have scared Grantaire, if the boy had been anything but that, ‘that thing Courfeyrac needed you to do…it didn’t involve glitter at all, did it?’

‘What?’ Grantaire set down his glass, ‘Glitter?’

‘It’s all over your hair and face, R, you look ridiculous!’

‘Of course it is,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘I should have guessed.’

In hindsight, he connected the dots between what he might look like and the look Enjolras had given him earlier. The twinkle in his eyes made sense and he felt the mortification threatening to make him regret everything he had done so far.

‘Oh, there’s the look,’ Gavroche teased, ‘the look you get when you realise you did something silly or stupid, preferably in front of Enjolras. Please tell me he was there, too, please!’

‘Yes, he was there,’ Grantaire opened the bathroom door and switched the light on.

The extent of the glitter debacle became clear to him, immediately. When the glitter container had slipped to the ground, it had swirled up in a cloud of purple glittering eucalyptus that had clung to whatever was in its reach, including Grantaire. He had glitter in his hair, on his face and in his clothes, the longer he looked at himself in the mirror, the more he seemed to sparkle.

‘Oh come on,’ he sighed, grabbing a brush from the counter top, probably Joly’s to get most of it out of his hair since his own was nowhere to be seen, ‘changing again it is.’

***

Gavroche still grinned like a Cheshire cat half an hour later when Grantaire had showered, brushed his hair again and put on glitter-less clothes. Bossuet and Joly had gotten a full report about his afternoon and the glitter explosion and were in high spirits already when he came out of the bathroom and dried the last stray drops on his shoulders. Seeing him only seemed to make it worse.

Joly burst out laughing and pointed at him, ‘Your hair is all fluffy. What did you do to it?’

‘Stop teasing,’ Grantaire tried to pull his hair out of his face, ‘I had to brush it.’

‘And you don’t, usually?’ Bossuet grinned at him, ‘that doesn’t paint the nicest picture of your personal hygiene.’

‘My brush wasn’t there, it’s usually somewhere in the bathroom but today it wasn’t and I used Joly’s.’

‘You what?’ Joly pushed himself out of the sofa corner, ‘don’t you know that actual diseases can be transmitted via hairbrushes? I read it recently that you can get lice or scabies –‘

‘Joly! Your hairbrush is fine and so is my head,’ Grantaire hugged him to keep his accusingly stretched out arms away from himself, ‘or is this the moment you pick to tell me that you have a deadly disease, transmitted by comb or brush?’

‘No, of course not,’ Joly hugged him back for a moment, ‘you look cute, very bushy.’

‘Exactly what I went for,’ Grantaire grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter, ‘is everybody ready now?’

Gavroche and Bossuet stood up, Joly grabbed his cane, ‘Just in case,’ and Grantaire locked the door behind them. The door down the corridor stood open and light flooded into the hallway. From the inside, they could hear some of their friends already; Bahorel’s laugh was unmistakable and Jehan’s voice carried as they told jokes and made Marius and Bahorel laugh even more. Joly and Bossuet went to greet them immediately and were tucked into hugs by Feuilly and Cosette who sat on the couch and made room for Joly and his cane.

Grantaire waved Gavroche off who joined Courfeyrac in the kitchen and ducked into the living room. If possible, he wanted to escape his friends’ eyes entirely but knew it was too late when Combeferre joined him and handed him a cup of tea.

‘Hello again, poodle,’ Combeferre patted his hair, ‘it’s even softer than I thought it would be. Did you get all the glitter out?’

‘I hope so,’ Grantaire sighed and shook his head carefully, ‘doesn’t seem like stuff is crumbling out.’

‘True,’ Combeferre nudged him in the side, his gaze probing him for something unnamed, ‘did you check your emails recently?’

‘No, went straight under the shower after the glitter debacle,’ Grantaire grinned, feeling his shoulder tip a little and sipped his tea, ‘why, has the academy raised the fees again?’

‘Nah,’ Combeferre cleared his throat, ‘thought I’d warn you. Enjolras read the list of nominations for the award.’

‘Is he surprised to be nominated?’

Combeferre rolled his eyes, ‘Of course he is. And given his track record, he’ll win it, too. He has for the last years and his laudators get more and more high-profile. Well, no, we are not surprised, Enjolras has the award safe, as far as Courf and I are concerned. And then there’s Feuilly, of course.’

‘Reliable,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘the art department would be lost without him. He’ll be absolutely fine and his scholarship will make sure he actually gets to go home for Christmas.’

‘I remember last year. Enjolras was dangerously close to starting a fundraiser, remember? I think he had at least the outwards ticket accounted for,’ Courfeyrac joined them, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend who pressed a kiss to his temple and put his arm around his shoulder, ‘did you tell him, Ferre? No? Can I, please, I want to tell him!’

‘If you insist,’ Combeferre buried his nose in Courfeyrac’s curls with a fond smile, ‘but be aware, the reaction might not be what you expect.’

‘You are nominated,’ Courfeyrac blurted out, eyes twinkling and cheeks red, ‘for outstanding contributions to the academy in the art department.’

‘Les Amis de l’ABC are represented in every single category, actually,’ Combeferre sounded like the proud mother of a prodigy, talking about the importance of representation and visibility the gala and the nominations meant for the group.

Grantaire stopped listening after a few minutes of spirited talk. He had hoped to be able to avoid a nomination. Since he did not intend to even turn up at the gala in the first place, and given his track record of declining nominations, he had not thought the governors would still want to go through the hassle of nominating him. Knowing that his name had been put on the list again, despite it all, filled him with both excitement and resentment. The papers he would have to fill out and hand in to avoid the invitation made him nauseous just thinking about it.

‘Hey, what’s going on?’ Jehan stepped up to them and hugged him, ‘you look a little white.’

‘He just found out that he’s nominated for another Dean’s award,’ Courfeyrac grinned from his position half hidden behind Combeferre, ‘do you want to bet how long he’ll last before he drops out?’

‘What? Who’s dropping out?’ Enjolras appeared next to them, almost startling Grantaire, ‘and why?’

‘We were talking about the awards,’ Combeferre rolled his eyes, ‘Grantaire didn’t –‘

‘I’m so excited for you,’ Enjolras grinned at him, nudging him a little, ‘you will finally get recognised as the artist you are, I’m sure of it. They cannot not give you the award, not after all the amazing work you have finished this year!’

‘Enjolras, I don’t even know whether I want the nomination, or attend the ceremony,’ Grantaire stepped back a little, breaking the small circle that had formed in the middle of the room, ‘I usually don’t, so why should I go this year?’

Enjolras looked sad, his eyes mirroring something Grantaire hoped was not on his face as well. It was understanding, to an extent, and questioning for further reasons. He did not assume Enjolras could imagine why he was inhibited to accept the nomination but it seemed like they could avoid a clash this time around.

Jehan hugged him, breaking the eye contact between him and Enjolras. They had to raise themselves onto their tiptoes to reach him properly and pressed their face into his shoulder. Grantaire got a mouth full of hair, grinned into it and shrugged, as subtle as possible towards Enjolras who still watched, a fond smile on his lips and amusement in his eyes.

‘We’ll cross the bridge when we get there,’ Jehan whispered in his ear, ‘just don’t make any rash decisions that you might end up regretting.’

‘The only thing I regret is not tapping you when I had the chance,’ he snuck a kiss from Jehan that had Bahorel roaring in laughter, ‘that and passing when it came to handing out the goods up there during creation.’

‘You are impossible,’ Jehan ruffled his hair, ‘this suits you.’

‘Stop it,’ Grantaire swatted at them, ‘I need a haircut. Do you want to do the honours or should I go see a professional?’

‘Are you saying I’m not a professional?’

‘You are a drama and writing student, anybody would be more professional than you, darling,’ it filled him with pride that Jehan seemed to be at a loss for words, even if only for a second, ‘but yes, you may cut my hair.’

‘Before the charity event,’ Jehan cleared their throat, ‘and then you’ll look nice and tidy, no matter what you choose to do.’

Grantaire nodded slowly and patted their head.

‘Speaking of the charity event,’ Enjolras motioned for everybody to sit down around the table, ‘Combeferre and I have suggestions for the orchestra.’

‘If you can call it that, it’s limited,’ Courfeyrac sighed and flopped onto a chair, ‘but I did arrange it for a tiny music group.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Marius pushed in Cosette’s chair for her, ‘not your last term project, right?’

‘I am talking about my term project,’ Courfeyrac beamed at them, ‘so, who wants to play the Nutcracker Suite with a reduced orchestra?’

Cosette clapped excitedly, ‘That’s a really good idea, we could invite the children to dance and just have fun, maybe even the parents…’

‘It sounds good,’ Feuilly nodded, ‘but can we pull it off?’

‘We might have to improvise,’ Courfeyrac knotted his brows together, ‘Instrument call: I can do the whole woodwind, preferably clarinet.’

‘Harp and violin,’ Cosette smiled, ‘I could probably try a little viola.’

‘Cello. Please don’t make me play anything else,’ Combeferre readjusted his glasses.

‘Trombone and trumpet. I tried to play French horn once and never tried again,’ Marius shrugged.

Bahorel tied his hair together in a bun, ‘Double bass. I used to play the harp as a tiny child, can’t remember anything, though.’

‘Everybody knows I play the flute, piccolo and Celtic harp.’

‘That’s of little use, Jehan but we can use flautist,’ Courfeyrac grinned, ‘Feuilly, can you add something to the mix?’

‘Oboe and bassoon.’

‘Very good! Enjolras, we’ll use the piano to make up for missing parts. Sounds like we have a small orchestra together and –‘

‘Grantaire can help as well,’ Enjolras put his hand up with a bright smile, ‘if you’re okay with that, of course, R.’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘what do you need, violin, viola, piano, oboe, flute? Guitar?’

‘Uhm, well, what are you most comfortable with?’ Courfeyrac blinked at him.

‘Violin,’ Grantaire breathed, feeling like a weight was off his shoulders the second he said it.

‘Wonderful,’ Courfeyrac grinned, ‘I’ll get arranging. Also, brush up on your Christmas carols, everybody!’

‘Can I just bring out a toast,’ Feuilly stood up, his glass in hand, ‘to the most musical bunch of non-musicians out there, and the fact that we all forced ourselves to play more than one instrument.’

‘Hear, hear,’ they raised their glasses and clinked them together over the opulent dinner Courfeyrac had prepared.

Grantaire held onto the glass tightly, feeling like he was at danger of crushing it in his hand. His friends had a good time next to him, Jehan ended up in his lap at one point, Feuilly got drunk on the cheap beer Courfeyrac had brought out and started singing Polish folk songs, and Marius’ cheeks turned red and he seemed to forget all of them when he and Cosette began to make out right in the middle of them. They prompted everybody else to boo them and wolf whistle as Cosette waved them off.

Grantaire pulled his wallet out and held out a banknote, ‘Please, Cosette, make it stop! I am not prepared to take this sober!’

He received roaring laughter, Cosette broke away and took the note, only to shove it into his trousers, panting, ‘Keep it, you don’t know what happens to him when someone’s watching!’

‘Ew,’ Gavroche buried his head in Grantaire’s shoulder, ‘please, no, I wanna go to bed.’

Grantaire ruffled his hair and pulled him in for a brief side hug, ‘Shall I take you home? I should probably go to sleep, too. Tomorrow is a long day at the museum.’

Gavroche nodded weakly and Grantaire stood up to say his goodbyes to the group. Enjolras grasped his hand for a moment and smiled at him.

‘Thank you for helping out. Courf will send you the sheet music and then, at some point, we’ll get together and practice.’

‘It’s going to work out,’ Grantaire waved for Gavroche to join him, ‘I’ll see you around.’

Chapter Text

Grantaire contemplated a lot during the following days. He received sheet music for the Nutcracker Suite Courfeyrac had written as a term assignment. He read the music, made annotations and tried to eliminate the biggest challenges before practicing. He even, and he was proud of himself for thinking of it – phoned Courfeyrac once when he got stuck with a passage and needed further explanation.

Despite Courfeyrac’s moans and demands for him phoning him or others of the group some other time that was not three at night, Grantaire figured out where he had struggled and got back to it. He had taken the violin out of the case permanently and stashed it in his studio. Between lessons, Gavroche’s many demands and his own issues, Grantaire tried to use every free minute to practise his violin part, making his fingers bleed and his wrists sore. He spent some time perfecting his interpretation, and even after Jehan came downstairs to ask him to go to bed he thought about it.

‘Darling, it’s almost morning and you have a seminar first thing,’ they came up to him and took the violin out of his hands, ‘you need to go to sleep.’

‘But I don’t want to,’ Grantaire held his hands up, ‘if I don’t practice –‘

‘You have practiced enough for today,’ Jehan set the violin down, ‘bed, R. We can’t have you fall asleep in front of Lafayette or at work.’

They had a point that Grantaire could understand. He followed them out of his studio and up the stairs. Jehan’s hand in his was small and nimble, fingers tapping a rhythm on the back of his hand.

‘You really need to get some sleep, that wrinkle between your eyes is back, the one you get when you can’t decide whether you should do something or not,’ Jehan stroked his hair out of his face.

‘It’s that bloody gala.’

‘The awards?’

He nodded, not entirely sure whether he would be able to express anything else. His eyelids were heavy enough to just droop shut on the second landing. Jehan poked him in the side, Grantaire retaliated by snorting into their face by accident.

They delivered him to the doorstep, ‘Listen, sweetheart. It’s your decision but you could go, finally. Feuilly won’t mind, he is the sweetest person. It’s going to be fun, we’re almost all nominated and we’d all be there together.’

‘You have a point but right now I am too tired and exhausted to even think of a response,’ Grantaire hugged them a last time, ‘I’ll let you know whether I’ll accept the nomination, okay?’

‘Okay. And once again, don’t make any rash decisions,’ Jehan kissed him on the temple, ‘and let me know whether you made it into bed or not.’

They turned around and waved a last time before disappearing into the darkness. The last thing Grantaire saw of them was the pattern on their fluorescent t-shirt. He opened the door and slipped inside, past the kitchen, sofa and Gavroche who slept, tugged into a couple of blankets. The soft light of the standby button on the TV reflected on the surface of his phone on the table.

Grantaire fell into his own bed without changing or brushing his teeth, closed his eyes and felt himself drift away, into something blissfully silent. The darkness was better than the sound of repetitive scratching on his violin as he tried to get the Waltz of the Flowers just right.

***

Cereal rattled in a bowl, the coffee machine spouted something at great noise and cutlery hit ceramic. Grantaire blinked his eyes open and rolled himself out of the bed. He grabbed a shirt and trousers out of his wardrobe, slipped them on and left his room.

Gavroche sat on a stool, a bowl of cereal in front of him and a book in his lap. Bossuet and Joly had coffee cups in their hands and watched as he scribbled on a sheet of paper. On the other side of the island, Enjolras and Jehan leaned in to talk to all three of them.

‘It’s just the idea of it. Making him visible.’

‘As the artist he is.’

‘It could work,’ Joly said quietly, ‘it’d be quite a task, though.’

Enjolras looked up from his hands and cleared his throat, ‘Morning, R.’

Grantaire stepped up to the counter and looked around. Joly and Bossuet avoided his eyes and grinned to themselves and Gavroche flipped his book up.

‘Whose murder are we discussing? Or why have all of you assembled here,’ he went for the kettle and put it on, ‘anyone want another cup of tea?’

‘Nah, we’re fine,’ Bossuet grinned at him, ‘are you ready to tackle the day?’

‘I only have a course and work later, nothing more,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I could get groceries on the way home, by the way. Do you need anything?’

‘Maybe some feta and zucchini,’ Joly tapped his lip, ‘you could always get a few essentials.’

‘Can you get me some jelly beans?’ Gavroche looked up, ‘I even finished my politics homework before the deadline!’

‘Yes, okay, this one time,’ Grantaire tied his hair back with the last tie still around his wrist, ‘and in return, you tell me what’s going on here?’

Gavroche leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, ‘Sorry, mate. No chance.’

Enjolras came over and hugged him briefly with one arm, ‘I’m going to head out now, gotta talk to Lamarque about my assignment.’

‘Oh, how’s composing?’ Bossuet took the coffee mug from him, ‘got your theme, yet?’

‘Nope, I’ll get that today,’ Enjolras waved and turned to leave, ‘and before I forget, Courfeyrac wanted to let you know that he wants to have a first complete rehearsal soon.’

‘Understood,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘I’ll practise a little more before that.’

‘Don’t worry your pretty head about it,’ Jehan kissed him on the cheek, ‘right, gotta go write an essay.’

They grabbed their bag and left, following Enjolras into the hallway. Grantaire sighed and filled another cereal bowl.

‘I suppose I should get going soon, as well. I think somebody mentioned class trips at the museum and I need to hand in my essay on the pastoral idyll in the nineteenth century.’

‘Interesting,’ Bossuet said into his cup, ‘do you have to paint one as well?’

‘I can,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘if I want to. But I had to draw way too many landscapes last year. I might get to do a course combining conserving, painting and the technical side later, with practical tasks at the museum.’

‘Lafayette really is set on pushing you towards a career in the fine arts museum,’ Joly got a carton of milk out of the fridge, ‘I wish I knew what I should do after finishing my course.’

‘You’ll find something,’ Grantaire checked Gavroche’s head for tangles and sent him off to brush his hair, ‘anyway, I am thankful for my job and the opportunities that come with it. I couldn’t ask for a better way to gain experience in the field.’

Gavroche came back out of the bathroom, hair brushed and teeth cleaned, ‘Grantaire, did Éponine tell you about Christmas?’

‘No, you have any plans you want to include me in?’

‘Just to let you know that I’ll be out of your hair for a week,’ he grabbed a protein bar from the counter and stuffed it in his backpack, ‘Ép mentioned a friend or distant cousin who offered to take us in for a few day. They live up north.’

‘Cool,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘you deserve to get out of town for a bit. Now, don’t you have a maths test today?’

‘I’d hoped you’d forget,’ the boy sighed, ‘yes, I’m leaving now, see you later.’

Grantaire waited until the door closed behind him and turned to his friends, ‘Any idea what you’ll be getting him for Christmas?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ Bossuet shrugged, ‘a console?’

‘We have a responsibility to get him to go to school and do his homework,’ Grantaire looked around for the box of cat food, Adonis had left before he had had a chance to refill his bowl and would return hungry later on, ‘a game console is the last thing Gavroche needs, really. I thought of tickets to something cool, something he could take Éponine to as well.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘His favourite comedian is coming to town in January. He watches his videos on YouTube all the time. Éponine likes him as well.’

‘But?’ Joly raised an eyebrow.

‘But I can’t afford the tickets on my own,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘so if you were still looking for something…’

‘Great idea, R,’ Bossuet grinned, ‘sounds like something that will have Gavroche be nice to us for a bit longer.’

Grantaire left a few minutes later with his bag over his shoulder and his earphones plugged into his phone. He met Feuilly down the road who left a coffee shop with steaming tea in his cup. He waved excitedly, almost spilled the tea and blushed as Grantaire laughed.

‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’

‘Right down to business, right?’ Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘no idea. I just know that these couple of days have been the longest I left between being nominated and turning it down. It’s different this year.’

‘Hey, Jehan mentioned something and I just wanted to tell you that I don’t mind you being nominated or winning,’ Feuilly took his hand, a nonchalant gesture that made Grantaire jump, ‘no one out there deserves it more than you. Your art has developed, you have developed. It doesn’t matter who wins, my scholarship doesn’t falter just because I don’t win the prize. Grantaire, you should really consider running this year. With Catch Me I’m Falling you created the biggest reason for the governors to pick you. That piece is amazing and should not be taken down ever again. And imagine the publicity! You get to exhibit on the night and even more, not just one or two measly pictures – all of them, and people get to buy them. I make most of my profits around the dean’s gala, not with the scholarship money.’

Grantaire watched as Feuilly waved about, dangerously close to his face, ‘You should really consider it. Oh, and additionally, you get to socialise and network.’

He nodded, ‘I know, Feuilly, I have exhibited there before.’

‘But never more than two small-scale pictures in a far off corner of the room,’ Feuilly triumphed, ‘Actually taking part and accepting the nomination means you get to decide which pictures you show and where to hang them. And how many of them you sell. I got commissions, more than once, too. Imagine just what you could do then.’

‘A lot. I know, Feuilly, it’s not the first rodeo for either of us,’ they reached the lecture hall, Grantaire opened the door for them and slipped in after Feuilly, ‘I don’t even know where most of my paintings are by now.’

Feuilly grinned like a Cheshire cat, threw his hair back and patted him on the shoulder, ‘I might just be able to help you with that bit of information. Catch Me I’m Falling is hanging in the administration building, in the dean’s outer office. Opposite the waiting area for visitors and governors.’

‘What?’ Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks, ‘yeah, sure, as if. Okay, I gotta run, catch you later.’

It took him no longer than ten minutes to reach his space in the classroom, set up and find the section they had been supposed to prepare in the book. His professor worked on a panel on the blackboard and had a presentation pulled up on the screen. Grantaire searched his book for the painting displayed and read the background information to be able and take part in the first ten minutes of the class before his mind would stray and find something else to think about, at which point he was likely to start drawing.

He met Jehan and Bahorel for an early lunch after he had completed a sketch of them as satyr and nymph, arranged a boxing session and promised to go to bed before midnight that day. Jehan looked at him doubtingly but shrugged and returned their focus to their lunch a moment later when Bahorel pointed out their long afternoon.

‘You asked Feuilly to talk to me,’ Grantaire impaled his chicken breast with a fork and dragged it around the plate, ‘I thought you had better aces up your sleeve than the other person potentially competing for the prize.’

‘Are you competing?’ Jehan looked up at him, a smile in the corner of their eyes, smug and twinkling.

Grantaire mumbled something to himself. Bahorel laughed at him, good-natured and deep, put an arm around both of them and nudged him in the side.

‘If you decide to accept the nomination, we’ll all be there with you to support you.’

‘And everybody else,’ Jehan completed, ‘because they are our friends, too. But we’ll definitely support you the most.’

‘Very reassuring. Sure makes a lad feel better about himself,’ Grantaire stole a tomato out of Jehan’s salad, ‘It would be horrible if I ended up at the gala and no one was there to applaud because they would not be able to link my face and my name. Talk about an artist’s destiny.’

They finished their lunch and Grantaire set off again, hightailing down the street and towards the museum where he slipped through the staff entrance and into the changing rooms. He shed his coat and hat, pushed his arms through the sleeves of the livery and left the room through the main door, stumbling into the entrance hall. Madame Lacombe hovered over a few apprentices that seemed too scared to say anything, Grantaire darted past her with a two-finger salute and a grin that made her hiss at him.

‘Grantaire, if I don’t see you in position –‘

‘No worries, Madame,’ he narrowly avoided running into an elderly lady, ‘I’ll be there the minute you come to inspect, undoubtedly.’

She made a gesture that Grantaire chose not to interpret. He arrived at his usual spot and set up camp, sketchbook behind his little stool and pencil behind his ear, ready for the coming hours.

The first class wheeled through his section of the museum twenty minutes after he had taken a seat. Just before, he had dealt with a few gentlemen on a city tour who tried to find a special landscape that made Grantaire sigh inwardly as he described the way for them. The elderly lady came by his spot and tutted at him, he made sure to be attentive and showed her one of the more secluded portraits that were often overlooked by the tourists who spilled into and out of the rooms without looking behind the corners and exploring the hidden gems.

The teacher was first, peeking around the doorframe as if she needed to smuggle precious goods. The kids followed her, swarming around the room whilst one of Grantaire’s colleagues tried to get through a prepared snippet of the tour they gave their normal visitor groups. It was modified for younger audiences, had more anecdotes and funny stories about how the pictures had been painted and what the artists did other than completing masterpieces, but it regularly failed to capture a whole school class’ attention.

Grantaire got up and started walking around the room, keeping an eye out for anyone stepping out of line. He directed a few boys back towards the group, reminding them there was more to the museum than the portrait of a lady with a rather transparent dress. Of course, she was the focal point of many younger visitors, given her position and pose, he knew that and acted according to what they could expect. Grantaire did not mind the looks they gave the pictures, art was to be looked at, after all. He did mind the cheekier ones, however, the ones who were bold enough to try and cup a feel on one of the statues one room over.

He audibly cleared his throat, echoing in the relative silence of the room and watched as the boys hurried away, giggling and egging each other on. Grantaire returned to his space, watching in the corner, motionless for the best part of the afternoon except for the odd moment of stray school children or elderly patrons venturing beyond where they were supposed to go. A few times, he faced questions tricky enough to make him stall a little before answering, but only once, he threw the towel in and sent the patron to see his colleague in the next room.

The late afternoon and early evening were calmer, he got to sit down and sketch for a little without being interrupted every few minutes. By the time the last guided tour was announced over intercom and radio, he had settled and maintained his watch without moving excessively.

Once the museum closed for the day, the whispered chattering stopped and Grantaire began his last walk around the exhibitions. He felt his stomach cramp, demanding sustenance. He ushered a couple out of the dark movie room, rolling his eyes once they were out of sight.

‘Some people,’ he uttered under his breath but followed them towards the entrance hall where he disappeared as soon as possible to get changed.

One of his co-workers told him everything about what she had planned with her boyfriend who was coming home after a business trip. To him, it sounded like a picture perfect evening of romance and skirting around something both knew the other one waited for. He listened to her tale, nodded in all the right places and managed to wish her a lovely evening before she left.

A few minutes later, he, too, had put his jeans, t-shirt and coat back on, bought a ready-made sandwich from the canteen and wolfed it down before he reached the first corner. It saturated him for a bit, at least until he had done the groceries and returned to the flat, carrying his bag over one shoulder. He checked his watch and yawned. It seemed like the days were only ever getting longer and he needed to keep up his sleeping pattern.

He hardly found the time to visit Enjolras in his music room anymore and he felt the loss of it hurt in places he had not expected it to show. As he rushed past the music hall, he did not stop to listen to the multitude of melodies flooding through the door that someone had forced open with a doorstopper. He all but ran up the stairs, opened the door to his flat and dropped his bag in the hallway. Once in the kitchen, he began cooking up something for a late meal.

Gavroche peeked into the room to show him his homework and nick the jelly beans Grantaire had bought for him but did not comment on the tears that rolled down his cheeks. Maybe, Grantaire thought as he cut more onions, he got away with it.

Chapter Text

‘Chairs, R, we need chairs for the crafts tables!’

‘Do you know where Courf disappeared to? I have all the stuff he wanted and requested for his treasure hunt and to be honest, my arms are hurting a little.’

‘Grantaire, is there anywhere we can leave the instruments? Ferre is carrying around his cello and he doesn’t look happy about it,’ Jehan dashed past him, too fast for him to actually answer in time for them to hear.

Grantaire stood in the middle of the museum’s entrance hall which had closed a day earlier due to the approaching holidays, holding a stack of papers, security guidelines and programmes in his hand that he was prepared to hand out. It did not seem like anyone needed him, the questions were nothing he could answer before Madame Lacombe arrived. Despite all the organisation and arranging Enjolras and he had done with her, he did not remember what they had said about most things.

Enjolras ran late, and as unusual that was for him, they had to make do. Grantaire had unlocked the back entrance for Les Amis and they had begun to set up, everybody their own station. It had kept them busy so far but as they ran out of tasks, a few of them had grown restless. He hoped Enjolras would show up soon to relieve him off the strange feeling it gave him to be responsible for things running smooth.

‘Grantaire, have you got any idea where Joly and I can set up?’ Bossuet came up to him and scratched his head, ‘because we really don’t know.’

‘What makes you think I know,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘there is a fucking reason why I don’t do things like this, usually. I am bloody useless.’

He rubbed his face and handed Bossuet a floor plan, ‘Anywhere in the lobby will be fine. Just don’t obstruct the fire escape routes.’

‘Look at you, having it all figured out,’ Enjolras appeared next to him, hair a little sweaty at the sides, ‘sorry I’m late, I had an idea and had to write it down. How far did you get with everything? I can take over now, if you want me to.’

‘Yes, please. I can’t put up with this,’ Grantaire handed him the stack of papers, ‘a few people had questions and I couldn’t remember what we arranged with Lacombe.’

‘That’s okay, I’ll check with everybody,’ Enjolras grinned, set the papers down for a moment and tied his hair back, ‘anything I can get you or do for you?’

‘No, I think Feuilly and I are fine with what we have set up already,’ he watched as Enjolras ran off, as quick as Jehan and equally busy, ‘let me know when Madame Lacombe shows up anywhere.’

Grantaire returned to the corner of the lobby where Feuilly stood over some templates for Christmas cards. They had brought all coloured pencils and crayons they had been able to locate in their dorms and the Les Amis cupboard at the Musian. He held a pair of children’s scissors out for him and nodded to the pile of decorations.

‘Come on, help me cut these out. The more we have, the more time the kids get to actually craft something,’ Feuilly grinned and wiggled his fingers at him, ‘do it for the kids, Grantaire.’

‘Oh Feuilly, you soft soul,’ Grantaire sat down next to him and pulled some of the templates closer, ‘this is what we will spend our afternoon with. Make all the kids happy and raise money for more kids.’

‘Stop with the sarcasm, already. Is Gavroche coming over later?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘pity me for having to take him to bed later today. I really hope Éponine picks him up soon, then I can dump it on her. She handles him so much better than me.’

‘Oh come on, no self-deprecating today,’ Feuilly threw the scraps of paper left of a Christmas tree cut-out at him, ‘shit, now they are stuck in your hair.’

He could not stop laughing and hiccupped his way through more cutting. Enjolras and Bahorel walked past, both checking on Feuilly with a worried look until they looked up at Grantaire for an explanation and started to grin and laugh as well.

‘Suits you,’ Bahorel chocked out and ducked away, to do something that did not involve looking at Grantaire with paper in his hair.

Enjolras cleared his throat and tried to hide his smile, for which Grantaire was grateful, until he opened his mouth and stabbed him in the back, ‘We should all look a little more decorative. It’s Christmas, after all. I think Courfeyrac brought some things to distribute. I’ll get you something.’

‘It’s going to be Christmas jumpers,’ Feuilly chuckled, ‘I saw him put on an elf costume earlier.’

‘That’s for his treasure hunt, though. Wait,’ Grantaire turned towards him, a proud smirk displayed on his face, ‘you saw him put it on? Since when do you stalk us when we’re changing?’

Feuilly had the decency to blush. He returned his attention to the printed shapes on the piece of paper in front of him and started to hum along to the Christmas songs somebody played over speaker. It took Enjolras less than five minutes to return with jumpers, reindeer antlers and red blinking noses. He handed each of them a set and dashed off again, looking for another space where he could make himself useful.

A few moments later, he ran back towards them, chased by Courfeyrac who held something looking like a bunch of tinsel in his hands and tried to reach him. Enjolras screamed something about having to look respectable and Courfeyrac making a big mistake. He had everybody’s attention on himself within seconds, of course, Les Amis’ as much as the museum security who had agreed to come in to look after the exhibits whilst a horde of kids took over the museum. A few of them chuckled and looked generally amused by what they witnessed.

All of a sudden, Enjolras stopped dead in front of the entrance. Madame Lacombe had opened the front door and stood in the middle of the lobby, a shiny handbag on her arm and a surprised look in her eyes. For a moment, Grantaire saw himself fired already, kicked out over his friends’ stupidity but then Courfeyrac snuck up on Enjolras and shoved a tinsel crown into his hair.

‘There you go. Festive spirit. We can’t have him scare away the kids with all his grinchy behaviour,’ he explained towards Madame Lacombe, an innocent expression on his face.

Grantaire held his breath for another second until his boss had accepted Courfeyrac’s hand and his introduction, topped off with an ‘enchanté.’ It seemed to do the trick, Madame Lacombe allowed Enjolras to show her around the different stalls, inspecting their craft and activity tables. She seemed interested enough to ask a few questions and inspect a few things closer. Cosette smiled at her from across the hall and steered her away from Grantaire who still struggled to get the paper scraps out of his hair. He made a mental note to thank her later.

With the curator there, they could open the building for good. The first children were already outside, clutching the flyers they had distributed around town. Some of them were on their own, others were there with their parents, or one adult, with grandparents or friends. Gavroche stood at the front, waving excitedly at them. Another boy stood behind him, holding a bag of sweets, who looked over his shoulder curiously.

They got their first interested kids soon who sat down in front of them and started to create Christmas cards. A little girl tugged on his shirt and held out a coin, asking to make a card with lots of glitter. He sat down with her and showed her the different templates they had for cards and she began to cut and glue away.

Enjolras had thought of a clever way to handle the financial part. He had found a way to combine charity funds for children from underprivileged families with the activities they offered by implementing a ‘pay-it-forward’ system. Every hot chocolate Musichetta and Bahorel sold included a rate for another cup, to be handed out to kids without parental accompaniment. The same concept was in place for all food and activities they had set up and judging by Enjolras’ face as the afternoon progressed, it went smoothly. Of course, Enjolras still looked worried but then again, according to Feuilly, he always did.

‘No matter what event we arrange, no matter where we are – he’ll always look like everything’s going south,’ he whispered over the heads of a few kids who crafted cards with glitter glue, ‘but look at him in his tinsel crown, doesn’t he look adorable?’

‘He looks like an angel,’ Grantaire said, looking over to where Enjolras stood with his arms crossed over the glittery Christmas jumper Courfeyrac had forced him into, a deep wrinkle between his eyes.

‘That’s your personal opinion,’ Feuilly chuckled, ‘don’t forget to breathe, I need you here.’

They continued, kids came up to them, paid a small fee and crafted. Within minutes, their hands were sticky with glitter, glue and colourful paper snippets that made Grantaire worry about how they were going to play their instruments later.

‘Oh come on, Enjolras,’ they could hear Courfeyrac shout through the whole lobby, ‘put on a smile, it’s Christmas, for f –‘

‘How nice to see you so comfortable at home here, Courfeyrac,’ another voice interrupted him before he could say something that would have swept the hall of middle class mothers and their children.

Grantaire watched in shock as Professor Lamarque approached a similarly stunned Courfeyrac who barely managed to hold out his hand as the professor offered his in a greeting. Enjolras stood somewhat behind him, burying his face in his hands. Judging by the way his shoulders twitched, he hid a laughter. Lamarque greeted him as well, with another person in a thick coat following, whom Grantaire identified as Professor Lafayette. He tried to melt into the background, pushing Feuilly to the front.

‘Why are you trying to avoid Lafayette, did you miss a deadline on a project?’ Feuilly enquired, genuine worry on his face.

‘No, I just don’t want him to talk about tomorrow.’

‘Still the gala?’

‘Yes, of course the gala, I have dodged every question and organisational thing he bombarded me with; I have no idea what I have to expect and he’s probably angry with me for ignoring his efforts.’

‘Right, I forgot you never went to the actual gala. Hey, if you have any questions, I will gladly help you with everything,’ Feuilly calmly took a pair of scissors off a boy who got dangerously close to a girl’s pigtails, ‘really, all you have to do is ask.’

‘Thank you, Feuilly. I might just take you up on that,’ Grantaire held out a cut out mistletoe for a girl who had requested it.

‘Grantaire, my boy,’ Lafayette arrived at their table with open arms and an astute smile on his lips, ‘I did not expect to see you here.’

‘He had the idea, sir,’ Feuilly grinned, ‘would you or Professor Lamarque like to craft a Christmas card?’

‘Dear boy, you overestimate both of us,’ Lafayette smiled to himself, ‘I may teach art but that should not be tied to my potential crafting skills. Jean, take a look at these wonderful creations.’

Lamarque joined them, resting heavy on a cane. His posture had something upright, even in rested stance, like an old soldier. He inspected the cards the kids had made with a twinkle in his eye.

‘Indeed,’ he said, his warm, full voice filling the air, ‘masterpieces. What luck we were just in the area, Gilbert, otherwise we would have missed this.’

Lafayette winked at Grantaire who still held his breath, waiting for the inevitable lecture. His tutor stayed at their table for a few minutes, absorbed in a conversation with Lamarque. They spoke so quiet that no word reached anybody else’s ear and Grantaire had difficulty to tell their black coats apart, unable to distinguish which piece of fabric belonged to which. Their smiles were contagious and at some point, he gave up his defensive and let the Christmas spirit flood through his veins again.

‘Professor,’ he managed to gather up his courage, ready to speak his mind, ‘Professor Lafayette, sir?’

‘Yes, dear boy?’

‘Were you really just in the area?’

‘Of course we were. Jean here saw the banner and mentioned one of his tutees being involved with the society. What do you call yourselves, Les Amis de’l abysse?’

‘Les Amis de l’ABC,’ Feuilly stood ready with a leaflet, ‘for some background information. Grantaire should design a new logo for us, mine is dated.’

He returned his attention to the children, leaving Grantaire to share a moment of silence with his professor. He cleared his throat, waiting for more words to spill off his lips, no matter the subject.

‘I didn’t know you and Professor Lamarque are so close.’

An amused eyebrow arched over his tutor’s smirk, ‘Are we close, my dear boy? We go for these walks every Friday, Sunday and Wednesday after the last lectures. You cannot expect us to sit in our offices all day now, can you?’

‘Of course not, sir, I apologise,’ Grantaire felt blood rise to his cheeks, ‘uhm, do you know when I need to be where tomorrow?’

‘Well,’ Lafayette darted a triumphant look at Lamarque who crossed his arms over his chest, raising his eyebrows, ‘setup is tonight, of course. I would expect you and Feuilly to deliver your pictures and paintings to the auditorium by eight. It’s going to be a long and extensive evening. One of those moments where the musicians clearly have found an easier way out.’

He cast another look over his shoulder but Lamarque seemed too involved with the next tables already where Combeferre and Marius oversaw their can knockdown and Cosette and Gavroche, apparently now with bells tied around his wrists, crafted decorations with a group of blond children who seemed to be siblings. Lafayette returned his attention to Grantaire.

‘Tomorrow morning I would like to see you before ten. The gala begins at ten on the dot and any disruption would of course fall back onto the academy. We would not want that, wouldn’t we?’

‘Of course not, sir,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘do you know – by any chance – where I would find my paintings? The ones you would like me to exhibit?’

‘Now, given you have your muse’s consent by now,’ another glance to another corner of the room that made Grantaire shudder, ‘I would advise you to get Catch Me I’m Falling out of the dean’s office rooms.’

The air was knocked out of Grantaire’s lungs. He felt himself gasp for air and for a moment, everything went black in front of his eyes. A hand around his bicep held him upright and helped him back onto a chair but he needed a few deep breaths until he recognised Feuilly who looked down at him with big, worried eyes.

‘I thought you were joking,’ Grantaire panted out, clasping his fingers into his friend’s shirt, ‘you said it like I should know, it sounded like a joke! Is – it – it is in the dean’s office? Really?’

‘Grantaire,’ Lafayette’s voice drowned out Feuilly’s uneasy babbling, ‘of course it is there. You were worried about what fellow students would say, if another of your paintings found its way into a space where they all can see it. I could not hide it away in your studio or in the archives, that would have been a waste, my dear boy, I will say that upfront. So we decided, as the decoration committee, to put it up where no current students would see it. Except, of course, the new candidates who should get a taste of what is expected of them early on, if you ask me. I suppose, students who are being expelled or summoned by the dean will have seen it, too but they should not waver in front of your work. Rather, it should be an example for them what to better about themselves, if you ask me.’

With that, he patted Grantaire on the shoulder and moved on, joining Professor Lamarque at Bahorel and Musichetta’s food stall where he voiced interest in the baked apple cinnamon balls. Grantaire sat on his chair, arms too heavy to lift them. Feuilly still fussed around him, asking whether he needed a drink or something to eat but Grantaire had only one thought he could phrase.

‘Feuilly?’

‘Yes, do you need anything, water, a cookie? Bahorel would probably part with one, you certainly look like you need one.’

‘Feuilly,’ Grantaire grabbed his hand, ‘you told me about the painting and I thought you were joking.’

‘But?’

‘But you’re on the decoration committee. You really knew!’

‘Of course I knew, I told you! Seriously, Grantaire, you need to do something about your self-confidence problem! This is hardly my fault, I did tell you,’ there was no venom in his voice, only genuine concern.

Courfeyrac came over, Enjolras in tow, ‘This one needs a break from worrying and everybody else told me to dump him on you two. You can handle it. Now you, Goldilocks, sit! Relax, everything is working, can’t you see and enjoy that? Sit down and draw a few Christmas cards. Have you even got one for your father and Thomas?’

‘Shut up,’ Enjolras went red with embarrassment but found himself squeezed into a chair nonetheless, ‘really, Courfeyrac, that is your idea to make me less stressed? Go hunt your stocking, bloody elf!’

‘Rude,’ Courfeyrac sing-songed and skipped away, bells jingling from his wrists, ankles and belt, ‘have fun and sit with Grantaire, you both look like you could need a break.’

Enjolras sat at their table with his arms crossed like a sulking child. He seemed insulted by the suggestion that he needed a break but the circles under his eyes spoke more than his words, no matter how convincing he phrased them. Grantaire held a template out for him, pointed at the coloured pencils and got up to get them all a cup of tea.

When he returned, Enjolras seemed to have accepted his fate and cut out a few templates. He helped a few kids with their own cutting, joined by Gavroche who had abandoned Cosette again and switched stations.

Grantaire watched as Gavroche attached a string of tinsel which he had stolen out of Enjolras’ crown and wrapped it around a paper wreath he then stuck to his card. The next step was adding glitter to the card, which Grantaire dodged, given Gavroche’s tendency to go overboard. He sat down on Enjolras’ other side and handed him one of the cups.

‘Thank you,’ Enjolras smiled at him, ‘you look like a concerned hawk-father.’

‘Oh wow,’ Grantaire settled back into his chair, ‘that’s something I didn’t expect hearing today.’

They sat together and drank their tea. Enjolras cleared his throat and looked around the room. Grantaire nudged him in the side.

‘You were supposed to be relaxing, if I remember Courfeyrac correctly,’ he grinned, ‘or are you already worrying about worse things?’

‘A little. We haven’t had a proper dress rehearsal for the concert,’ Enjolras sighed, ‘although, I suppose there’s nothing we can do now.’

‘True.’

‘Anyway, we should set up soon, if we want everybody to stick around for it.’

‘True.’

‘Would you help me with that?’

‘And leave poor Feuilly alone?’ Grantaire caught Feuilly’s eyeroll, sign enough that he had heard them, ‘yeah, why not.’

Madame Lacombe had offered them one of the conference rooms for their concert. Enjolras and Grantaire put up seats for their small orchestra in a half circle in front of the audience. The piano Enjolras was to use was an electronical model that was easier to transport, Bahorel and Combeferre had transferred it from the university rooms. It marked their orchestra’s concert master, Enjolras would conduct from his position in the front.

During their last rehearsal, Grantaire had tried to hide in the back, still not at all sure whether he should really play. Jehan had forced him into a seat next to the piano where Enjolras could see him during their duet that would almost conclude the concert. He watched as his friend now placed a chair close to the piano and waved him over with the first music stands.

‘I think we’re set. Where did you leave the programmes?’ Enjolras stretched himself to his full height and retied his ponytail.

‘By the coats in the staff room. I’ll distribute them, will you get the instruments?’

‘Sure.’

They went about their respective tasks, Enjolras carried in one case after the other and set them up next to the chair they were supposed to be at. Courfeyrac had spent enough time going through the setup and orchestration with them to know exactly who was seated where with which instruments and music sheets in front of them.

‘Do you think we’re done?’

‘Looks like it, doesn’t it,’ Grantaire massaged his hand, ‘should we get people to take their seats whilst we go warm up?’

‘Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta stay as security?’

‘Yes,’ they opened the two door wings, leaving it open, ‘and Gavroche will probably insist on helping out.’

‘Marius is setting up the beamer?’

‘I’m counting on it,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘otherwise, the whole singing along part will turn out a little underwhelming.’

‘Les Amis de l’ABC,’ Enjolras cast him a glance that seemed one small step from an eyeroll before he continued his announcement into the lobby, ‘and the academy of the fine arts invite you to an evening of Christmas spirit and music. We have prepared a multifaceted variety of songs and instrumental pieces and would like to welcome you in the world of Sugarplum Fairy, Nutcracker and Christmas carols.’

Grantaire watched as people followed Enjolras’ voice like sailors a siren’s song. He stood in front of the door with a friendly smile, welcoming everybody in and directing their little orchestra to their seats. Courfeyrac, still in his elf costume, wrapped another tinsel crown around Grantaire’s head and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

‘You are going to be amazing, sweetie. Blow them away,’ he ran his fingers through his hair, destroying the bun in the back of his head, ‘your hair is a mess, you should sort that out before we start.’

‘Thanks Courf, I have no idea why my hair now looks like a bird’s nest,’ Grantaire tied his hair back together and adjusted his jumper.

He had chosen a turtleneck for the occasion, a black one that basically melted into his hair and made it look like his hair and the jumper were one. It had taken him ten minutes to leave his room after he had gotten dressed, Joly had already knocked on the door three times, asking him to come out and face the music.

Apparently, according to Jehan, it suited him and made him look cool, mysterious and slimmed him down a little. Bahorel had tried to make him feel better about himself by wolfwhistling after him and saying something about muscles he was finally able to see again. Grantaire had rolled his eyes and proceeded with the setup.

They took their places in the orchestra and prepared their instruments. Grantaire’s fingers were shaking as he lifted his bow and tuned his violin briefly before Enjolras sat down at the piano and struck their standard A.

Most of their guests from the lobby had found their way into the conference room. Marius had set up a beamer and laptop at which Joly sat down to click through slides with song lyrics.

Jehan and Enjolras began with a rendition of Silent Night. With every song, more instruments and voices joined in until the whole orchestra and the audience were involved. Grantaire had his first entrance with Deck the Halls.

He lost touch. The hall around him disappeared, nothing seemed of importance anymore, only the sheet music on the stand in front of him. With every carol they played, more and more people seemed to sway in their rows and smile up at them.

Then, Courfeyrac stood up in his seat and introduced his arrangement of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker, explaining a few differences between the original and his version. Grantaire used the moment between the pieces to take a look at their audience. Quite a few children watched them with big, shiny eyes, mothers explained something Courfeyrac said in hushed voices and somewhere in the back, Lafayette and Lamarque had taken off their coats. They held steaming cups in their hand and chatted quietly, Lamarque’s hand drawing figures in the air. Grantaire imagined he told Lafayette everything about Courfeyrac and his career at the academy. Something about them puzzled him. The air about them seemed too friendly for colleagues and too controlled for friends.

Before he could think about it more, Enjolras and Courfeyrac exchanged a look. They lifted their instruments again, waiting for the signal. He was demanded from the first note, Courfeyrac’s arrangement had to deal with fewer violins than usually available but Cosette and Grantaire still had all their hands full whilst Feuilly and Jehan helped out. The overture demanded little more, Courfeyrac and Bahorel provided a gentle rhythm with celli and Marius had the honour of being the triangle player. Grantaire felt the melody glide over his hands and arms, down the valley of his neck as he held the violin, dripping off his fingers into the strings.

The great thing about the Nutcracker was that he had no time to think. They went on to play the March which did not allow him to look away from his music or Courfeyrac’s directions for as much as a second. He persuaded himself that he could feel Lafayette’s eyes on his performance and added more vibrato to his notes.

They ended their first two pieces after which Cosette stood up and read a part of the story. Dressed in soft pinks and white, she looked so much like the Sugarplum Fairy that Combeferre had tried to convince Marius to wear a Nutcracker costume during one of their rehearsals. Marius had blushed hard enough to make anything remotely red seem like a very bad idea.

They played the Arabian Dance next, Enjolras filled in for several string parts they had not been able to cover amongst themselves. ‘Electronic pianos,’ he had said and for a moment he had managed to sound not too disgusted.

Grantaire tried to capture the heart wrenching melody just right but to his own ear, it sounded nothing like it should. He had made that experience, he tried to play music but he himself could not enjoy the sounds he produced. Courfeyrac and Feuilly carried most of the melody, switching between instruments at lightning speed.

Somehow, Grantaire was not entirely convinced of it not being down to sorcery, they managed to move on to the Chinese Dance that saw Jehan shine with his flute and Courfeyrac accompany them. For once, Grantaire had nothing more to provide a basic rhythm and ensure the right increase in speed.  His own test, the Russian Trepak, arrived sooner than he would have preferred. The tempo taken from the Chinese Dance bled into the rash jumps and gallops, Bahorel held a tambourine now that Marius had to play the trumpet and Grantaire let his bow dance along to the quickening melody. A strand of hair escaped the hair tie and bounced in front of his eyes but he ignored it, too focussed on Courfeyrac and Enjolras, anyway. Then, as fast as it had begun, the piece ended and he took the bow off the strings, avoiding playing into the break.

Again, Cosette read part of the story before Jehan had another solo, accompanied by her, Courfeyrac and Enjolras. The Dance of the Reed Flutes saw them follow their lead and Jehan who had decided soloists had to stand for their performance, filled the room without doubt. Once their brass set in and Enjolras was the one tasked with percussion, the sound seemed round enough that Grantaire could momentarily forget about his own shortcomings as a musician, painful as it was. They ended on a forte.

Courfeyrac would have loved to add Mother Gigogne but they had too few string and brass players to make it sound convincing. Instead, they had settled for the Waltz of the Flowers which allowed for Cosette to play a harp solo, accompanied by brass before she had to take up her violin again to accompany Courfeyrac and Marius who provided the accents against the waltz rhythm everybody else played. Grantaire found consolidation in the regular melodies and repeating sequences. Jehan had another shining moment and Grantaire followed their play, enthralled by the grace they put into their play. In comparison to them, he thought as he followed the melody, he seemed more like an elephant in a tutu than ever.

Movement from the audience made him cast a glance into the room. Gavroche had taken a girl’s hands and they danced in front of their small orchestra. Grantaire made a mental note to ask Éponine why her brother was that good at ballroom dancing, then he had to concentrate for the final crescendo which had Gavroche and his partner twirl in wide circles amongst the children who had joined them.

Cosette read more of the story, right up to where the Sugarplum Fairy had her big entrance. Grantaire inhaled deeply. In Courfeyrac’s arrangement, the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy was played not by a celesta but by piano and violin in an intimate duet that made the instruments interact with each other in harmony to reach the full sounding melody so many people knew without even knowing the title. Courfeyrac was there, helpful as ever to help him with his music stand. He got up, rearranged his sheet music and positioned his violin under his chin.

Enjolras looked him, eyes focussed solely on him, nothing but determination in his eyes. They had practiced their piece with everybody else in the room, nothing different to the actual concert. It was quiet, as if everybody in the hall knew what to expect. No foot moved, no coat swished, no one whispered about the grotesque picture of the angel and the goblin, set to play a duet.

Enjolras lifted his hands slightly, his sign that he was ready to begin. The first bars were his alone in a soft pizzicato before Enjolras had to join him, he gripped the bow tighter for a moment to hide his shaking fingers, brought it back down and began.

He was relieved he had to play piano, anyway, no one could tell whether his notes were nearly inaudible because he had to play them that way or because he was more than ready to run off stage. Enjolras joined him, the clear sound of the piano mixing with his melody and taking over for a moment before Grantaire could compose himself and increased his volume.

They got through it. Grantaire knew the music, he had studied it meticulously, more nervous about missing an entrance than actual false notes. His focus was on Enjolras who, in turn, looked at him, did not pay the keys under his fingers much attention. He smiled, barely noticeable, nodded in time with the music as if to tell him that they did well. The look Enjolras gave him was enough to make Grantaire forget about his rather weak knees, it held him upright and helped him to ignore everything around him.

He did not hear Jehan’s intermezzo.

He did not hear Cosette’s harp variation.

He did not hear the door opening at the far end of the hall.

He was too absorbed in his play, by the time their final crescendo began and he had quicker sequences to play, he did not even feel his fingers dance over the fingerboard. He saw Enjolras, hair slipping out of his ponytail and his own curls, falling more and more into his eyes before they stopped, a final pizzicato.

He heard the applause and sat back down, blood rushing in his ears. Barely, he managed to reduce his stand’s height again. The shake of his fingers seemed inevitable, grounded in something he thought to have left behind a long time ago. And yet, he could still see Enjolras’ smile, blindingly bright over the piano, infectious and… proud.

Grantaire did not have the time to reminisce about the performance. Their final piece waited for him to join the orchestra again as Enjolras began, a sweeping rhythm that had another waltz incorporated that had more children on their feet. Courfeyrac and Cosette enriched the wild dancing with a few hollers of ‘huzza!,’ which proved as infectious as the music and Grantaire found himself join along with Feuilly who grinned at him during one of the small breaks the woodwind section had.

The final bar came and they played it loud enough to make the windows clink in their frames.

‘End on a high note,’ Grantaire thought as relief washed over him, he followed his friends who stood up under the overwhelming applause of their audience, the cheers and hollers of kids, well-meaning clapping from their mothers and the busy steps of Madame Lacombe and Professor Lamarque.

Without doubt, the two of them would not let the moment pass without talking about the success of the afternoon and early evening, how nothing of it would have been possible without both museum and academy and how proud they were to know that Les Amis de l’ABC would fight for the betterment of the fine arts situation. Grantaire had a feeling that Enjolras would not coincide with their words. A tiny part of him could not wait to see Enjolras take the stage to begin a raging speech about disadvantaged children and the effect a lack of familiarity and cultural education could have on them. He would let everybody know that Les Amis stood for those who could not fight, that they stood in their place and neither museum nor academy were to praise for whatever success the afternoon had been.

Grantaire dared to take a look at Enjolras, ready to jump into his path and keep him from enraging himself even more. He expected anger-red cheeks, sparkling eyes and hands clenched into fists, he expected a deep wrinkle between his eyebrows.

He expected more than the excited grin on his lips and the, admittedly, heated but rosier cheeks than what he had imagined Enjolras’ blaze of anger to be like. No, he clapped his hands, turned to Grantaire, stars in his eyes, and pointed towards the other side of the room, towards where Lafayette stood between the last rows of chairs, hands lifted high to applaud them. He looked proud, ready to take off and leave Grantaire in his confusion.

‘Look, Grantaire, look,’ Enjolras stepped around the piano and towards him, ‘see who arrived whilst we played? Can you see it?’

He pulled Grantaire into a hug that, if Enjolras had been a little more like Bahorel, would have broken his ribs. Grantaire followed Enjolras’ outstretched pointer finger again, having concluded that Lafayette could not be what his friend seemed focussed on. Between Enjolras’ unruly blonde mess of a pony tail and his own dark curls who had decided to escape their bun, he saw the figure Enjolras meant.

She stood in the very back, arms crossed over her coat, long fingers resting on her arms. Her blonde hair was restrained in a tight do behind her head. She had a bag standing next to her and if she smiled, she hid it somewhere in the pinched corners of her mouth.

Grantaire felt the ground open up beneath him, he barely managed to hold on to Enjolras who seemed close to jumping up and down in his arms. Ice spread in his stomach and he could no longer hear Professor Lafayette who still congratulated them to their successful charity event and concert.

There, in the back of the room in which he had played the violin whilst Enjolras smiled at him, stood his mother.

Chapter Text

‘We did it,’ Jehan sank into his arms and grabbed his hand to drag it over their forehead, ‘I feel faint but we did it.’

‘How’s your lip?’ Bahorel came over and kissed them whilst they were still buried in Grantaire’s arms, ‘you gave it your all! And so did you, Grantaire, I am incredibly proud of what you achieved tonight!’

He wrapped his arms about the two of them and pulled them into a bone-crushing hug. Grantaire felt the air being squeezed out of his lungs, his head got pushed into the crook of his neck and when he breathed in, he got a nose full of Bahorel’s aftershave. It grounded him, forced him to feel.

‘Grantaire, that was even better than in rehearsals, you are amazing,’ Coufeyrac joined them in the huddle they had formed, ‘why didn’t you join the academy for music instead of art in the first place?’

‘Well done, R,’ Combeferre tried to keep his boyfriend from diving into the hug, ‘that duet was a joy to witness, a piece of beauty to behold. You and Enjolras definitely have chemistry.’

He blushed a little but Feuilly ruffling his hair distracted him again, he even went as far as tugging the hair tie out of his bun to gain full access to his curls, messing up his hair completely. Grantaire felt his arms around his shoulders and exhaled again, leaning back into Feuilly’s arms. He got to a point where he actually appreciated the warmth and closeness of his friends around him as something he could call upon.

‘You did well, Grantaire,’ Feuilly was quieter than the rest of the bunch but he hugged him hard enough to bend his neck into a different direction from where Bahorel’s arms tugged him, ‘you did really well. I’m so proud of you.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire mumbled into his shoulder, ‘so did you. You were absolutely wonderful, with all your instruments. I couldn’t have done it without you.’

Their huddle dissolved a little, Jehan climbed out of the mix of arms and legs, pressed another kiss to Grantaire’s temple and skipped off to the side of the stage where Gavroche stood waiting, seemingly unfazed by their display of excessive affection. Grantaire tried to get out of the pile of his friends, there were chairs and instruments that needed to be taken care of, tables and crafting supplies to be removed and tidied up. He had to get to work, if anything else should happen afterwards.

‘Shouldn’t we get started with the dismantling?’ Grantaire asked, taking Courfeyrac’s arm off his shoulder, ‘I mean, we left quite a mess out there.’

He managed to get out of the huddle and gathered the sheet music off the stands. Feuilly and Bahorel followed him, taking care of music stands and chairs in record time.

Lafayette approached them, patting Feuilly on the shoulder, ‘I shall see you later tonight, my dear boys. I am at the auditorium to oversee the exhibition setup, so just drop in whenever you are ready. Do you have a car at your disposition?’

‘I’m sure I can get Combeferre to give us a lift,’ Feuilly grinned, ‘I’ll make sure to drag Grantaire along, too. He will deliver his paintings.’

‘Very well,’ Lafayette nodded his approval, ‘I’ll see you both later, then. There are assigned spaces for your works.’

Grantaire continued to tidy up the concert area, collecting papers, moving chairs into their previous position and handing out instruments and belongings to his friends. Madame Lacombe cleared her throat after another ten minutes. He stretched his arms out over his head and turned around to face her.

‘Grantaire, I trust you to leave everything here in a perfect condition,’ she pulled her phone out of her bag and scrolled through something, ‘lock up once you leave and happy holidays. I will see you in the new year.’

‘Uhm, yes, have a wonderful holiday,’ Grantaire blinked at her, ‘I’ll make sure you can’t tell we had a party in here.’

‘Don’t overdo it, your tutor might support you without questioning your decisions but with me –‘

‘I need to be careful because you know me on another level,’ Grantaire grinned, having caught himself, ‘I will not disappoint you and I will not work myself into the ground tonight. Still, the museum is going to be shipshape.’

He got back to work. Feuilly asked for a bucket of warm, soapy water to clean and scrub the tables and Grantaire got it for him. He carried tables and chairs back to where they had come from, collected more crafting paper scraps and binned them, helped Joly pack up what was left of the food stall, got a step ladder to take down the decorations and wrapped them into tight packages that would not unravel in Combeferre’s car on the way back to the Musain or the dorms. He would take the food leftovers to The Corinthe later since Musichetta had left in favour of dinner service.

He heard someone clear their throat behind him but could not stop to turn around because he carried and dragged a table into the adjoining room. Having set it down, he turned around and saw Courfeyrac, leaning uncharacteristically quiet in the door frame. He held his arms crossed over his chest and had his eyes trained on him, he seemed disgruntled or worried, Grantaire had never seen him this serious and could not place his expression.

‘Courf, what are you doing there? Do you know who has the broom at the moment, I need to take care of the glitter around the lobby, that’s going to be a hell of a job to clean up but I promised Lacombe to leave everything spotless and I am determined to keep my promise. We really can’t leave it to the cleaners that would be – well. I have to start being reliable some time, don’t I? Might as well be now that –‘

‘Grantaire,’ Courfeyrac stepped into the room and blocked his path, ‘you are forcing words out of your mouth but I think you don’t really have anything to say. I came here because I think you should take a break. We have all worked to get the place looking like it did before, the security guys already said it’s okay. They went home, by the way. You are the only one still buzzing about. Come on, hand over the responsibility and go join your mother and Enjolras.’

‘What?’ Grantaire ignored his outstretched hand.

‘Enjolras left a few minutes ago, said your mother invited him to dinner. Why didn’t you mention she would come? And you had dinner arrangements, I would’ve kicked you out ages ago, now you have to run to meet them before their food is served. You don’t need to turn into a second Enjolras, trust me, one is enough for all of us. Go have an evening off, for God’s sake; Feuilly can take care of your pictures!’

Grantaire shook his head, putting a smile on his face, ‘It’s fine, believe me. Didn’t you see how happy he looked earlier, like a puppy that gets to go home from the shelter. I wouldn’t want to intrude on his moment. They can certainly talk the night away, they don’t need me to show up uninvited. Really, can’t you see how happy he is?’

‘That’s your mother, you’re talking about, though,’ Courfeyrac looked round, blinking at him, ‘you should at least… shouldn’t she… didn’t she say Hello to you?’

He tried to keep the controlled, collected look on his face. Years’ work came tumbling down in front of his eyes, Courfeyrac and the rest of Les Amis who were not Bossuet, Joly, Jehan or Bahorel were steps from finding out what made him tick, what made him want to forget everything most of the time. He was not ready to air his dirty laundry in public but Courfeyrac was seconds from coming to his own conclusion and Grantaire realised he had to let on something about the relationship between him and his mother to prevent the wrong conclusion to emerge.

Instead, biting sarcasm spilled off his lips, ‘Believe me, that’s the very low on her list of things to say to me. She doesn’t need to say anything to me to let me know what she truly thinks of me.’

Before Courfeyrac could say another word, Grantaire pushed past him to hide the tears in his eyes and swallow the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him. He heard Courfeyrac turn as well. In the lobby, he came across Jehan who stood in the middle of the room, their arms spread out waiting for him. Grantaire slumped into the hug they offered, muffling the quiet sob.

‘I know, darling, I know,’ they patted his back and rocked him on his feet, he felt the strain on his spine but allowed them to coddle him for a minute, just enough to stop him crying before he had to face anybody again.

‘Grantaire,’ Gavroche’s voice startled him out of Jehan’s arms and made him whip around, ‘who was that woman? The one Enjolras fawned over?’

‘That,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘that was my mother.’

‘The pianist?’

‘Yes.’

Gavroche looked at him with eyes too big and too understanding for his age. They had never really spoken about his family, it was enough for the boy to know about his own parents’ shortcomings. Éponine knew about Grantaire but that was all they needed to discuss, Gavroche deserved to have as much stability around him as they could possible provide him with. It dawned on him that Gavroche now knew more than he ever had wanted him to witness, he was sharp enough to connect the points.

‘Enjolras was with your mother, in the back of the room; and you were here, tidying up the whole time. He didn’t… he didn’t even notice? Didn’t he realise she wasn’t –‘ Gavroche stepped closer to him and Grantaire was not sure for a moment, he might have seen a twinkle in his eyes that was there for all the wrong reasons, ‘Enjolras didn’t notice she didn’t even look at you, Grantaire.’

It broke his heart to see the boy cling to his arm, burying his face in his side and shake in his embrace, ‘It’s okay, Gavinou, really. Don’t worry, I’m alright, really.’

‘But she’s your mother,’ Gavroche looked up at him, ‘she should come here to congratulate you, the concert was really cool and I’ve never heard you play and I haven’t been to many concerts but that was fun! You and Enjolras played really well, I thought he would say something about it to you, tell you it was good –‘

‘Gav,’ Grantaire ruffled his hair, ‘she doesn’t change and it is something I know and expect of her. I didn’t think she would – and she didn’t. Enjolras doesn’t know. He idolises her and always has, let him have that picture of the ideal woman and pianist. He deserves as much.’

‘Grantaire,’ Jehan reappeared at his side, ‘you shouldn’t hide it. Things like that don’t go well. And you can’t hide it all, anyway. Or are you planning on just not talking to her tomorrow?’

‘At this point, I am not sure tomorrow was a great idea at all,’ Grantaire combed through Gavroche’s hair with his fingers, it calmed him down a little, ‘She gets to gush over Enjolras and he can pretend his mum is still around and cares for him. I don’t need to be there, I can still make room for Feuilly, drop out of the race and just display the small things. No one needs to know.’

‘Noble as your reasons might be, that’s not healthy at all,’ Jehan clapped their hands to accentuate their words, ‘your poor mind must be reeling.’

‘I’m fine, Jehan, don’t mother me, I’m not used to it. Everything is exactly how it has always been and how it will always be.’

‘It’s not okay and you know that, you silly, stubborn donkey! You mustn’t allow your mother to treat you like that, she dictates every aspect of your life just like that and you don’t even do anything. She manipulates your life with her sheer presence, why don’t you fight for your own interest and reclaim your space? Show her what you can do and how awesome you are, you have the perfect opportunity on hand, with the gala coming up!’

‘Yes, exactly! Rebel!’ Courfeyrac appeared next to them and punched a fist into the air, ‘don’t let her walk over you like that!’

‘Is he talking about dropping everything again?’ Feuilly threw an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, ‘not this year, my friend, I will drag you to that gala personally, if you say another word that sounds like you’re giving up. I will not have it, not your behaviour, not running against those idiots who thought it appropriate to badmouth something that is clearly one of the best paintings that have ever been produced at this academy, not you running away with your tail between your legs. I would tell you to Man Up but that’s sexist and dated – god, I sound like Enjolras!’

Feuilly had turned a little red in the face but Courfeyrac and Jehan applauded him. Grantaire sighed, trying to keep his face controlled. Feeling Gavroche still pressed against him helped a little, the boy had yet to let go of him again and squeezed himself into the nook between his arm and his hip.

The door opened and Combeferre came back in, he smiled and whistled to himself. He stopped abruptly when he saw them stand together in the middle of the room.

‘Hey, you cleaned up everything already,’ he said, ‘are we having a group hug?’

‘No,’ Courfeyrac gritted his teeth, ‘we are forcing Grantaire to pull through with the gala.’

‘Right,’ Combeferre looked at them in confusion, ‘yes, of course you are, Grantaire, why not?’

He watched as Courfeyrac gave him a quick rundown of the events that had taken place whilst he had been away with his car. By the time Grantaire had locked up the museum, Combeferre had voiced his disapproval about both his mother’s behaviour and Grantaire’s approach and he insisted on moving his paintings first.

It had started to snow and Jehan and Bahorel offered to take Gavroche back to the flats, Jehan even offered to have a little dress up party with him. Grantaire felt the confusion on his face and Jehan rolled their eyes.

‘He can’t go to the gala wearing anything but a shirt. And size-wise, I’m probably closest to him,’ they ruffled Gavroche’s hair.

Grantaire watched as they walked away into the snow. Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Feuilly waited for him by the car.

‘Where are we going first? I have sheets and ropes in the boot, we can go right ahead.’

‘Dean’s office,’ Grantaire nodded to himself, ‘I think I’m ready to face the music.’

Combeferre insisted he sat in the passenger seat and pulled into the street, ‘Dean’s office, look at you! You’ve come far and now your painting is in one of the most prestigious place to have your work displayed in the whole academy. I’m excited to see it again, to be honest. I didn’t get the best view when it was originally put up so, may I help you carry it out?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire unbuckled his seat the second the car stopped, ‘sheets and ropes in the boot, you said?’

‘Yes, exactly,’ Combeferre complimented Courfeyrac out of the car, ‘you two pack up Feuilly’s stuff and we’ll be back to collect it but I think, the pretty one might be the largest were transporting tonight.’

‘The pretty one,’ Courfeyrac started to laugh loud and heartily, ‘Enjolras would love to hear that.’

Grantaire all but ran into the building, turned into the hallway to his right and walked the first three doors down to where the dean had his office. The door was still open and a light was on. He cleared his throat and knocked on the door frame.

‘Hello?’

‘Grantaire, what a surprise to see you here for the first time since your application interview,’ Dean Valjean got up from behind his desk and came out of the adjoining room, ‘I sent my secretary home, there was no point in her staying behind because I couldn’t finish working yet. What can I do for you?’

Grantaire rubbed the back of his head nervously, ‘I was hoping I could steal my painting for a day or two, sir. For, uhm, for the gala.’

‘Grantaire! Don’t tell me you’re accepting the nomination for once,’ Valjean stuck his hand out for him to shake, ‘take the picture down and leave it in that exhibition for as long as you need to. Just let me say that almost every single one of the visitors I welcome here has commented on the outstanding quality of the work. More than a few even doubted it was painted by one of our students. I corrected them immediately, of course.’

Grantaire blushed and cleared his throat, ‘So, I may take the picture?’

‘It is yours, of course you may, I have to thank you for letting Professor Lafayette put it up here.’

He motioned to the wall opposite the couch that made up the waiting area in the front office. Grantaire turned and stepped closer to the frame Lafayette had given the painting. He had not seen it since the day it had appeared in the entrance hall and seeing it again made him feel restless.

He had not yet known Enjolras well enough to allow judgement about his attitude. He had begun painting Catch Me I’m Falling with a vague idea of what he might be like, if he ever got to actually meet his muse. The painting reflected that, if he thought about it. The figure on the canvas was a fleeting acquaintance, an impression of a passer-by, stuck in the brain of the spectator. He was not above admitting that his view of Enjolras had been clouded, he had deified him. Having gotten to know Enjolras a little, he felt like the painting should not have turned out any other way. Enjolras was still a mystery to him sometimes and the half-obscured face smiling faintly down on him made it even clearer to him. He considered every square centimetre of the canvas he had produced, allowing himself to get lost in the expression he had put on his model.

‘Oh he sure is a looker,’ Combeferre turned up next to him, ‘evening, sir.’

Dean Valjean nodded and joined them, ‘I do like looking at it myself. We couldn’t have found a better painting to put up here. Do you lads want a hand taking it down?’

‘Sure,’ Combeferre turned around to him, ‘it’s fairly heavy, though.’

‘Oh don’t worry, I have lifted worse things. I got it up on the wall by myself, Lafayette was little help, to be honest,’ Valjean stepped closer to the wall and put his hands on the frame, ‘step back, lads, be ready with the sheets.’

He really managed to lift the painting that Grantaire and Bahorel had carried together, on his own and set it down carefully. Combeferre shot Grantaire an impressed look, they stepped closer and wrapped the painting into the sheets they had brought in.

‘Oh, there we go,’ Valjean smiled at them, ‘have you got means to transport it?’

‘Yes, my car is parked out front,’ Combeferre fastened the strings around the frame, ‘thank you, sir.’

‘Thank you for the help,’ Grantaire added quickly, ‘good evening.’

‘Good evening,’ Valjean opened the door for them, ‘and Grantaire – I hope I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Grantaire settled on mumbling something unintelligible. They carried the painting outside and towards the car.

‘Carefully now, I think the pavement might by slippery. I really don’t want to destroy it now, so soon before I actually – shit!’

Grantaire did not drop the frame. Combeferre shot him a look but they managed to stow the painting in the car once they had folded down the back seats.

‘Thank goodness you have a slightly bigger car. Imagine stuffing that into a Polo or Corsa,’ Grantaire sighed and leaned against the car.

‘Yeah, I am glad about that every time I have to take Courfeyrac’s things anywhere. He takes a lot of stuff,’ Combeferre grinned at him, ‘what were you swearing about just now?’

‘Nothing, I just,’ Grantaire scratched his head, ‘I realised I am going to exhibit a painting of Enjolras.’

‘Not just a painting, it must be the first piece of fan art anyone has ever made for him! You outdid yourself with that! Speaking of fans, should we stop at your studio and get a few more pictures into the car while we’re at it? Courf and Feuilly will be there or here to get his stuff, anyway.’

Combeferre got back behind the wheel and waited for Grantaire to join him. Once he had put on his seat belt, the car started moving again and they made their way through the dark city. They followed the road by the river, drove over the bridge and towards the dorm building in silence.

There were lights on everywhere, Combeferre parked in front of the building and they jumped out of the car. Grantaire unlocked his studio and switched on the unfriendly neon light. He could hear other people rummage about the building, the sounds from the music floor were everywhere and steps were audible from every corner of the building.

‘Damn, how many paintings do you have down here?’ Combeferre looked around in his studio, ‘They are everywhere!’

Grantaire huffed out a breath, ‘Tell me something I don’t know. I paint too much, have too little space and keep them all. Have a look through that stack over there, I put up a few that I wanted to decide between but I can’t.’

‘Sure,’ Courfeyrac began to browse the stack of paintings in the back of the studio, Grantaire heard his hums whilst he gathered a few sketchbooks from the table and flicked through them for more inspiration or anything he had missed before.

‘Grantaire?’ Combeferre cleared his throat and brought a few paintings over to the divan, ‘can it be that you withheld a few things from us?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Could it be that the pretty one – Catch Me I’m Falling, I think you called it – isn’t the only time you got inspired by a certain hothead we both know?’

Grantaire felt his face heat up again as a dark, violent blush took over but Combeferre did not sound disgusted, suggestive or amused, he seemed to have merely stated facts. As Grantaire inspected the paintings he had picked, he had to admit that he was right. Combeferre had gone for his favourites, whether they were artistically challenging or just outstanding because of the choice of topic was debatable.

‘You found them?’

‘Hey, you set them out, anyway. Care to explain why you drew a violent phantasy of my best friend being tied up and shot at with arrows? Half-naked, I might add,’ Combeferre put on a scandalised look.

‘That’s St Sebastian Reborn,’ Grantaire took the painting off the stack, ‘that one was definitely going to come along. It kind of happened when Enjolras visited me in the studio one afternoon and then I kinda finished it around the same time as the duel.’

‘Okay, sounds just about legitimate and crazy enough for you to be a proper artist. What about this landscape? That’s the river, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, I got drunk and drew the reflections. Enjolras tried to stop me from getting drunk, though.’

‘He was there?’

Grantaire ignored him and added the painting he had called Moon River to the small exhibition stack. The next paintings Combeferre handed him were one of his older sketched portrait of Bahorel, the poster he had drawn for the musical duel and a version of the Morning Mood he had given Jehan for their flat.

‘Any more connections with Enjolras?’

‘Except the obvious one that I drew it for the duel he took part in?’ Grantaire wrapped the poster in more sheets, ‘I don’t only draw when Enjolras is close.’

‘But he did inspire you,’ this time there was no denying it, Combeferre sounded triumphant and Grantaire wanted to do anything but nod.

‘Yes, he did. A couple of times,’ he held out a few more wrapped paintings for him to take, ‘can we get going?’

They stowed the packages away in the remaining space in the car before starting the last leg of their tour. Combeferre stopped in front of the illuminated auditorium a few minutes later and opened the boot.

‘Let’s get the big one first, you can take care of the smaller ones on your own and I can pick up Courf and Feuilly. How does that sound?’

‘Thank you, Ferre. For your help and everything else,’ Grantaire rearranged a few paintings to get better access to the bigger one, ‘on three!’

They got the frame through the main entrance, through the lobby and into the side wing that would house the exhibition. Lafayette’s voice rang through the room as he directed students around the room. Everybody seemed to carry something, frames in different sizes and scales, sculptures or installations.

‘Grantaire, there you are,’ Lafayette turned around and waved them to come closer, ‘the spot for your paintings is over there, between the windows. The measurements should work out perfectly.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

They managed to get the frame to the other end of the hall. Grantaire bit back any comment about where Lafayette wanted the painting – opposite the entrance, under warm, favourable light, on full display, the second anyone entered the room. Combeferre helped him put the frame upright before he disappeared again with a wave. Grantaire got the frame on the bracket, he was drenched in sweat afterwards but the painting was in place and it overlooked the room. He got to work with the other paintings he had brought in, arranged them on the wall and tried to find the perfect way to make sure they did not clash with each other.

A few other students stopped in front of his wall, he walked around the room as well, looking at other works. It was their moment, looking at the other pieces before the rush began and the art critics came in to tear it all to pieces. According to Dean Valjean and Lafayette they were supposed to be gently but every year, there had been a report written by Javert, ruining another scholarship. He had not managed to ruin Enjolras’ reputation.

‘Isn’t that the music protégé?’

‘Think so, looks like him.’

‘Who painted that one, do you know?’

‘Shouldn’t there be a sign, name, year, tutor?’

‘There’s nothing, yet. Did you check with Lafayette? He has to have the labels.’

Grantaire made his way around the gallery and looked at the different styles, materials and paintings. He recognised a few stylistic patterns and let his gaze linger. His attention was captured again when Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Combeferre came in. They carried the glass cases in which Feuilly kept the fans he crafted and painted in his studio, inspired by everything he saw. The whole academy remembered his Poland inspired fans that showed historic battle and daily life scenes, different professors had gone head over heels for his work and praised him to the skies.

He lent them a hand, Feuilly had been assigned a space next to him and mounted his cases on the suspensions hanging from the ceiling. Grantaire took a few steps back and checked the frames with a scrutinising look.

‘Yes, they are even. Anything else that needs doing?’

‘I’ll check yours, that’s the least I can do,’ Feuilly climbed off the step ladder and patted his shoulder, ‘otherwise, we’re done and I think we deserve an evening with beer and snacks.’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire agreed, ‘uhm, I’ll meet you back home, gotta ask Lafayette something.’

He waited until his friends had left the hall before turning around to the far end. With a few steps, he had covered the length of the room, stopped in front of his part of the exhibition and slumped to the ground. Crossing his legs, he sat down at the foot of Catch Me I’m Falling. His head pounded, ached in his hands as he rested his forehead in his palms. He could not lift his head high enough to look at the painting, as much as he wished to see it.

‘My dear boy,’ a chair was dragged over the floor and Lafayette sat down next to him, ‘are we getting lost in our own paintings? I have to congratulate you on the pieces you picked. You managed to bring some in I haven’t seen, yet. I have to admit, I am rather fond of your St Sebastian.’

Grantaire managed to look up at him, somehow, ‘Sir, you have that undertone –‘

‘Your St Sebastian looks like your muse in Catch Me I’m Falling,’ Lafayette gifted him a smile, ‘do ever think about it as a collection? The mysterious young man from the first painting, half-obscured behind his hair and distanced from the spectator. He is inviting the viewer to come closer, observe and get lost alongside him, forgetting the strain. What a difference compared to this beautiful allegory. St Sebastian on the pole, the martyr, suffering from the hands of those he trusted, whom he opened up to. The hidden question from the cliff, the suggestion is now openly visible for the spectator and the accusing look down on the watching, slobbering masses that ignore his suffering and strife for a better world hits like a spearhead, sharp and carefully targeted.’

Grantaire carefully cleared his throat, ‘Sir, I really don’t –‘

‘I asked you about the question your model is asking when you first brought he painting before me. Can you follow the process you went through until you finished the Sebastian and tell my why he is so blatantly answering the question?’

‘What question, sir,’ Grantaire felt his jaw hit the floor, ‘and when was it answered?’

‘There is a question he is obviously asking. He wants the spectator to ask him – at least in Catch Me I’m Falling – and he is ready to answer, almost bursting at the seams. In this beautiful piece,’ he pointed at St Sebastian Reborn, ‘the object’s demeanour has changed. No longer is he bashfully hiding his teasing of the question, no, he is blunt about it, there is nothing left to keep hidden, he has been let down and it hurts to scream out the answer without being heard. It is vivid, Grantaire. Alive!’

‘Why can’t I see it, then, I painted it.’

‘Grantaire, dear boy, art doesn’t tell you what it means, I thought you would have learned that by now. You painted something and different people will answer a different question,’ Lafayette patted his back, ‘it will come to you, eventually. For now, I can only congratulate you on what you have achieved. As your tutor, I am proud of you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Grantaire pushed himself back up on his feet and gave Lafayette a nod that he managed to pass off as collected, ‘have a good evening.’

‘And you, Grantaire.’

He walked out into the street that was now covered in powdery snow. The cold tugged at his coat and made his scarf blow up in his face. Grantaire followed the road and watched as snowflakes settled on his sleeves, snow whirled up from the ground and stuck to his boots and trousers in a fine layer.

By the time he reached the dorm buildings, his nose was cold and his fingers were stiff since he had not brought any gloves. He managed to get the door open and slipped through the gap. The busy noises from earlier had died down, the few students still in their studios were the ones that needed to practise, the others had retired to their rooms or at the auditorium to move their works.

Grantaire climbed slowly up the stairs, one step after the other, whilst the snow thawed off his shoulders and dropped to the ground in heavy drops. He reached the top floor, hurried into his flat and took off his coat, boots and wet trousers, slipped a dry, new pair on and made his way back over the hallway on socks.

The loud voices from inside convinced him the door was not locked. When he tried the handle, the door opened and let him see the whole of the living room.

Gavroche sat in the middle of the wide sofa, changed into pyjamas already, perched on Bahorel’s lap, a huge bowl of popcorn between his legs. Feuilly, Courfeyrac and Jehan had built their own pile of limbs, hanging off each other with sweets bags squeezed in all spaces, Combeferre and Joly pointed at the television where a something flickered over the display that made Bossuet howl with laughter, almost chocking on it.

‘I must’ve walked into a madhouse,’ Grantaire muttered and tried to find a space on the sofa, ‘come on, guys, I can’t lose all this weight to still have to try and find the smallest nooks I fit into.’

He sat down between Bahorel and the pile, grabbed some of Gavroche’s popcorn and directed his attention to the TV where a colourful Christmas movie flickered over the screen. Gavroche swatted his hand away when he tried to get a little more popcorn, Grantaire grunted and curled in on himself.

‘How was your chat with Lafayette?’ Bahorel put an arm around his shoulder and tangled his fingers in his hair, ‘you spent quite some time there.’

‘You know him, everything is a philosophical discussion with him,’ Grantaire pushed back into his hand a little, ‘well, I might just go to sleep right here. It’s late, anyway.’

The door opened and Musichetta came in, groaning about sore feet, long nights and customers from hell. Joly and Bossuet looked up from their seats like dogs who sensed their owner coming home.

‘I hate Fridays, evenings always get dragged out by that one couple or that one group of people who decide to stay way past closing time,’ Musichetta sank into the cushions next to Bossuet.

Joly took her shoes off and began to rub her feet, ‘What happened, I thought you’d packed up before the concert started?’

‘I did pack up before the concert started, yes. But then I had a restaurant to run, waiters to boss around and try and keep calm for longer than I expected. I mean, I love a good family gathering as much as the next person but it’s a lot to handle.’

‘What was it this time, grandmother and grandson in need for money? Estranged siblings arguing over their inheritance?’

‘Mother and son coming together for the first time in ages, at least that’s what it seemed like. She looked at him like he hung the stars, during all three courses. It was adorable, really, their conversation didn’t run dry for a single second, they could hardly pause to eat.’

‘Aww, that’s sweet,’ Jehan beamed at her, ‘come on, ‘Chetta, you made people happy today. Mother and son, getting together before Christmas, over your marvellous food.’

‘Yes, I suppose it was nice for them. I didn’t know Enjolras was that close with his mother.’

The awkward silence was interrupted only by a ‘huh.’ Bahorel furrowed his brows and cleared his throat.

‘What?’ Musichetta looked around, ‘oh no, I know that kind of silence. What did I say this time, come on guys, help me out here.’

‘’Chetta,’ Bossuet started on a few back rubs, ‘that wasn’t Enjolras’ mum. She died years ago.’

‘The person you saw him with is very likely,’ Courfeyrac cleared his throat and shot him an apologetic look, ‘Grantaire’s mother. She is a concert pianist, Enjolras adores her and apparently, she adores him, too. She came to the concert, earlier.’

‘Grantaire –‘ Musichetta turned her head to look at him, ‘Oh god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know!’

She clasped a hand over her mouth and stopped talking. The ticking of a clock in the kitchen was the only noise audible to them. Joly cracked his knuckles, Grantaire knew they got stiff from time to time so he needed to loosen them.

He was empty, empty enough to have no tears left to cry and no energy left to shake and kick up a fuss. His friends’ looks burned in his back, as if they expected him to break down in front of them. Courfeyrac reached over the mix of bodies and limbs and pulled him into a hug.

‘Right, that decides it! We are going to that gala tomorrow, all of us together and we are going to tear the house down in your favour, Grantaire,’ he assured him, ‘everybody, hug R! We are here for you and we won’t let you down.’

He felt arms being wrapped around his torso and shoulders, Gavroche alone squeezed him tight enough to make him forget the tight feeling of anger, sadness and disappointment that wanted to burst out of him. It was dangerous, curled up in his chest, ready to explode. For the moment, Grantaire relied on his friends holding him together, just enough to calm him down until the movie was over, Gavroche nearly asleep and Grantaire securely rolled together in Bahorel and Feuilly’s lap.

‘It’s not like we can leave this undiscussed,’ Combeferre cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up his nose, ‘I am surprised and stunned at Enjolras’ tactlessness. It is not like him to be that cruel and careless!’

Courfeyrac shook his head, face distorted with sadness, ‘Since when is he this uncaring?’

‘Don’t,’ Grantaire sat up and shook his head, he looked around from one of his friends to the next, ‘don’t say that! It’s Enjolras, he would care, he just doesn’t know. He mustn’t know!’

Again, silence fell. Combeferre scratched the back of his head, Jehan rubbed at their eyes and Courfeyrac leaned into his space a little. His eyes twinkled with a teary veil.

‘You’re still protecting him like that? Isn’t it time to make up your mind and inspect your feelings a little closer? Are you really okay, Grantaire, I don’t wanna see you hurting but is all this really – I mean, it’s not decent, neither from Enjolras nor your mother.’

‘Oh come off it, Courf, she’s always been like that and it’ll never change,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘I know her.’

‘No, not if you refuse to stand up for yourself, of course,’ Jehan got up and petted Gavroche’s hair who watched with his mouth hanging open, ‘I told you, you have to go to the gala and exhibit your work. Let her see what has become of your work, what has become of you. No more cowardice, no more excuses. No more hiding behind her name, her career, her influence on you. You are your own person, you have friends who would kill for you and you have a tutor who would probably leave his position before taking you off his list of go-to artists for the academy.’

‘He is looking out for you,’ Bahorel grinned, ‘and frankly, so do we. Even Enjolras. I know you. I know him. And I know you think it would kill you to tell him that his idol and role model is not what he made her out to be.’

‘I know, and I appreciate it,’ Grantaire grinned uneasily, ‘and I probably should have made this step ages ago. Tomorrow, I am parading around in front of my mother. Tonight, I need to cuddle all of my friends, in turn. Jehan, start a timer, I am starting with Gavroche.’

Chapter Text

He regretted every decision that had led to this moment. It weighed him down worse than an episode because whilst he knew his situation did not involve excruciating pain and the inability to move, he still felt like he could not escape it. The weight on his shoulder was leaden and threatened to flatten him on the ground. The challenge was enough to make him want to scream it out but he knew Gavroche was probably still sleeping and Adonis rested on a pillow on the windowsill. Grantaire knew him well enough to know he would get him back somehow, maybe by scratching him across the face whilst he slept. He would not put it past him.

‘Grantaire?’ Bossuet knocked on the door and stuck his head in, ‘Oh, I thought you’d be dressed by now. We have breakfast ready, would you like tea or coffee?’

‘Uhm, tea, I couldn’t risk a caffeine high, not today,’ Grantaire stared ahead, into his wardrobe, ‘I can’t deal with this.’

‘You can’t decide what to wear,’ Bossuet leaned against the door frame and grinned, ‘I’ll call Jehan over to help.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, ‘you are an angel.’

‘That would be Jehan, I am the mess,’ Bossuet turned away, his phone in hand, ‘they’ll be here in no time. If they hear or see the words wardrobe emergency, they’ll come flying anyway.’

He was right. Jehan stormed into his room less than five minutes later, hair in a messy bun and only two buttons closed on their shirt. They still managed to look better than Grantaire ever had in various states of disarray.

‘I heard you have a wardrobe malfunction. What seems to be the problem? Ripped trousers, sweat patches or – oh,’ they stopped dead in the middle of the room, ‘you’re not even wearing anything at this point.’

‘I am,’ Grantaire complained.

‘You’re wearing boxers, that’s just common decency! You managed to pick the one piece of clothing no one is going to see. Bravo! Put on black trousers, please, we don’t have time for colourful experiments. You should have called me ages ago.’

Jehan dug through his wardrobe, muttering to themselves. They threw out a few jumpers, shirts and blazers onto his bed and sorted through them with a finger on their lips and the other hand resting on their hip.

‘Well, let’s take it easy. Black trousers, that much is decided, and you should wear a blazer. Question is, shirt or turtleneck?’

‘I couldn’t care less,’ Grantaire groaned and tried to hide his annoyance behind his hands before slipping into his favourite pair of suit trousers, ‘really, Jehan, just pick something and I’ll put it on.’

Jehan sighed but accepted his uncooperativeness. They stepped closer to the pile on the bed again and picked up a shirt.

‘This is salmon. Why do you own a salmon coloured shirt?’

‘Why did you pick it to put it out, then?’

‘I didn’t pay attention,’ Jehan shrugged and continued, ‘no harsh colours, no black or white, that’s boring. Let’s go with the coloured shirts then, you wore a turtleneck last night. Today is official business.’

They muttered for a moment longer and put the turtlenecks aside, ‘Let’s get R in there, the artist, the person who composed colours in a way that made Lafayette swoon.’

Grantaire watched as Jehan pulled a shirt and a blazer from the pile. They held them out for him and he took them without paying them much attention. The shirt was pleasant on his skin, too pleasant. He looked down and cleared his throat.

‘You didn’t, by any chance, hand me the shirt I wore for your last birthday-dress up-extravaganza, Jehan, did you?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, that shirt suits you really well and it compliments your natural form,’ Jehan picked on their nails, ‘don’t complain, you look hot in it.’

‘I look ridiculous, I look like a parrot.’

Jehan rolled their eyes, ‘I promise you – no, I swear that you look like the hottest piece of ass I have seen today and that you will turn heads later. You are going to end up with phone numbers in your pockets.’

Grantaire laughed at their antics and closed the last buttons. Jehan had bought the shirt with him, it was a silky smooth, green satin shirt with a turtleneck collar that seemed to miss a neckpiece to fulfil its apparent destiny of something between pirate and musketeer. It was the most swashbuckling piece of clothing he owned, at least according to Joly who loved to laugh about the mere fact that Grantaire kept it in his wardrobe after having bought it in a vintage shop. Bossuet loved to add that it also doubled as the most colourful thing Grantaire owned since it was just between bottle green and lime green, under the right light. Jehan insisted that it was holographic and displayed a multitude of shades. The somewhat slippery fabric clung to his skin and delivered a very clear relief of his torso, something he was not too sure he wanted to show. He could feel the sparkle on his arms as he turned them under the dim light in his bedroom and when he turned around, it seemed like Adonis was laughing at him.

‘Jehan, are you really sure about this?’

‘Yes, now put on the jacket,’ they motioned towards it and Grantaire bowed to his fate.

The blazer was more of a frock-coat, long and black but would have met his standards and ideas of a gala outfit, if it had not been for the extravagant, shimmering inner lining. He had bought it for Jehan, initially as a joke, and had come to regret it since, especially after it found its way back into his wardrobe after they claimed it was too big for them. The coat tricked his shoulders broader, back wider and hips narrow. It made him look like a collected, controlled human being with dreams, standards and ideals which he generally disapproved of. The lining, however, made it worse since vertical stripes in the colours of the rainbow alternated in the back. They were visible as soon as he lifted his arms even the tiniest bit.

‘Statement clothes,’ Bahorel had called it once and Grantaire scrunched up his nose. It was not like him to make a statement, not at a gala, not anywhere. He eyed the coat carefully before slipping it on, avoiding Jehan’s raised eyebrows. Something in their eyes challenged him to say something, almost demanded it from him. Grantaire chose not to indulge them.

Instead, he stretched himself to his full height and grabbed his nicest shoes off the top of the wardrobe where he kept them in a bag. He put them on whilst sitting on his bed, allowing Jehan to pluck some cat hairs off his shoulders.

‘What do you say, Jehan? Can I leave the house looking like this?’

They tugged on his hair and tsked, ‘Your hair is a mess, don’t you know that? What happened to letting me cut it? We need to do something before we all go home for Christmas.’

‘We ran out of time, I suppose,’ Grantaire felt himself being pulled and manhandled by Jehan‘s fingers in his hair, ‘ouch, is that your bedside manner?’

‘Your hair is a mess, you’re not seriously ill,’ Jehan made him sit down, grabbed his brush from the dresser, ‘I’ll get through it, now sit still and let me do something with this mop. Tonight, I expect you to come by to get a haircut.’

‘But I like it where it is and how it is,’ Grantaire moaned, ‘I want it exactly – ouch!’

‘It’s tangled and I am taking it out of your face.’

‘I like it in my face.’

‘You’re hiding. We said no more hiding,’ Jehan tugged on his tangled hair.

Grantaire felt strands being moved and brought into order on his head. Their fingers made quick work of his curls, rearranging them into braids down from the temples, working the remaining length into a bun at the back of his head.

‘That’s better, now we can’t just only see your face but it looks sexy, too,’ Jehan pulled on a strand and tucked others in but they did not seem to change much otherwise, ‘I promised you phone numbers and you’re going to get them. And now for the final touch –’

Opening a small box, Jehan revealed a piece of jewellery. It was a cameo brooch, the portrait showed an antique Greek figure holding a lyre set in crème against a dark, almost black stone. The set was a polished, off-gold metal that Grantaire could not pinpoint. Jehan took it out of the etui and pinned it to the collar of Grantaire’s shirt with an encouraging smile.

‘I found it in a vintage shop, isn’t it pretty?’ They allowed Grantaire to get up and opened the door for him, ‘He’s ready, come take a look!’

Bossuet and Joly peeked over the counter and Gavroche sat up on the sofa where he had been lazing. They watched as Grantaire made his ways into the living room. Joly whistled and grinned at him, he held up a hand and gave him a thumbs up.

‘You look almost presentable,’ Bossuet giggled, ‘the coat is a nice touch. After today, no one is ever going to question Grantaire’s sexuality, ever again.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Jehan followed him out of his room, ‘the coat and the shirt work together, that’s why I chose this combination.’

‘Sure,’ Joly coughed, ‘not at all because R is a raging homosexual.’

Grantaire blushed, he cursed himself for it, ‘I never put a label on it! And why are you insistent about showcasing what may or may not be my sexuality?’

‘Maybe to be open-minded beyond the tight boarders of the human mind which keep man complacent whilst allegiance bleeds out in the streets,’ Jehan responded.

‘Forget I asked,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes and tugged on his hair, ‘what’s wrong with my curls anyway?’

‘You hide behind them and they have grown out of control,’ Joly grinned.

‘I like them long and if we had had the time –‘

‘Time, right on que. We should get going; Gavroche, are you ready?’

The boy got off the sofa, he wore one of Jehan’s shirts and his nicer shoes. He did not look comfortable either but at least his hair had been left alone. Grantaire winked at him and put his arm around his shoulder before they put on their coats and left the flat.

‘Misery loves company,’ he whispered and Gavroche gave him a knowing look.

A strong wind blew through the street canyons of the town as they made their way under leafless trees and empty windows. It came up over the river banks and howled between the house facades, trapped in its circles and swirls. Grantaire was relieved since he had not brought a hat and the wind pulled the braids apart quickly. Jehan fussed over them for a bit but resigned by the time they had crossed the river.

‘I’ll need to sort this before we enter the auditorium,’ they insisted, ‘because now you just look like someone used a leaf blower on your hair!’

The comment was enough to send Gavroche and Bossuet into a fit of giggles. Grantaire tried to silence them with a venomous look but did not seem to succeed in any way. Their laughter echoed after them until they reached the open place in front of the museum where their coats billowed, Bossuet’s scarf flew up and blinded and muffled him for a moment. Joly took his hand, trying to stabilise him. Bossuet liked to take a fall in moments of momentarily lacking vigilance. They all knew what had happened when Joly had wanted to be cute and covered his eyes for a moment, resulting in a broken glass door, twisted wrists and a visit to the orthopaedist for Joly who had had to wear a brace for months, something he had been very glad to have left behind.

Grantaire kicked a snowbank, getting it into his shoes. He pulled a face but continued onwards, through the white masses on the square. The people joining them on the way towards the auditorium looked similarly dressed up to them. Men were in black tie and women wore dresses under their coats as they hurried through the cold. They would sit in a warm room for the rest of the day, listening to laudations and observing what the academy had brought up this time, forgetting about how their breath steamed in front of them and how they tried to get their fingers to warm up in their fashionable but rather thin gloves.

The Dean’s gala was an opportunity for the governors and friend’s association to check on the progress of academy and students. It was down to the quality of what they saw how much they agreed to pay during the following terms. Of course, all of them were encouraged to generate as much positivity and patrons as possible, finding the ones with a weakness for their art, music, poetry or sculpting.

Grantaire was not entirely sure what he thought about the approach. He still exhibited his pieces and listened to Enjolras’ tirades on how art bled them out, raging against the use of their work for the betterment of the academy in all its overbearance. Once he got going, he was hard to stop in his ideas how to reform and revolutionise the academy and the art world.

The auditorium’s doors stood wide open, warmth poured out into the open space in front of it but beyond the first doors, the glass doors kept the real warmth inside. Grantaire guided Gavroche through the lobby, one hand on his shoulder. The boy looked around with wonder in his eyes, his mouth hung open and he seemed at risk of tripping over his own feet.

‘How is there so much more gold in here,’ he turned around to look at Grantaire, ‘this is awesome. There is so much gold in here, and the statues! Are those marble? I mean, you get to be in here all the time and your paintings are in there? That’s wicked!’

‘If you say so,’ Grantaire steered him past a few pillars he would have run into, otherwise, ‘let’s find you a seat early on, otherwise, you’ll end up in the back.’

‘And that would be of little use,’ Jehan grinned from behind Grantaire where they tried to save his hairdo, ‘we want you to see everything that’s going on, this is the absolute highlight of the academy year.’

‘You do this every year?’

‘Yes, every year we get together and try to impress a bunch of old people with what we learn and produce,’ Joly sighed and cleared his throat, ‘well, should we hand in our coats? I’ll take them.’

He disappeared once he had all their coats to hand them in at the counter of the cloak room. Bossuet and Grantaire tried to find more of their group, Jehan stood on their tiptoes to spot Bahorel who had promised them to be around handing out programmes. Gavroche still seemed to take in the surroundings and had tilted his head back to look at the high ceilings above them.

‘Grantaire, I wasn’t sure you’d really show up,’ Lafayette stopped briefly at their side, ‘well, I am sure you will have a wonderful day. Of course, you’ll get to talk with people about your art and I hope you’ll get to supplement your income a little. I have seen a few of your friends around, I am sure they will keep you in good spirits.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Grantaire grinned and watched as Lafayette and Lamarque made their way into the great auditorium.

‘You only get them in a set, or am I mistaken?’ Marius appeared at their side, ‘Cosette saved a few seats in the front, she told me to get whoever of us stood out here. Hi Gavroche!’

‘How many seats has she got?’ Jehan turned around, ‘because Bahorel’s over there and he won’t get to save himself a seat.’

‘Should be five or six,’ Marius grinned, ‘no worries, nominated people have seats with their names on them.’

Grantaire felt his stomach do a flip. The realisation that he had accepted a nomination and could no longer back out had waited until this moment to haunt him. He followed Marius who had taken over and steered Gavroche past the open door to the exhibition, explaining that it would be opened afterwards by the winning artist, Dean Valjean and Professor Lafayette.

Cosette stood watching over a whole row relatively close to the front. She waved at them the moment they entered the hall and Marius responded, a silly smile on his face. They split up, Marius, Gavroche and Bossuet sat with Cosette, and Grantaire, Jehan and Joly tried to get past the people in the aisle towards the first and second row where Grantaire found his seat and sank down onto the chair. The sign on the chair next to him read Feuilly and relief washed over him as he stopped himself pretending to have to sit next to anyone else.

‘There you are,’ Feuilly joined him a few minutes later, an easy smile on his lips, ‘I am glad to see you here. You look well.’

He wore a simpler getup, Grantaire noticed, a suit that had evidently seen better days. It reminded him of the scholarship Feuilly had to work so hard for.

‘Feuilly,’ he began, not entirely sure what he wanted to say, ‘are you sure you are okay with me running?’

‘What? Of course I am,’ Feuilly put his hand on his shoulder, ‘is this still about you worrying about my scholarship? Believe me, they don’t care. Do you know who decides about my scholarship? Valjean, Lafayette and Javert.’

‘Javert?’

‘Had to have a neutral party,’ Feuilly shrugged, ‘and if he can’t take it away from one year to the next, you don’t even come close to it, if you win.’

Grantaire felt his chest widen a little, the constricting feeling subsided a little. They watched as more and more people took their seats. He recognised a few of the people who had been at the duel or other academy events, they made their way through the crowd with the determination to belong in their place, using elbows and heels to get where they thought best for themselves.

‘Grantaire,’ Éponine squatted down next to him, one hand on his thigh, ‘I am sitting with Gavroche, he’ll come home with me today, we’ll keep you updated about after Christmas. I just wanted to wish good luck for now. You are an amazing artist.’

She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and disappeared again. His brain was slow, it took him another moment to process that she had come, evidently for him and to wish him well for the gala. She had even put on a dress.

‘Poor Éponine,’ Feuilly whispered, ‘I think she’s sitting with Marius and Cosette.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t tell me you have not noticed the way she looks at them.’

‘Of course I have,’ Grantaire murmured, ‘I just think she’s just not sure whom she actually fancies.’

Feuilly looked at him for a moment, something indifferent in his eyes. Then, he cleared his throat.

‘There’s paint on your neck.’

‘What?’ Grantaire felt like broken record.

‘There’s paint on your neck, Russet, I would say. Do you have something to cover it with?’

‘How did Jehan not see that, they helped me get ready and pick my clothes.’

‘They did a wonderful job but somehow they missed the stroke of brown paint on your neck. Can you pull the collar up a little more? It’s literally under your hairline,’ Feuilly motioned where the offending patch of paint tainted Grantaire’s look, prodding somewhere next to his spine, above his shirt’s collar.

Grantaire tried to rub it off but Feuilly’s sorry shake of his head told him enough to sulk for a moment, his arms crossed. He imagined the satisfaction it would give his mother to see him like this, unable to keep himself clean for an important event. The only thing that came to his mind was to peel one of the hair-ties off his wrist where he had put all of them after his braids had been pulled apart. Feuilly stared at him as he pulled his hair to the back of his head and tied it into a ponytail that curled over his neck. Some of his curls bounced of his hold and back around his temples, framing his face. Feuilly sighed, pretended to swoon and shook his head.

‘Jehan will hang, draw and quarter you, if you do that, you look good enough to eat,’ he gulped, ‘honestly, you have more of a tragic, romantic poet now than they do. They will be livid, are you sure you value your life so little?’

‘Better that than sitting here with a brown spot on my skin. Also, they missed it,’ Grantaire put the beanie on his head defiantly, ‘they can’t complain I have to hide it now.’

Feuilly sighed but surrendered to his fate as Dean Valjean got up from his seat at the very front of the auditorium and climbed the stairs leading up to the stage. He looked the part of the academy director with every fibre of his suit. As he took his place behind the lectern, he let his gaze wander over the crowd. Grantaire could pinpoint the moment he found Cosette in the audience, a smile broadened his face for a split-second before he moved on.

‘Welcome, ladies, gentlemen and artists, to this year’s Dean’s gala. Today, we honour a tradition as old as this institution itself. Every year before the Christmas break, we award the best and most talented of our students a prize that will hopefully propel their art in new spheres. This award is highly remunerated and is supposed to strengthen opportunities in all branched of the fine arts we teach at this long-established academy,’ Valjean lifted his gaze off his notecards, ‘when I witnessed my first Dean’s award, I was nothing more than one of the older student assistants here and had been tasked with organising the catering. Back then, the award was still handed out in the assembly hall. Nowadays, our students are aware of that, we only use the assembly hall for the leavers’ procession. This is, mostly, because the academy grew. We remember the addition of literature and drama to our curriculum which happened after the university cut their budget drastically. We faced strong opposition, back then as much as today but I would not miss the sharp minds of those who write and compose scripts at this institution. Those, who say literature has no place amongst the fine arts, I want to tell about the poetry our students write, the emotional range of the dramatic work and the quality of our theatrical productions.’

Applause interrupted Dean Valjean, likely to have been started by the stubborn core of poets and literati around Jehan. Grantaire joined in, a laboured smile on his lips.

‘I want to remind all those affected by criticism, those of you who work tirelessly to achieve your vision and those who seem to chase their inspiration without reaching their goal of the motto this institution was given centuries ago when the first students promenaded the halls and rooms of the academy: Finis coronat opus. The end crowns the work. You may be looking for the final brush stroke to place, the last verse to be added, the last note to play – and as long as you don’t place it, your work, your piece is not finished. This institution aims to give its students the time to think and freedom to achieve their best. The award we hand out today, acknowledges the time and work that brought you here,’ at this point, Valjean took a sip of the water in front of him.

‘The award had to adapt over the years. When it was first introduced, it was awarded for painting and composing. Over the years, we changed these descriptions to art and music, added sculpture, literature and drama, and added the prize money. In cooperation with the Gallery Digne, we estimate the cost of booking a publisher or renting an exhibition space, concert hall or theatre and give our students the opportunity to put this money to use. We judge the works produced by the students regardless of their means, background or material, picking the work and artist convincing us of their potential. As you know, we nominate five candidates in each category, and I am pleased to announce,’ Valjean looked up and let his gaze pan over the audience, ‘that for the first time in several years, we actually have five candidates in the art department after a notorious candidate accepted his nomination for the first time.’

Grantaire was close to choking on his tongue when he saw the almost mischievous gleam in the dean’s eye. Feuilly nudged him with an elbow and somewhere behind them, Bahorel whistled loudly.

‘Now, it is difficult to exhibit music and drama in the same way as art, sculptures or literature. We are lucky to have the means we have which leads me to the first thank you today. Out governors and the friends’ association have once again excelled at making this event possible with all details and deliveries. We have our five nominations in the field Music here today and they agreed to accompany this event with their skilful performances.’

Grantaire let his mind wander to the side wing where his paintings waited for the end of the ceremony. No matter who won, his mother would be there to promenade from one picture to the next, making sure that people saw her. He had not seen her around but given his seat in the second row and her wherever, he was not surprised. It remained to be seen whether he was ready for his mother to see what he made of Enjolras, her prodigy.

Next, he let his gaze wander over the Heads of Department who sat behind the lectern, all with warm smiles on their faces. At least, he thought, Lafayette smiled. Lamarque seemed too enthralled by the musicians playing their pieces to care about his expression. Grantaire managed to listen long enough to hear Enjolras play but he sat behind the grand piano on stage and he could see nothing more than a few glistening curls above the wing whilst the tech team seemed to experiment, leading to a nearly inaudible piano. Next to their tutors sat Professor de Rochambeau for Sculpting who looked sour on the best of days which had led to Bahorel imitating him on many occasions. The Head of Literature, Professor Roland, inspected her nails, seemingly unfazed by the musical performances. Her brain worked at the speed of light according to Joly and Jehan who listened to her lectures without taking the course she taught.

And then there was Professor Saint-Just. His boyish young face was framed by his dark hair, hidden in its shadow of the long locks, his hands folded in his lap and his big, questioning eyes seemed to suck the performances in. He had been compared to a vampire in many instances and Grantaire could see why. He was the youngest Head of Department, as much as Drama was the youngest department. Still, he managed to enchant his colleagues and students alike and Jehan had been caught citing him as an inspiration for his projects.

Grantaire found him too intense to watch over a longer time and tried to remember what was going on that had everybody look to the stage. Valjean had retaken his position behind the lectern and joined the friendly applause rippling through the auditorium.

‘Thank you to all our talented musicians who agreed to showcase their skill on our stage. It takes time, patience and of course aptitude to reach your goals in the music business. I am sure Professor Lamarque will agree with me when I say that it is worth every minute spent practicing.’

Lamarque could indeed be seen behind him, nodding along and smiling. Grantaire could only imagine the cruel pleasure it gave the music professors to know just how much time their students spent in their music rooms.

‘Of course, we have to exercise patience until we see our winner in the music department. We are going to start our awards with the Dean’s Award in Sculpting. Professor de Rochambeau, might I ask you to join me?’

‘You may,’ de Rochambeau got up and stepped to the front of the stage.

He held a notecard with the nominees and the winner. Grantaire saw Bahorel sit up straight on his chair but in the end, the award went to another sculptor whose most recent work had been claimed and bought by a patron already. Everybody applauded both the student and the laudation once de Rochambeau had finished. Grantaire was almost sure that most governors, patrons and students alike would not be able to recall the sculpting winner’s name at the end of the day. He for his part, could not even remember whether the winner had been male, female or a cat.

Literature was next and Professor Roland held a long speech before getting to the point of announcing the winner. She seemed proud of the student who got up from her seat right in front of Grantaire, squeezing Joly’s shoulder before she went up to the stage. Roland gave her laudatory speech, a second speech that was in no way inferior to her introduction as she quoted the winning collection of poems the students had written and submitted a few months prior.

Grantaire took Jehan’s hand which they held out for him to take between their chair rows. They remained in this position whilst Professor Roland sat back down and made way for Professor Saint-Just who stepped up to the lectern, smoothed his hair down behind his ears and cleared his throat.

‘We like to make an entrance in the drama department,’ he began with a smile, ‘and our inspiration seldom runs dry. Between our own arrangements, original pieces, tech and behind the stage productions, we never run out of work. Everybody in the drama department tries to bring a dream to life. Our goal is to entertain as much as educate, a noble deed that is destined to eat up our free time and every last bit of energy we hoard in our minds. It is my honour to award this year’s Dean’s Award for Drama to a young person who excels in sacrificing their time more than anybody else, pitching in when an opinion, an extra pair of hands or a spontaneous idea for the next play. As much as I love staging, they are the ones with the words, being one of our rare double master’s which makes them so much more fitting for this position up here. If all that wasn’t enough to heap praise on them, they also are the defending champion. Jehan, come up here.’

Grantaire joined Bahorel and Feuilly in a three-person standing ovation. Jehan shot them a look that could be anywhere on the spectrum between annoyed and thankful. They smoothed their hair down just like Saint-Just had done before, adjusted their shirt and walked towards the stairs where they turned around and curtsied.

They stepped up to the lectern, shook Saint-Just’s hand and received their award before turning back to the audience, ‘Thank you, everybody for this honour. We don’t do big speeches in the Drama department when we’re off stage and as much as I wish I had written a poem or a monologue for this occasion, I can only offer you words of the next piece I have coming up. Inspired by one of our institution’s own social activist clubs, I will aim to put the French Revolution on the stage. I admit, at this point I have not much more than one scene but words from it may count as motivation for my fellow students to aim high and succeed in their field. Next year, I hope to see one of you up here, reigning the Drama department as good and just as possible. As you know, the winner of the Dean’s Award for Drama gets to choose the summer performance piece and I have decided about it too often. It is time for change, it is time for you to step up and take the reins. Shed the restraints of curriculum, modules and expectations. To you I call out, Every king is a rebel and a usurper. Store it in your hearts and do as you wish to reach equality. Thank you!’

‘That was unexpected,’ Grantaire whispered to Feuilly, ‘why would they use this as a political stage?’

‘Saint-Just told them they won beforehand,’ Feuilly grinned, ‘they were not pleased. In their eyes, no one should win an award more than once. Except, apparently, Enjolras and me, they said they would never forgive the professors, if we didn’t win.’

He shrugged and continued to applaud Jehan as they climbed off the stage, leaving Saint-Just behind who blushed slightly and retreated, not without shooting an apologetic look to Dean Valjean. Grantaire watched and grinned quietly as the Dean returned to the middle of the stage, scratching his neck with a soft grin.

‘Thank you, Jehan, as always. An opinionated acceptance speech, and we want that in our students. As much as I appreciate it, though, we have more awards and exhibitions to get through,’ he sorted through his notes, cleared his throat and shifted on his feet, ‘Music! Moving on to our music award.’

Laughter rippled through the hall, Grantaire wanted to swear he heard Cosette snicker a few rows behind him. It was evident that Valjean enjoyed everybody’s approval. He tried to hide how badly his hands shook by shoving them under his thighs. Feuilly patted his shoulder and sighed, rolling his eyes.

‘Only this to get through.’

‘Only this,’ Grantaire swallowed, ‘yeah, I suppose it’s only a matter of time now. Did you speak to Enjolras beforehand?’

‘No, I didn’t see him all morning until he was up there,’ Feuilly nodded to the stage, ‘did you?’

‘No, neither him nor the Inseparables.’

‘Is that what you call Courf and Ferre?’

‘It’s shorter. Well, I better hope they’re here, one of them is going to carry home that award,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘do you know who they got this year for the laudation? Didn’t Lamarque get that famous composer last time?’

‘I think he was a conductor,’ Feuilly said with a grin, ‘composers don’t have time for our academy, they are too busy.’

On the stage, Valjean handed over to Professor Lamarque who thanked him before making a dramatic pause, ‘We pride ourselves in the connections the music department has managed to establish over the long history we have at the academy, ranging from musicians to composers, performers and music critics. We keep in contact with our alumni, follow our students’ development after they leave us and love to invite them back. Professor Lafayette is going to tell you that Art does the same but in truth, we are the only ones. Don’t listen to the art department. Now, for our Dean’s Award this year, we nominated five of our best and brightest. Again, my esteemed colleagues will tell you they did the same but we have heard from them already. We have yet to see your paintings,’ Lamarque turned around and shot Lafayette a look that had him gasp dramatically.

‘Something’s going on,’ Feuilly murmured, ‘they have never done something like that before. Lamarque sounds like a teenager.’

Grantaire nodded along to what he said but he had found Enjolras’ head of hair in the second row on the other side of the aisle. His eyes got drawn to it like a moth to light, and equally confused by it. He wished his brain worked differently but he found himself unable to follow Lamarque’s speech for any longer. Enjolras had to brush through his hair and shake it out the moment he was ready to return his attention to the proceedings. He had chosen to wear it open and the way it curled and flowed over his shoulders made Grantaire think of at least three sketches still lying around in his studio that needed to be developed into something more. Looking at Enjolras, he could think of at least three ancient Greek legends he could stage based on his looks.

‘ – doesn’t need an introduction. She is an award winning pianist and composer, a long time fellow of our institution and also an acclaimed music teacher. Please join me on stage to present out winner with their award,’ Lamarque ended his speech by leading the applause as the orator stepped onto the stage, dressed into a sparkling black robe.

‘Of course,’ Grantaire slumped down in his chair, ‘I should have seen it coming, shouldn’t I?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Feuilly sighed and squeezed his hand, ‘only a matter of time.’

‘I am so out of here once this is over.’

‘Thank you, Jean, for the lovely introduction,’ his mother took a stand behind the lectern, looking out over the gathered audience, ‘I agree, of course, with the academy and Music Department’s stance on education and performance as explained by Professor Lamarque. It is an honour to be here today on this most important days to award a prize to one student who excelled and convinced with all recitals and projects. He has put a lot of effort in everything he undertakes, both in his classes and extracurricular activities. With three concerts booked for the coming year already, he also holds a small record in the Music Department. I have had the pleasure of meeting the young man myself and I can assure you that he has a bright future, if he follows great idols and takes the advice others can provide him with. I am proud to award the Dean’s Award for music to Enjolras. Come up here, dear!’

Grantaire watched as Enjolras got up from his chair, the pinkest pink dusted over his cheeks, received his hugs from who he supposed was Courfeyrac or Combeferre, and made his way towards the stage where he walked towards her with a brilliant smile. He could tell Enjolras was excited, he received his award and shook her hand for a few seconds longer than probably customary.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and hissed at the person sat there, ‘Skedaddle, I need to be here right now.’

‘Jehan?’ Grantaire turned around enough to see them and the stage out of the corner of his eye, ‘What are you doing?’

‘I know you probably feel sick right now and I can’t blame you for it. But remember, you faced Montparnasse. You came out of your shell. You can do this, no matter how hard it is. You are not alone. We are here for you.’

They took his other hand through the gap between the chairs and squeezed it. Grantaire let his head sink back and Jehan weaved their fingers into it, scratching his scalp.

‘I want to go home and curl up,’ Grantaire breathed, admitting something he knew Jehan would not let him do.

‘Later. First, you give her a piece of your mind. Through your art, of course.’

On stage, Enjolras still stood next to his mother, lips stretched wide in a grin that would have made Grantaire happy and proud for him, if it had not been for the woman standing next to him, waiting for the applause to recede. Her speech was not yet over, Grantaire saw the impatient lines around her eyes and mouth, pointers that had always been enough to make him want to hide, even in public. Of course, his mother had not appreciated having to look after a child that tried to get away from her as far as possible, whenever she was ready to move on with something immensely important.

‘This prize, Enjolras, is awarded with the greatest respect for your work. Congratulations, you deserve it. With talent such as yours, success seems easy but all the hard work going into perfect piano playing and the feel of a piece is something only we musicians understand. I am proud to have handed this trophy to someone as deserving as you, someone whose progress I got to examine and follow over the years. Enjolras, this prize is yours. I am sure you will prove worthy of it. Ladies and gentlemen, Enjolras, a young man I could not be prouder of, if he were my own son.’

Grantaire was fairly sure he heard Jehan say ‘yikes’ behind him. He tried to get his hands free, push himself up and leave the auditorium but instead, his limbs seemed to grow heavy and he remained where he had been before; sat on a cushy chair, facing towards a stage that had been taken over by his mother and her words that made no sense to anybody else but him and the few people who knew the real sob story his life was.

Enjolras got a hug out of it, at least. Grantaire watched as his mother turned towards him, arms spread and sporting a smile genuine and honest enough to hit him in the stomach. He could not recall an incident where she had looked at him the same way and as much as he wanted to be happy for Enjolras, the bitter taste of a childhood wasted trying to impress her overshadowed the joy he would probably have felt otherwise.

Once his mother and Enjolras broke apart and left the stage in different directions, Dean Valjean took his place behind the lectern again. He waited until the polite applause accompanying the changes fell silent again.

‘Thank you and congratulations to Enjolras. We already look forward to the next concert and your contribution which will be a highlight, without doubt,’ Valjean nodded appreciative, ‘which leaves only one department to hand out their award. Of course, our Art Department is just as old as the Music Department and Professor Lafayette has been there since the beginning.’

‘Damn,’ Feuilly giggled in his chair, ‘Valjean just roasted him!’

Lafayette had gotten up but after Valjean’s comment, he strode to the lectern, wagging a finger at the dean, ‘I refuse to accept such stingers, Monsieur Dean. I know you look forward to spending Christmas with your daughter but you really don’t have reason to target me. What makes man older, age or children, ladies and gentlemen? Age, most of you might say and I’d guess I am talking to the childless amongst you. We artists cannot answer that question, of course but art can imagine. One of my students, an alumni, recently exhibited a sketch of a cartoon that showed exactly this, aging with and without kids, an attentive mirror of modern society. Thank you, dean, for bridging topics like that. Now, the artists we nominated today, all five of them, produced outstanding pieces – which we exhibit in a separate wing of the auditorium, of course. Please remember to drop by to the grand opening immediately after this. All our nominated artists will be there as well, if you are interested in buying any of the works or enquire more information. Now, before our winner can open the exhibition, we need to find out who it is. Five names everybody at the academy has heard before, posted behind me on the screen along with the pieces that were the ones that got them nominated. Some of them have been nominated before, some of them have won this prize before. Feuilly, for example is a household name by now with his very specific, intricate fan designs.’

Grantaire saw Catch Me I’m Falling flicker over the screen, just for a few seconds and in rather blurred images before making room for Feuilly’s greatest fan creation, a Bohemian war scene of the Thirty Years War. A murmur went around the room and he felt his hands being squeezed again.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Lafayette cleared his throat, ‘I can reveal that the winner of this year’s Dean’s Award for Art –‘

Grantaire lowered his head, trying to shrink into his chair. Coming to the gala had been a mistake, he had realised as much when his mother had made her appearance. All he felt was the tight grip around his hands, Feuilly tapping patterns onto his skin and Jehan leaning closer.

Applause surged up against the walls of the auditorium. Feuilly let go of his hand and Grantaire moved his feet out of the way for him to pass and collect his trophy.

Heads turned around and Lafayette began to laugh off the stage, ‘Come on then, come on up and collect your prize!’

Feuilly made no move to get up and join him on stage. Grantaire cleared his throat discreetly. He had missed the name called but if Feuilly was not the one to win, one of the others had to get up and make their way up to the front. Craning his neck, he moved out of his hidden position to spy over a few heads and catch the moving person. He could not spot anyone getting up and looked further around, until he caught Enjolras’ eye.

Enjolras looked directly at him, a brilliant smile on his lips. He clapped wildly, moving his whole body to provide his applause with more significance and power, his hair flopped into his face and he cheered almost loud enough to be heard above everybody else whooping and shouting. When he realised he had drawn Grantaire’s attention, he stopped clapping, raised his thumbs and mouthed something in his direction.

Grantaire tried to make out what he tried to let him know, concentrating a little too much on how Enjolras’ lips moved and curled around a vowel. He wondered whether he had put on lip balm before the gala, they were pink and rosy, and looked soft. Maybe, they would be cushy against his finger, if he ever got the chance to push against them.

Then, he realised what Enjolras, now laughing in comical despair, tried to communicate and blinked at him. ‘Go on,’ Grantaire deciphered as he followed the way Enjolras shook his head, ‘Go on up.’

‘What,’ he mouthed back, causing Enjolras to roll his eyes and point to the stage.

Grantaire turned back around and looked to the front. Lafayette seemed to have followed the exchange, he had rested the palm of his hand against his cheek and grinned behind the discreetly placed ball.

‘I think our laureate has caught on to it,’ he said into the hall, prompting a few laughs throughout the room, ‘please, Grantaire come up here and deliver me from this position in the spotlight, I hate it.’

More laughter followed, someone whistled and Lafayette bowed briefly. His eyes sparkled with anticipation as Grantaire slowly got up from his chair, trying to fight the urge to duck his head. It occurred to him that he wore what could be called the most flamboyant clothes he owned. He felt the soft fabric of his shirt glide over his skin, roughed up in goose bumps.

‘Jehan,’ he winced, looking back at them, ‘please hug me?’

They got up, checked him over and wrapped their arms around him for a brief moment, ‘Don’t worry. You look stunning.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire felt their hands on his head, playing with his curls, pushing one of them out of his face and behind his ear.

‘You look divine, darling. Go and be the hot mess you are,’ they pressed a kiss to his cheek, ‘don’t you dare come back without that award.’

Grantaire finally made his way down the aisle, to whistles from left and right as every member of Les Amis in the room cheered him on. He kept looking at Lafayette, his tutor had stepped back a little to applaud him, too and Dean Valjean had joined him again. Once he had scaled the steps to the stage, he only had to cross the platform to reach them. Behind them, his mother sat enthroned, stony glance directed just above his head. Of course, he thought as he took the first step on the stage, she could not care less.

‘Grantaire – pardon, my dear Gilbert, this is worth mentioning and I want to be the one to say it,’ Valjean turned to the audience, ‘Grantaire has accepted his nomination for the first time during his education here at the academy, despite having been nominated every single year since his arrival. Lately, Grantaire’s work has impressed staff and students alike and has been exhibited around the academy’s offices. We are glad Grantaire has begun to come out of his shell and hope his attendance today, and the fact that he stayed until the end, are a sign of more of him to go around the academy.’

‘More than that,’ Lafayette pushed to the front, ‘I am proud to call Grantaire my tutee. A promising young artist who deserves the recognition he will get after this event, without doubt. Even more so, since he is the offspring of a very musical family who ended up with a gift for art.’

Valjean offered Grantaire his hand, ‘Well done. You’ll join us for the opening, I hope?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Grantaire shook his hand, ‘thank you. It means a lot.’

He turned to Lafayette who seemed eager to hand him the plaque and certificate that made up the award, ‘Grantaire, my boy. I just wish you would have been here all the other years. Imagine the awards, the attention, the demand for your work.’

‘With all due respect, sir,’ Grantaire choked out, ‘it’s not going to happen again.’

Lafayette patted his arm, ‘Just you wait. Today, I want you to enjoy everything this gala throws at you. Mingle, make small talk, have a canapé.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And don’t you dare miss the opening!’

Grantaire could hardly hear Dean Valjean’s invitation to join them for the exhibition opening later and to pass the time with the buffet and bar in the front room. He could not hear them because his feet carried him towards the foot of the stairs where Les Amis de l’ABC had gathered to welcome him back, arms stretched out and voices ringing. He could not hear him because Bahorel lifted him up on his shoulders whilst Jehan whistled with his fingers, because Combeferre and Courfeyrac hugged each other in absence of anybody else, because Marius seemed moved to tears as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief Grantaire presumed to be Cosette’s. He could not hear him because Gavroche jumped up and down beyond the huddle, because Éponine applauded him, a wide grin on her face. He could not hear him because Enjolras drowned out any words Valjean said with changing cheers that Bossuet and Joly picked up.

He could not hear him because when Bahorel spun around to show him off, the icy eyes of his mother found him, mirroring the disgust and chagrin he had come to expect from her. She shook her head, tugged on her sleeve and let her eyes wander down on his outfit, the satin shirt and frock-coat that had been exposed in all his glory after Bahorel lifted him up. The step she took as she recoiled at the sight was deafening to his ears.

Chapter Text

Grantaire had escaped Feuilly and Jehan’s attention for a moment. He had managed to escape through the backstage door, into the staff toilets and locked himself in. His fingers shook as he pressed the door shut and closed the bolt. He tried not to make a sound, in case he had overlooked somebody else being present.

Jehan and Feuilly only wanted his best, he was sure of that and yet, the way they had crowded him into the lobby, towards the buffet and the still locked exhibition. Bahorel and Courfeyrac had joined a few other students at the bar, despite waiters hovering in almost every corner with trays and champagne flutes.

There had been people everywhere, all of them flooding out of the main auditorium and towards the different possibilities to pass the time between award ceremony and exhibition opening. Grantaire had taken one look at the red ribbon covering the breadth of the door and tried to bolt. Immediately, he had felt a hand around his arm, holding him in place.

‘You are not running, not today,’ Jehan had said with a stern look, ‘can I buy you a calming, non-alcoholic drink?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, I’d probably barf it out again,’ Grantaire had wiped his forehead, ignoring Jehan’s scandalised look since he only used his sleeve, ‘I can’t cope with all these people looking at my paintings, they won’t be able to see the meaning, the intention. They will see the colours, the blurred lines and they will see something pretty but not what I want to tell the world. If I want to tell the world about anything but the futility of life, it would not be through my paintings. Don’t they all just reflect the struggle for meaning and senselessness of pursuing what you dream of?’

Jehan had shot him a pitying glance and squeezed his arm, ‘Grantaire, you are not allowed to talk yourself down. Not today. Imagine, people seeing your paintings and being blown away by it. You know that right now, Lafayette’s student assistants are slapping stickers on the labels next to your works, marking them as painted by this year’s laureate. If you really say you can’t imagine people looking at your images and see their meaning, I’d like to point out another possibility, and please keep in mind that I am spitballing here. Could it be that you don’t like sharing your notion of Enjolras with more people? That you drew this huge, intimate painting that clearly means more to you than you would ever admit, showcasing whatever you feel for him or how you feel about him. I think it could be just that, you not being entirely comfortable with sharing Enjolras in this way.’

Grantaire had swallowed his snappy reply and turned away. This time, Jehan had let go of him and allowed him to disappear in the crowd, towards the back of the building and into the staff toilets.

He needed to calm down, he told himself as he sat down on the closed lid, pulling his feet up until he could tuck his knees under his chin. Jehan had hit a sore spot, whether they knew it or not. Grantaire tried to force his fingers to remain still and calm down, shoving them into his knee bends. He felt tremors rippling through his arms and legs, clenched his teeth and held his breath for a moment. Maybe, he hoped, it would choke the sob rising in his throat. He felt tired, exhausted, overwhelmed and wanted to curl up and enjoy absolute silence.

Instead, he heard the door open, a few steps lead into the room and eventually, a knock on his stall. Grantaire waited, unwilling to give himself away just yet.

‘Grantaire? Jehan told me you freaked,’ Grantaire heaved a sigh of relief as he recognised Bahorel’s baritone, ‘they are worried they pushed your boundaries. I would like to hug you, by the way, and take you back out. Valjean is going to open the exhibition soon.’

Grantaire got up from his seat, opened the stall door and met his eyes, ‘I’m fine. Just needed a moment.’

‘If you say so,’ Bahorel studied his face and offered him a hug, ‘they also told me to tell you – wait a moment, it’s something dramatic. Oh yes, ‘The world of art is root of Woe, destruction, ruin, and decay.’ They said you’d know what it’s from.’

‘Richard II, Shakespeare,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘they know me so well. Aren’t they the perfect example of motivation and support?’

He allowed Bahorel to wrap his arms around him. His friend steered him back towards the crowd in the lobby. They passed Combeferre and Feuilly, engrossed in conversation.

‘Where did you store your portfolio,’ Bahorel looked around, ‘in the exhibition hall?’

‘Yes, it should be leaning in the window,’ Grantaire grabbed a full champagne flute off a tray carried by a passing waiter.

‘Should we bet how many people will approach you with commissions? Or rather how many phone numbers you’ll be handed?’ Bahorel took the glass from him and returned it to another tray, ‘Stay dry today, friendly advice.’

Jehan waved at them from the door to the exhibition hall. They grabbed Grantaire’s hand, Bahorel let go of him and Jehan motioned to Dean Valjean, who smiled at him invitingly.

‘Kind of you to join me, we really just open the door, nothing more. I am sure your tutor will gladly do the talking afterwards, we wouldn’t want you to miss the first prospects,’ Valjean patted his back with the might of a horse ramming into him, Grantaire coughed and grinned uneasily.

He could hear a few camera shutters go off the moment Valjean and he stepped closer to the door. They turned around for a moment to allow several journalists to take their pictures and move into different angles. Then, Valjean nodded and they pushed the door open.

Grantaire was edged away from the entrance for a moment as the first people tried to get in, he caught Valjean’s amused look and followed an elderly couple into the spacious hall. He realised, once again, just who well thought out Lafayette’s layout was. Immediately, all eyes were drawn to the large scaled painting he had mounted on the wall between the windows. Daylight fell into the hall and framed the picture, providing natural lighting for the storm dark, looming background.

Grantaire made his way towards his corner of the room, readjusting his shirt and coat. He spotted the first people around his paintings, they seemed to have skipped the first exhibits and gone directly for his. A few of them seemed vaguely familiar to him, he suspected to have seen some of them at the museum before. He recognised one elderly lady who looked around the moment he arrived and hurried towards him.

‘You are an usher at the art museum, aren’t you? I’ve seen you work there before, you seemed to be sketching something, not at all fazed by the artwork around, an artist at work. It seemed worthy to be sketched or photographed in itself,’ she shook his hand and Grantaire nodded along, ‘your paintings are exquisite, I have to say, impressive brush stroke. The landscapes alone are wonderful and the portraits –‘

She let go of his hand to turn around. For a moment, she looked up to Catch Me I’m Falling and sighed.

‘A wonderful painting. Intimidating, yet enticing. It is a romantic motive, a dreamy motive,’ the woman remained next to him as Grantaire opened the portfolio he had stored on the window sill and left it out for interested parties to peruse, ‘and congratulations, a prestigious award and a worthy winner.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire gave her a smile, ‘have you seen my other works?’

She sank herself into the portfolio and Grantaire was free to return his other visitors. Quite a few of them huddled around the big frame but his other paintings aroused attraction. Within minutes, he had put ‘Reserved’ stickers on most of the paintings he would part with. Most requests had been made for Catch Me I’m Falling which he had expected. After the sixth enquiry he had thrown out, he realised that Dean Valjean hovered around his exhibition, seemingly listening in on the conversations Grantaire made.

Repeatedly, people approached him with soaring price proposals that had him gasp for air. One gentleman who introduced himself as a leading art dealer offered Grantaire enough money to pay his entire living costs for a year. He had to take a sip of water after the chat which he had ended by offering the man one of his sketches of the painting. Even for that he had scored an impressive price.

‘Grantaire, could I have a word?’ Valjean appeared by his side, a stern expression on his face, ‘Professor Lafayette and I would like to ask you something of importance for the academy.’

Grantaire followed him into the corner where Lafayette waited for them already. His tutor looked nervous and smiled with only one half of his face, the other seemed too busy following what the visitors around them were doing and which paintings, etchings and pieces they inspected.

‘Grantaire, we want to ask you not to sell your painting,’ he blurted out.

‘Sir –‘

‘It would be a shame, really. Dean Valjean and I want to ask you to lend it to the university until you find a proper buyer of have thought thoroughly about what to do with this piece. It would be exhibited in the offices again, where everybody can see it, you get the final say about where and when it is exhibited.’

Grantaire stood rooted to the spot. If he had not known better, he would have said Valjean and Lafayette were nervous about the issue. Something about the pair seemed off, Valjean rocked back and forth on his feet, his smile strained and his fingers busy with his lapels.

‘Sir –‘

‘Of course we will support you in future and I would suggest you take the seminar on art and economy,’ Lafayette frowned a little, ‘I would never forgive myself, if you sold to the first person to come by it.’

‘Sir,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘I didn’t plan on selling it in the first place. I have been consoling the most adamant prospects with sketches and first drafts. Even those have been selling like hot cakes and I am really not comfortable with that. Of course I would love to know the painting back at the academy, I don’t think I could really part with it.’

‘Good,’ Valjean clapped his hands together, ‘we’ll make sure to have it transferred back into my office after the exhibition ends. Of course you will be compensated for it according to academy rates. Have you decided for how long you would like to keep your paintings in this exhibition? You can add more paintings now that you have won the award.’

Grantaire blinked at him, ‘I’ll think about it? Thank you for giving me this opportunity.’

‘Feuilly had his run,’ Lafayette grinned, ‘three years in a row seems enough for the moment.’

With that, dean and professor turned around and left Grantaire in his corner, slightly confused as to what he had just witnessed. He returned to his exhibition, passing Feuilly who put a label under a fan with a market scene. It seemed like most of them had labels underneath them.

‘Selling another one?’

‘Private gallery,’ Feuilly grinned, ‘could be worse. I’m glad you’re here today, despite the crowd and rather warm conditions.’

‘I’m still undecided whether it was a good decision, just saying,’ Grantaire slipped out of his coat, following the example of most guests, ‘it’s toasty in here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, they really didn’t think about it,’ Feuilly shrugged, ‘last year, they had air conditioning because some of the paintings would have suffered.’

‘I can imagine,’ he sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, ‘hey, Lafayette and Valjean just basically purchased the limited exhibition rights to Catch Me I’m Falling, I think.’

‘You think? Isn’t that the one thing you should be sure about,’ Feuilly laughed and rolled his eyes, ‘of course not, I can see tell just by looking at you that you didn’t even want to try and sell that one.’

‘Excuse me, one moment of your time, could I enquire about the asking price for your piece?’

Grantaire turned around a grin on his face, ‘Madame Lacombe, I am quite sure the museum deals in paintings by artists long dead, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I have heard you are quite adamant about not selling the painting,’ Madame Lacombe opened her handbag and got a fan out, ‘I had to come see for myself what all the fuss is about. Admittedly, I expected a masterpiece.’

‘What, you’re saying you’re disappointed?’ Grantaire received his portfolio back from a lady with a lot of faux fur around her neck and thanked her with a smile, ‘I never said it’s a masterpiece.’

‘Didn’t say you put that rumour in the world, Grantaire,’ Lacombe gestured impatiently towards the portfolio in his arm, ‘let me have a look. I can see the paintings but I really don’t want to push through the crowds you have attracted.’

She took the portfolio and opened the first page, onto his Morning Mood. Her keen gaze scanned the picture, description and information before searching for it on the wall. Grantaire watched as she repeated the process with several of his other paintings, etchings and impressions. Eventually, she turned the page and looked at the explanatory notes for Catch Me I’m Falling. Her eyes flicked back and forth from the painting to the portfolio and back again, her glasses slipped lower down on her nose but she seemed not to care.

‘Grantaire,’ she eventually said and immediately cleared her throat to banish the slight hoarse sound that had coated her voice, ‘I do hope you are not selling it without consulting an expert first.’

‘I am not selling it at all,’ Grantaire shook his head, ‘Professor Lafayette and Dean Valjean secured it for the academy. They want to exhibit it there.’

‘I suppose that is one way to go about it,’ Madame Lacombe studied his face, ‘if you ever need an expert’s opinion –‘

‘Surely you don’t suggest I would forget about you, Madame,’ Grantaire grinned and bowed his head.

Madame Lacombe huffed and turned the page, looking down on St Sebastian Reborn, ‘Grantaire, I do hope you don’t mind me saying but you should change your model.’

She stepped closer to the wall, lifting her gaze to the framed martyrium. Grantaire stepped next to her and cleared his throat.

‘I didn’t have a model.’

‘In that case,’ his boss shot him a sideways glance, ‘you have a crush and I wish you a speedy resolve of the situation, you seem already worse than the romantic poets.’

‘Madame,’ Grantaire met her glance, ‘I am going to report you for inappropriate remarks towards an employee.’

‘Let’s talk about your unused holidays and how many you can take at once, first,’ she tried to hide a smirk and Grantaire chuckled to himself, ‘we should probably deploy you to another wing than Romanticism, after Christmas.’

‘No, please, anything but that! Don’t make me sit somewhere else,’ he coaxed a laugh out of her with the pretend hurt.

‘Well, it looks like you are doing well for yourself, Grantaire. I will surely look at the exhibition again when there are fewer people around. For now, I’ll leave you to it. Seems like the person who definitely wasn’t your model wants to talk to you,’ she raised an eyebrow and gave him as much of a smile as possible.

Grantaire looked to his side and saw Enjolras wave at him. He handed the portfolio over to the person standing closest who had peered at the folder in his hands.

‘Hey,’ Enjolras brushed his hair out of his face, ‘congratulations, Grantaire, I knew you’d win! There was no way anyone else would, not with the recent work you have put out!’

‘Thank you, and congratulations to you, winning again, putting everybody else out of work around the academy,’ Grantaire grinned and patted his shoulder.

‘I told your mother about how you painted the whole thing after basically seeing me once, I told her how impressive that is, how amazing your memory is for it,’ Enjolras smiled at him with sparkles in his eyes, ‘it’s really cool that you got to hang it so high up the wall!’

Grantaire felt the smile bleed off his face. He tried to keep his mask up, Enjolras seemed too excited to even note the change in his expression and rambled on about the small talk he had made with different musical personalities, the message his father had sent him in reply to his winner-selfie and about all of Les Amis who had been nominated or had won their awards.

‘Hey, did you hear what I said?’ Enjolras nudged his arm, ‘I said I was surprised not to see you at The Corinthe yesterday, we had a wonderful dinner. Your mother makes pleasant conversation!’

‘Didn’t want to step of your moment by showing up without announcement,’ Grantaire winced at hearing himself being unable to mask the bitter undertone that had covered his voice.

He knew that he risked a lot by even responding. Enjolras felt strong enough about certain things in his life, they had clashed often enough already for him to know that they were likely to misunderstand each other and get their wires crossed. Grantaire shoved his hands into his pockets and tried to duck his head a little.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras sighed, a little impatiently, ‘I am sorry, if you feel that way about me talking with your mother. I can assure you, there is no reason to be jealous, we really just talked a little about music and the new concert series she has planned, she asked a little about what I have been up to and what my next plans are. Up until now, I didn’t get to tell you – I got my compositional theme, Lamarque finally told me. It’s Barricades, isn’t that exciting?’

‘What did my mother advise you to writing?’

‘Please, Grantaire, I mean it. In no way am I trying to take your spot, you are her son, she loves you as only a mother can.’

He could not stop the joyless huff of laughter, a result of asking himself whether he should have told Enjolras before, saved himself the embarrassment, ‘It’s alright, Enjolras. Don’t worry about it. At the end of the day – I mean, I know that – to me, you are more impor-‘

‘Grantaire, put your jacket back on, this is not a carnival. What are you wearing, anyway, you look even more ridiculous than your father in his midlife crisis. Your hair is embarrassing, could you not find the decency to brush your hair?’

Grantaire shot Enjolras an apologetic smile and turned around, a further forced smile on his lips as he faced his mother who seemed to have decided to grace his corner of the exhibition hall. Most visitors had decided to take a break and had left in favour of the buffet and bar to take a breath in between sightings. It left them with little to no audience, Grantaire realised, only Enjolras was still close to them and seemed to have fallen silent in the presence of his idol.

He had not seen his mother in a year, not at close range, at least, only in a few newspapers, on promotion posters and the odd CD cover in a music shop in town. She never looked any different than from those staged pictures, anyway so there was nothing he would have missed in her apparel. Her light hair was pulled back in a bun that did not allow any loose hairs to escape, she still wore the glittering black dress she had worn for the award ceremony and held a flower bouquet that someone might have handed her to thank her for the laudation she had given.

‘Madame,’ he bowed his head.

Immediately, his breeding kicked back into gear. He remained standing in front of her, head bowed and gaze averted. With his hands folded in front of him, he waited for her next words, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. His mind raced, suggesting different outcomes to the situation. It hurt when he realised that a tiny piece of his mind still hoped she would come to realise how much effort and passion had been channelled into his paintings and commend him for his work.

‘Honestly, Grantaire, your posture is a disaster. You are slouching like your father, it’s embarrassing to even think you to be part of our respectable family.’

Grantaire let her ramble. So far, she had said nothing he had never heard before. He knew she would get to what really preyed on her mind eventually.

‘I hear you won this flivver. Well, apparently you can mix colours on a canvas without making them clash too much,’ she pushed past him and stepped in front of his paintings, ‘and what is this? Your father would begin to talk about composition and brush work but don’t we all know how pathetic he has grown over the years. So, your latest homoerotic affectations? I should have known when you showed so little understanding for what really matters in the arts, you had to be a rotten egg. I suppose you want me to be happy you chose to obsess over a musical prodigy?’

‘No, ma’am,’ Grantaire tried to get a word in but found himself matched by the furious glance she shot him.

‘No, ma’am,’ she repeated after him, ‘there you stand, lying to my face. The audacity, fawning over someone so much brighter than you. Oh believe me, I wish every day my son had turned out differently, more like him. Wouldn’t you say I have reason to do that?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Your father insists he wants to see you, I really cannot fathom why. We had such high hopes for you when you started playing the violin, you could have come so far. I remember your first recital, you looked the part and were ready to amaze – and then, you made one mistake after the next. You used to make us so proud of you but all you did was disappoint us,’ her voice had grown soft for a moment as she recalled the memory Grantaire associated with being a scared six year old, feeling sick to his stomach and standing alone behind a curtain.

It had been his fingers betraying him, slipping on the fingerboard. A veil of tears had not been able to hide how his mother’s expression, not too encouraging to begin with, had changed as he tried to produce something sounding remotely like Christian Petzold’s Minuet No. 1 in G Major.

By the time the recital had ended, his mother had long left and only his father had been there to dry his tears and take him home. She had refused to talk to him, had taken away his coloured pencils and insisted he practise more every day. One day, she had picked him up from school, still not saying a word to him, driven him home and watched as he tried again and again, smacking his knuckles with a pencil for every mistake he made.

When his father had come home and taken him to bed, Grantaire had been too afraid to play, fearing the next mistake before he even lifted the bow. It had taken multiple music teachers to make him realise that bruised knuckles did not come naturally with playing music.

‘Well, are you just going to stand there as if rooted to the spot? You look like a stuffed dummy. You really should have offered to show me your little scribbles ages ago. I have to apologise, Enjolras,’ her tone shifted, growing softer for a moment, ‘my son really is good for nothing. I am incredibly sorry you had to suffer his amateurish play yesterday. Of course, he has inherited nothing of my skill and talent. No wonder I started to look for somebody more deserving of my time and attention.’

It would have hurt him more, if it had been the first time he heard it. As it was, he had grown almost used to the way her lips curled around the words as she delivered them with a sick pleasure that had made Grantaire take a few steps backwards just a few years before. Now, he merely blinked and tried to step out of her way even more, nodding with the heavy, staggering certainty that his mother had a point and she did not deserve to have been punished with a son like him.

‘I disagree,’ Grantaire jumped at the sound of the voice, close to him, and the feel of an arm brushing against his, ‘your son is a brilliant artist, an excellent student and an even better friend.’

He did not dare to look over his shoulder where he heard Jehan utter a ‘hear, hear.’ Still, his eyes caught on the few things he could see in the corners of his eyes. Bahorel had appeared on his other side, arms crossed over his chest. The arm still pressing against his belonged to Enjolras, judging by the way he moved as he spoke.

Grantaire watched as his mother looked back at them, her mouth pulled into a pout. She looked straight past him, her eyes closing in on Enjolras. Her eyelid twitched.

‘You’re taking his side? His?’

Again, Grantaire felt ready to leave. He wanted to turn around, leave the exhibition room and toss down a few glasses of whatever alcoholic beverages were available around the bar until he was certain he would remember nothing of the evening. His mother seemed to have lost any inhibitions she previously had shown when talking about him, now openly baring her thoughts. Something like rage flickered in her eyes, her gaze darted from Grantaire to Enjolras.

‘Someone has to, if you so evidently decided to abandon your duties and obligations as a parent and mother,’ Enjolras stuck his chin out defiantly, ‘If you don’t mind me saying, I’d rather the hole of neglect got filled by people who truly care about Grantaire.’

‘That’s us, by the way,’ Courfeyrac crossed his arms over his chest, ‘because real friends have each other’s backs.’

Grantaire finally dared to look back over his shoulder. He had suspected their dispute attracted some attention but what he saw made him tear up a little more than he was comfortable admitting. His friends had assembled around him and Enjolras, all staring at his mother, their eyes dark with anger. Cosette looked ready to tear into the next person to utter the tiniest disrespect towards Grantaire and Joly cracked his knuckles.

‘I don’t know where you take the right to challenge my parenting from but I will certainly not have it! What does a bunch of half-baked entertainers and artist know of the way I suffered? I am not going to justify myself but I want to see the lot of you deal with stubborn, ungrateful, whining children with no sense what’s good for them.’

Enjolras’ hand tightened around his wrist before Grantaire could turn and run away. He looked at her, eyes set in the stern mask he wore when faced with a person he would rather avoid. Grantaire let himself breathe, fingers clenching back to feel Enjolras’ hand against his skin. The confusion of seeing his friends square off with his mother, the personified perfection to his failure of everything he should have been in life, had his mind spinning. He had been comfortable knowing that Enjolras venerated his mother the same way Grantaire venerated him. He had accepted that he would not get to tell Enjolras about everything being her son included, whilst keeping up the mask, the façade towards the outward world. He remembered, clear as day, his first meeting with him, the way it had left Enjolras speechless to find out the random person he had surprised in his studio was the son of his greatest idol.

‘I will challenge whoever thinks they have a right to neglect their children. Moreover, I am glad I finally found out how you treat your son. I am ashamed of myself, thinking you were an idol and someone whose approval to strife for. Little did I know I was in the same position as Grantaire, only me you accepted because I live up to your standards. You should be ashamed, both as a parent and a musician!’

Enjolras turned half around, facing Grantaire with a smile. There was a promise in his eyes, a promise to begin to talk about more, to understand each other beyond the boundaries of their friendship to this point. He cleared his throat a little and squeezed his wrist a little.

‘Can you even look at me after all this,’ he smiled at him, cautiously enough for Grantaire to think he’d imagined it, ‘I went on and on and never thought to stop and observe – I lost my mother so long ago and saw so much of what I wanted her to see I achieved in the way I could idolise your mother that I never realised how you must have suffered. It now seems to me like a bad mother can have just about as devastating effects on a child as no mother.’

Grantaire felt a shaky breath leave his lips. He looked at Enjolras and was met with the softest, warmest glance he had ever received from him. There was a smile directed at him and he nodded at him, as if to try and make sure he was still there and had not bolted. He still held his wrist.

‘Grantaire,’ his mother demanded his attention, his head snapped around and he met her furious look, ‘don’t you have anything to say to me?’

He felt his mouth open, throat work but no words came out. Then, he shook his head. His mother huffed out something resembling her utter disapproval and pushed through the rows of Les Amis de l’ABC, united behind Grantaire and Enjolras.

‘See how long your father suffers your antics,’ she disappeared behind the broad wings of the door, ‘just you wait until he hears about this. Your Christmas is going to be an experience, believe me as much. Your father expects you tomorrow. I don’t think you should be there. Don’t kindle his pathetic wish to see you as anything better than you are.’

She slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the hall. Grantaire flinched but Enjolras’ hand was still there, stabilising him just enough to make sure he did not stumble into Combeferre. The moment loomed over them, heavy as the clouds painted behind the gently smiling Enjolras-like figure in the painting Grantaire had created to hold onto something he had not known at the time.

The realisation came to him the moment he first managed to look away from the closed door, back to where Enjolras stood already closer to him, in something that was half hug, half invitation to join him as he undoubtedly would stride out of the hall and back into the crowd of people ready to throw their money at them. In that moment, with a pale streak of winter sun falling into the windows and the Enjolras in the painting smiling down on him as he connected the dots in his for once not fogged-up brain. He looked almost proud and Grantaire did not dare look over to where the real Enjolras, made of living, breathing flesh and blood stood and breathed, sighed, wiped a tear away that resulted from the disappointment of a lifetime. It was all so simple.

The entire time, all the weeks, the nights, the days spent making friends and doing things so far out of his comfort zone he craved for things he had not craved for in ages, it had been so close. It had seemed too close, there for him to stretch out his hand and grasp it. He could feel it burn his fingertips already.

It had taken him too long to realise that he had begun to fall in love with Enjolras.

Chapter Text

The cold metal scraped along his neck in a straight line, dug into his skin and sent a cold shudder down his spine. He tried to get away from it unconsciously by craning his neck and moving his head a little to the side. Immediately, he got swatted across the shoulder.

‘Ouch, fucking hell, Jehan! That stung badly.’

‘Hold still, then!’

‘I am not comfortable here!’

‘Shush, you’re going to make me cut you, if you are not perfectly still.’

Grantaire stilled again, persuaded by the subtle threat. He ignored the slowly threatening loss of feeling in his backside, the way the shower edge pressed into his thighs and how his feet were trapped under the sink cabinet. Another sharp snip sent another shudder across his scalp, a single drop of water or sweat ran down his temple and he flinched again.

‘Honestly, R, this is going to turn out a lot shorter than what you showed me, if you don’t stop moving suddenly!’

‘At this point, Jehan, I don’t even care,’ Grantaire closed his eyes and tried to relax and calm down.

Jehan continued to cut away at his hair. They had locked themselves and Grantaire into the bathroom and forced him to take a seat on the bathtub edge. Armed with their very own pair of hair scissors and a comb, they had dunked his head under the shower and soaked his hair until it dripped down the back of the t-shirt he had changed into, ran along his spine and made him shiver.

Their promise to cut his hair had been fulfilled within seconds. Grantaire had shown them a few photos of haircuts he would be on board with, not too long, not too short, out of his eyes and able to style it back. Jehan were skilful with their scissors and as long as they had merely cut back the longer strands, Grantaire had had no problem with the presence of the scissors around his head. Only, once they started to cut the back of his head and neck, he got squeamish.

Eventually, Jehan set the scissors aside and went through Grantaire’s hair with the comb a last time. They snipped away a few stray hairs before grabbing the hairdryer off the sink cabinet and the tub of wax they had pressed in to Grantaire’s hand even ere they had started on him.

Within minutes, they had formed something that resembled a hairdo out of his curls and stepped out of the bathtub, running their fingers through his hair a last time. They watched as Grantaire took care of the hair accumulated on the bottom of the tub and rinsed it out afterwards.

‘Now you actually look like a human being again,’ Jehan grinned and tugged on a stray strand of hair, ‘and a hot piece of ass you are.’

Grantaire gave them a weak smile before he asked them to unlock the bathroom door. Jehan obliged and pushed the door open.

The curious glances from the sofa made Grantaire blush for a moment, he tried to pull his hair back behind his ears and hide behind their curtain but was immediately reminded that it was now cut short. Bahorel whistled through his teeth and grinned at him.

‘Will you look at that, Grantaire looks less like a yeti now,’ he called out, ‘Jehan, you really can perform miracles! The finest twink to ever twink, standing right in front of us!’

‘Shut up,’ Grantaire nudged his shoulder and slid onto the sofa next to him, ‘it feels weird. And I’m not a twink, I’m a marvellous mystery. My neck is exposed. I look like a naked mole-rat, I mean, come on, look at this!’

He ran the finger of one hand through his hair. His curls bounced back from where they tangled and he shrugged. Bahorel laughed heartily and slapped him on the shoulder.

‘At least you’ll look tidy for Christmas.’

Someone was yet to mention the disastrous incident that had happened earlier. Instead, everybody had settled into their flat, Joly and Bossuet brought out the last remnants of the Christmas biscuit stock left to them by Musichetta, Bahorel and Combeferre carried chairs, pillows and cushions in from their flats and Cosette and Marius made their signature cocoa in the kitchen, filling the whole flat with the most delicious smell. With Gavroche and his belongings gone from the apartment and him and Éponine already not there anymore, they had gained a little space and Grantaire was relieved to have spotted enough room on the sofa to sit there with his feet tucked under Bahorel’s legs. He had chosen the spot strategically, after all.

‘Happy Christmas and happy holidays, everybody,’ Enjolras raised his cup of cocoa, ‘tomorrow, we set off in all directions but tonight is for friendship and love.’

‘Friendship and love,’ they toasted and as Grantaire burned the roof of his mouth with cocoa and marshmallows, he looked around his living room and saw his friends gathered together, relaxed into various nooks and corners of their sitting area.

With blankets, pillows and cushions between them, it looked like a fort, a comfortable nest in which they had built a cuddly oasis for themselves. Marius and Cosette were snuggled against each other, Courfeyrac teased Combeferre’s hair since his boyfriend had rested his head in his lap, and Joly gave Bossuet back rubs in their cooped up position in the arm chair. Grantaire slurped a little more cocoa and rubbed the back of his head. Without the usual mess of curls around his head, he felt a little unstable, Jehan had made a good job of it.

‘Are you alright?’ Enjolras sat to the side and had to bend forward to properly look at Grantaire, ‘I like the new hair.’

Grantaire’s hand flew back up and weaved through his hair, feeling curls spring back from his grip. Enjolras’ gaze remained on him for a moment, a smile on his lips but worry in his eyes and Grantaire flashed him a quick wink.

Somebody started a Christmas movie, they settled into their cushions and pillows, pulled blankets over their heads and leaned into their respective significant others. Jehan snuggled between Bahorel and Grantaire, their feet tucked under a blanket and head resting in their partner’s lap. They purred contently as Bahorel began to pet their hair.

Within minutes, they were asleep and drooled into the side of Bahorel’s jeans. Marius’ eyes slipped shut as well some time later and Cosette rested her head on his, warm beneath a heap of blankets. Courfeyrac yawned as the credits rolled, practically unhinging his jaw in the process.

‘We should get you to bed, the train leaves way too early for the time you need when preparing for a journey, and you haven’t packed, yet,’ Combeferre nuzzled his hair and pressed little kisses to his temple, ‘we wouldn’t want you falling asleep the moment you are home, hm?’

Courfeyrac nodded sleepily and let Combeferre manhandle him to his feet and into an upright position. They waved a goodbye, Courfeyrac did not miss the chance to hug everybody aggressively but seemed tired enough to almost fall asleep on Joly’s shoulder.

‘Come on,’ Combeferre grinned fondly at him, ‘are you coming as well?’

‘Later,’ Enjolras replied, ‘I’m actually not that tired and wanted to help out with tidying up in here a little.’

He smiled at Grantaire. Then, he turned back and waved after Courfeyrac and Combeferre who left arm in arm and stumbled down the hallway. Enjolras rolled his eyes before burying his face in his hands, hardly hiding his grin.

‘They are such idiots!’

‘Your idiots,’ Grantaire added, ‘anyway, you don’t have to stick around.’

Next to him, Bahorel poked Jehan, ‘Come on, sweetheart, you need a proper bed. Sorry, Grantaire, they are out cold.’

‘Do you need a bucket of water?’

‘Don’t you dare,’ Jehan sat up abruptly and punched his shoulder, ‘I’m awake, I am awake. No need for water or other torturous devices.’

Grantaire squeezed their hand and winked at Bahorel who scooped them up into his arms and carried them around the room to say goodbye to most of them. Enjolras shook their hand and patted their arm, all he could reach as Jehan was carried past him.

Marius woke up again and he and Cosette were the next ones to leave, giving out hugs and a few calming words. Grantaire heard Cosette whisper something to Bossuet before she moved on and out of the door. The door closed and left only Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet and Enjolras in the living room alongside Grantaire.

Joly and Bossuet, he knew that, still had to pack their bags for the trip home for Christmas. They seemed to procrastinate just as much as he did.

‘Anyway,’ Feuilly nodded, ‘well done, Grantaire, a deserved win. See you in the new year with new ideas and inspirations.’

Grantaire got up and hugged him properly, burying his face in his shoulder for a moment as he fought back the feeling of self-loathing about having betrayed him. Feuilly had told him time and time again that he would be fine without the additional scholarship raise, all he had to do was accept that his friend would not end up on the street only because of a lost award.

‘We’re gonna head off, too. See you for breakfast,’ Bossuet helped Joly up who pulled a face at having to move, whether it was laziness or his knee acting up, Grantaire was not entirely sure.

The door closed behind them and Grantaire began to gather the things, plates and leftovers. There was no problem with tidying up for him, he would go to bed at some point, leaving everything that needed to be done for later or the next morning. Neither Joly nor Bossuet minded the little messes they left around the flat, caused by each of them. It was an unspoken rule at their flat to leave it be and, in case no one had taken care of it by the end of the day, check on the other flat mates. Following this rule, they had always found themselves capable of comforting and supporting each other during hard times. However, Grantaire thought to himself, they should not leave dirty dishes in the sink over the Christmas break.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras got up from his seat and stepped closer to where he was busy cleaning a plate for the third time, ‘do you have a moment?’

‘Yeah, sure,’ Grantaire set the plate aside, ‘do you mind drying these for me?’

Enjolras got a towel and started to work alongside him, ‘Are you truly okay? I feel like I should have asked again, earlier.’

‘Honestly?’

‘Yes.’

Grantaire scrubbed a glass next, ‘I have been better. Tonight might have set me back a few months but I’ll survive, I always do. My mother is no longer the boss of me. I know that but the circumstances don’t make it easier to accept it.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t pick up on it. With everything that I told you I admire about your mother, you could have said something. I’m sorry I made you feel like you could not confide in me with the issue, I suppose I proved to be a rubbish friend, after all.’

Grantaire splashed some water at him, ‘Stop it, Enjolras! You are an amazing friend. Me not telling anybody just how I disappoint my mother with everything I do is really up to me. Don’t make me feel like I’ve made you be anything less than the wonderful person and compassionate friend you are. You stood up for me tonight when I could barely meet her eye and I’m grateful for that. You had just met your idol again and got to spend some time with her, focus on that. Nothing good ever comes from focussing on the part where she is a shitty mother who could not give a damn about someone who disappointed her, that’s on her entirely. You are not to blame here, and neither am I. That is the most important lesson I learned whilst dealing with the way she treated me. It is never you or me, it’s her. She decided to throw away the opportunity to get to know the brilliant musician awarded the Dean’s Award for Music, again. The thing that makes me really happy, though, is that I do. I get to be your friend.’

For a moment, Grantaire managed to make the stern mask of controlled rage and worry disappear from Enjolras’ face. It made him feel something like pride since it had been undoubtedly his achievement. Then, the worry returned, Enjolras had obviously thought of another question that burdened his mind until he convinced himself to ask it.

‘What did she mean when she mentioned your father?’

‘Dad is alright, really,’ Grantaire smiled a little forlorn smile, ‘He doesn’t get to say and decide much but I love him. He is a sweet man, don’t know how much I got from him. Can’t be much but I suppose I took after neither of them. I still hope he’ll manage to come through for me one time but it would probably be the end of my parents’ marriage, and despite everything, they love each other. Just one more thing to add to the record of things I would have ruined. Anyway, Dad was supportive when I got into painting instead of music, he bought the first things and claimed I got them from an aunt.’

‘He seems nice,’ Enjolras answered his smile, ‘you…you won’t get into trouble for today, will you? When you go home tomorrow?’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Grantaire set aside the last plate, ‘how about you, are you looking forward to going home?’

‘My father mentioned a special present this year and as much as I hate the Capitalist idea behind having to buy each other overpriced stuff  to show your love for each other and spending money on things no longer associated with the traditional Christmas, I love being home for Christmas. My father decorates the whole house and the driveway gets lit with torches until it looks absolutely magical when we come back from church. We always have a big tree and we decorate it together, I play a little piano and my father insists I pretend to look out for any entity delivering the presents, mostly to get me out of the house and into walking a little. It’s nice where we live, which makes taking a walk pretty nice, actually. If only it snowed for Christmas.’

‘It really doesn’t, does it? The hills look so nice dusted with a little snow. As if someone had taken a shitload of cocaine and dusted it over them,’ Grantaire shrugged.

‘I wish you would have said powdered sugar,’ Enjolras sighed and rolled his eyes, ‘but I suppose there was never an option of you saying that.’

‘Correct,’ Grantaire grinned a little and, since the corners of his mouth did not seem to strain from the effort, widened it a little, ‘when are you leaving tomorrow?’

‘In the evening, I have to take the overnight train. Rubbish infrastructure, they should have invested years ago to make the countryside more accessible!’

Grantaire nodded along, feeling light-headed and unfamiliarly breezy. Enjolras continued to tell him a little more about what Christmas was like at his house and just from his words and stories Grantaire was sure his father loved nothing in his life more than his son.

It was past midnight when Enjolras left with a quick hug and a ‘Happy Holidays!’ on his lips. Grantaire waited in the door frame until he had disappeared into his own flat before closing the door and washing the mugs they had used for a cup of tea, drunk in companionable silence. He closed his own door and flopped onto his bed, ignoring his open, empty suitcase next to it. Adonis joined him, purring tiredly which made him sound like a slightly broken, hiccupy record. His cat curled in on himself on his back and dozed off. Grantaire let the vibrations his little purrs and snores lull him to sleep, too.

***

A sharp knock on the door made him roll over, throwing Adonis off his back. Grantaire sat up and shook his head to shake the foggy memories of dreams and late conversations out his brain. Another knock sounded and he recognised Bossuet’s typical pattern of short raps, meaning that Joly made breakfast.

Grantaire climbed out of the bed, stretching and bending to chase away the stiffness in his joints. The clock above his desk let him know that it was closer to noon than morning and he yawned excessively thinking of half a day already slept through. He changed out of the clothes he had slept in and put on a new shirt. It would not fool either of his flat mates but they would not comment on it. Taking a step over his suitcase, he crossed the room and opened the door to the winning grin of Flatmate No. 1 who had just raised his hand again to knock.

‘Good morning, Grantaire! Rise and shine like the sun in Hawaii. We are having healthy pancakes for breakfast and we’re eating them out of the pan to minimise the dishes we have to wash afterwards,’ he skipped down the hallway, avoiding the open bathroom door narrowly.

Grantaire followed him a little less eager, Adonis on his heels who undoubtedly would prefer his cat food over the banana pancakes it smelled of in the whole flat. He filled his bowl and his cat strode forth, past him without a second glance.

Joly stood at the stove, in a horribly colourful Christmas jumper but without his cane which made Grantaire hope for him to have a few days without trouble. He had rosy cheeks from the warm stove and flipped a few small pancakes with a ladle, humming a Christmas carol whilst little bells on his jumper chimed with every move he made.

‘Isn’t he horrible festive?’ Bossuet watched his boyfriend from next to Grantaire, ‘we’re introducing ‘Chetta to our parents. It’s very exciting but we told them about the new constellation and so far, no one tried to perform an exorcism on us.’

‘Bit late, you already have a boyfriend,’ Grantaire replied, ‘good for you, though. ‘Chetta is amazing, your parents have to love her, and otherwise, they are horrible human beings.’

‘We told them as much,’ Joly chipped in, ‘now sit up, breakfast is ready.’

Grantaire raked his fingers through his hair, staggering when he felt his neck earlier than expected. Jehan’s coiffeur experiment came back to him and he grinned a little. The feeling of the short hairs in his neck had taken him by surprise.

‘Still there, still a curly mess, just shorter,’ Bossuet commented, ‘sit down and take a fork, I want to eat!’

They finished off the pancakes in no time at all, Joly tried to feed some to Adonis but the cat, proving more of a gourmet than the humans around him, ignored the offered piece. Grantaire checked his water bowl and refilled it but before long, Bossuet grew nervous and began to tap away on the floor.

‘When did you say the meet-up would be?’

Joly peered towards the clock on the stove, ‘In about an hour.’

‘Meet-up?’ Grantaire asked through a last mouth of pancake.

‘All of Les Amis meet in front of the building in an hour to say goodbye,’ Joly took the pan off the table and let warm water run into the sink, ‘Jehan’s idea since they didn’t get to hug everybody last night. We’re meeting before the first of us have to go and since we’ll all be heading into different directions, it seemed a very nice idea.’

‘Very nice, indeed,’ Grantaire murmured and got up, ‘well, I better finish packing Adonis’ stuff.’

‘You’re going home?’ Bossuet shot him a look, ‘good for you, mate.’

He left the kitchen an Adonis, sensing something was on his mind, followed him. Grantaire sat down on his bed and patted the bedding next to him. With his fingers weaved into his cat’s fur, he tried to come up with a solution to something he still regarded the biggest problem he would face that day.

Once the hour was up, there were a few random things in his suitcase, Adonis sat in his transport box and sulked and Grantaire had slipped on his coat. He tried to put on a neutral face as he lifted Adonis, cooing at him to calm him down a little. As he joined Joly and Bossuet on their trek down the stairs, he realised that his cat had been a lot calmer than he felt about the situation.

At the bottom of the stairs, Courfeyrac and Jehan waited already. Jehan skipped through the hall towards him the moment he set down Adonis and began fiddling with the buttons on his coat.

‘I’m glad you changed your mind, you know. Your father will appreciate you being home for Christmas. Also, I don’t want you to be alone for long times,’ they beamed at him, bright eyes full of love and relief.

It hurt Grantaire to think Jehan worried about him that much. Bahorel joined them and hugged him. He looked like a distinguished explorer in his winter coat that framed his broad shoulders just right.

‘Don’t forget to get some exercise done,’ he said to him, ‘harder for the grey thoughts to invade a healthy body.’

‘Thanks, Baz, I can’t wait for our first match after the holidays,’ Grantaire patted him on the back and got pulled into another bone-crushing hug, this time to prove that Bahorel would without doubt wipe the floor with him.

‘Grantaire,’ Cosette smiled at him, ‘safe travels to you, too!’

‘What are you doing here, don’t you live with your father in that ridiculously big house down by the river?’

‘And if? Aren’t we allowed to say goodbye to you guys?’ Marius appeared behind his girlfriend, ‘I don’t have to go home this year, Dean Valjean allowed me to stay with them for the holidays, we’re going to skate on the river, if it gets cold enough.’

‘Generous,’ Grantaire hugged him, ‘just make sure not to accidentally insult your future Papa-in-law.’

‘Stop it,’ Cosette delivered a surprisingly well-aimed smack to his arm, ‘Marius will be fine. He’s got manners, other than some others around here.’

Grantaire joined the laughter. He turned around to Feuilly and offered him a proper hug over their suitcases. Feuilly had dark circles under his eyes and a smudge of pencil on his chin, indicators of an inspired night spent working on his newest project. He would go home to his parents and sisters and tell them that, yet again, the coming year promised to be fruitful. He always told them, Grantaire knew as much. Feuilly tried desperately to keep his parents in the dark about just how many jobs he worked and how many commissioned pieces he produced to stay in school.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre were next, waiting for him to turn towards them. Both hugged him at the same time and Grantaire felt like he had crossed a certain threshold. Courfeyrac wished him happy holidays and a few calm days at home before taking a step back to hug Joly.

Their group developed into one huge group hug, in the end. Grantaire watched as one after the other got pulled into the mess, the last one being Enjolras who had stood at the back, watching and whistling his appreciation. Once Combeferre could reach his arm, however, he found himself pulled into the tangle of arms and legs as well, ducking to avoid a collision with Bossuet’s hand that flailed around, seeking for anything to hold on to.

Someone likely checked their watch, the call ‘We’re late for the train,’ echoed through the hall and within seconds, their hug dissolved. Grantaire grabbed his suitcase and Adonis box and followed them outside. There, their paths split. Bossuet and Joly walked over to the Corinthe, Marius and Cosette returned to Dean Valjean’s townhouse and Feuilly walked down to the coach station. Combeferre and Courfeyrac took a taxi to the train station in the north and Enjolras waved a rushed goodbye before running off. Bahorel and Jehan got into Jehan’s car, parked in front of the academy for a change. It was dusty and dirty from being locked up in the garage most of the year. Jehan climbed behind the steering wheel, eager to get going. Grantaire hoped Bahorel had not forgotten to take a sick bag, Jehan’s command over the speed limit amazed him still since it seemed to have come out of a different dimension.

He waved after the car until it had disappeared, then, he picked up Adonis’ transport box and his suitcase off the ground, sighed once more and went back up the stairs to the main entrance. The hall was silent, over the course of the day most students had already left for wherever they would spend the break. Most hallways were dark and abandoned, no sound came from the music rooms and the faint noise of the washing machines in the basement had died as well. There was no need for washing when no one was there.

Grantaire reached his flat, unlocked the door and went back inside. Adonis began to moan immediately, he could see his home beyond the mesh of his box, after all.

‘Just a moment,’ Grantaire got his phone out and dialled a number he knew by heart, one he used every few months.

‘Lacombe?’

‘Good evening, ma’am, this is Grantaire.’

‘What do you want, did you or one of your friends forget something at the museum the other day?’

‘No, I am calling out of a rather selfish reason,‘ Grantaire cleared his throat discreetly, ‘I was wondering whether any extra shifts would be available for me to work? Anything at all, not just the usual entrance and exhibition personnel? I would work in the archives, if there’s space.’

‘Grantaire,’ Lacombe interrupted him, voice softer than her usual gravel-being-walked-over, ‘which part of the museum being closed for Christmas and New Year did you not understand. You should not worry about working now, the Christmas bonus will be in your account tomorrow or the day after, anyway.’

‘It’s not that,’ Grantaire protested, ‘I just – I could use something to kill time with.’

‘Paint something, then. You are an art student, after all. Study for the next art history exam,’ Lacombe breathed into his ear, ‘I heard about the confrontation with your mother last night. If you want to work more shifts once we open again, or want to discuss a sponsorship in favour of your tuition fees, come see me once the holidays are over. Now, I have a family and several nerve killing siblings to think about over the coming days; may I attend to my family Christmas again, Grantaire?’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he swallowed, ‘of course. Happy holidays!’

‘And to you,’ Lacombe hang up and left Grantaire standing in the middle of the hallway, his phone held to his ear and clueless as to what he would do with the coming days.

In that exact moment, there was a knock on the door. The sound came as a surprise to him and Adonis who hissed in his box. Grantaire stepped over him and opened the door carefully.

In front of him, face red and blotchy as if he had just finished running a marathon, one hand on the suitcase next to him and the other hanging down his side after knocking, stood Enjolras who, as he had opened the door and stepped into the pale light flooding in from the hallway, pointed at him with the empty hand and opened his mouth with something like satisfaction.

‘I knew it!’

Chapter Text

‘How did you know? Did Jehan tell you?’ Grantaire picked his jaw off the floor and remembered his manners.

He stepped to the side and allowed Enjolras to come in, luggage and all. Enjolras nodded at him and nudged his suitcase around the corner and into the space between the coat rack and the kitchen door. Then, he stepped past Grantaire and stopped in the living room, turning to wait for him to join him there. He leaned against the back rest of the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest, chin set but eyes not as hard as Grantaire had expected them to be.

‘Jehan didn’t tell me anything, although, their behaviour makes a lot more sense now, if they knew about you intending on staying here. I just thought, it was a weird idea and I decided to follow up on it since you weren’t there. I wasn’t even sure until you opened the door!’ Enjolras’ hands seemed unable to remain in their controlled position over his chest, instead, they flailed around a little, thrown into the air with discontent, ‘I just figured, if Montparnasse knew both of us growing up, and he came round your house to see your mother and got instructed by my piano teacher, too, maybe you are from the same area as me or lived somewhere close by. Once I took that into account, I was able to imagine how you would get home, and if you really would go home to a place relatively close to where my father lives, I knew there would be no coaches going there and how unreliable the trains are. I stood down at the station and wondered whether your mother would pick you up on her way home but she told me she would leave immediately after the gala. Then, the train came in and you weren’t there so I ran back here and checked whether I just had just thought of the worst case scenario of you staying here, on your own, over Christmas or whether it was true! I really hoped there was an option I had overlooked but then, you opened the door!’

Enjolras was out of breath once he finished, panting and fighting for air; Grantaire was not entirely sure whether it was still due to his walk or run back to the academy and up the stairs. He found it hard to concentrate and blinked at Enjolras, still not entirely sure what he had witnessed.

‘What was your plan for Christmas?’ Enjolras continued and smoothed his hair down behind his ears, ‘honestly, what were you going to do?’

‘Watch movies and get drunk, maybe,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘not much different from what Christmas would be like at home.’

‘No,’ Enjolras pushed himself off the sofa, eyes boring into Grantaire’s, ‘that’s not what you’re going to do, not at all and especially not when I can do something about it.’

‘What’s your point?’ Grantaire played with the hem of his jumper, ‘Because you sound like you’ve got one but I can’t tell what it is and you tend to have slightly over the top points, too.’

‘My point,’ Enjolras stepped closer to him, forcing him to look him into the eye, ‘my point is that you can either come home with me and join my father and me for Christmas, or I’m staying here with you. You are not going to spend the holidays on your own, I won’t let you!’

‘But you have been looking forward to going home,’ Grantaire felt his jaw hit the floor for the second time within minutes, ‘you can’t just stay.’

‘And if I did,’ Enjolras looked determined to convince Grantaire for a moment, ‘why wouldn’t I prefer you to stay with us to make you have something resembling festive days, huh? Don’t tell me you’d be okay with nothing to do except thinking about how you could have crawled at your mother’s feet, begging her forgiveness to take you in for Christmas.’

‘You missed the train.’

‘Yes, and?’

‘You came back here.’

‘Yes, Grantaire, big surprise, I came back. I am literally standing in your living room.’

‘You came back to check up on me?’

‘Yes, Grantaire, I did. Is it so hard for you to believe that someone might actually want to see you happy?’

Grantaire did not find it in himself to do as much as nod; Enjolras seemed to understand him without a response, however, and simply placed a hand on his arm, ‘Let’s get your stuff together. I suppose you didn’t really pack, earlier when we said goodbye?’

He took Grantaire’s suitcase and carried it into his room. Grantaire followed him, still feeling a little numb. As he helped Enjolras actually pack some of his clothes and toiletries, including the green shirt from the evening before and some ironed shirts, thick jumpers and his nicer trousers, he tried to get his brain up to speed with what was seemingly happening. He could not think of anything really pressing keeping him from following through with it. Enjolras made him grab his soft favourite jumper, beanie and scarf to add it to the pile in the suitcase before zipping it up.

‘Now, you were right, I did miss the train so we won’t get to take that one before tomorrow night. What luck that Combeferre left his car.’

‘You want to steal Combeferre’s car?’

‘Of course not. I’m not stealing it, I have the keys and his permission to take it. But by car, it’ll take us less than five hours because we don’t have to stop and stay, waiting for other trains to take on passengers. What do you say, Grantaire, do you not want to see the manor I grew up in so that you can make jokes about me being a rich kid with aspirations?’

This time, he made Grantaire grin with his words, it broke out over his face before he could do anything against it, ‘Oh Apollo, you know me so well! Why would Combeferre give you permission to drive his car, though?’

‘I missed the train. Several times because sometimes, I just have ideas and need to write them down before I can forget them again. He saved me a few times by allowing me to take his car,’ Enjolras hit him for the comment but it was almost playful.

He did make him carry his suitcase on top of his own, as punishment. After a short stop at the flat Courfeyrac had left behind with all their Christmas decoration up and with Combeferre’s car key securely tugged into Enjolras pocket, they continued their way to the car park. Enjolras whispered something into Adonis’ box that Grantaire could not understand but he hoped it was something more positive than breaking down just how long he would have to do without running around anywhere.

Combeferre’s car stood where he had parked it after the gala, with a dusting of snow on the roof. Enjolras unlocked it and put the transport box in the backseat before dropping his smaller backpack in the footwell in front of the passenger seat.

‘I packed stuff to eat,’ he explained, ‘once the cases are in the boot and you are sitting down, we can let Adonis out.’

‘Is Combeferre going to be okay with a cat running around in his car?’

‘Sure,’ Enjolras shrugged, ‘if he can stand the amount of glitter his boyfriend sheds at any time, a cat won’t make much difference.’

It took some wiggling and bending of limbs but eventually, both of them sat in their respective seats and Grantaire opened the transport box. Adonis blinked at him from where he had curled up on the fluffy blanket he had folded into the box to make his cat more comfortable. Only when Enjolras had already rounded the first few corners, he got up and stretched his legs. Grantaire felt him jump onto the armrest next to him and cooed a little, trying to get Adonis to join him. For once, the cat decided to follow the invitation, he walked over his leg and curled into a ball in his lap, allowing Grantaire to pet his thick fur a little. It calmed him down to feel the warmth trapped under the fine hairs as he raked his fingers through it. Adonis seemed to find no reason to protest and began to purr loud enough to be heard over the engine as Enjolras pulled onto the motorway.

‘So, tell me, since I’ll get to meet your father, after all,’ Grantaire grinned uneasily, ‘what am I to expect? Changing before dinner? Farmers handing in their tenth before mass? Lavish chandeliers as the related nobility meets for their annual check up on who is the richest?’

Enjolras rolled his eyes, he could tell by the way he shifted behind the wheel, ‘Of course not, we only change for breakfast, luncheon, tea and supper. The tenants sometimes already transfer the money before Christmas and the chandeliers are rather modest.’

Grantaire stared at him for a moment before breaking into a fit of laughter that would have spooked Adonis, if he had not been used to it, ‘Enjolras, you just made a joke!’

‘What, so surprised I have a sense of humour?’ Enjolras seemed self-satisfied, his grin had turned into something Grantaire would have called shit-eating, if it had been stuck on Courfeyrac’s face, instead of his.

‘Not surprised. Not entirely,’ Grantaire breathed, ‘but I’d still like to know what to expect once we reach your estates.’

Enjolras nodded and wiggled in his seat, as if to find a more comfortable position for his story, ‘I told you my mother died a few years ago. She left all her dresses and the jewels dad gave her and he still keeps them to remind himself of the time they spent together. You could dress a whole year of academy graduates with them and have some left over but he won’t listen to me say it. For him, they are living, breathing memories and looking at me hurts him sometimes. He pretends it’s different but as soon as you see a picture of my mother you’ll see my point. Dad has come a long way, he wasn’t able to work after mum died. He is a lawyer and the tenants look after the lands but even with people doing that, they needed him for the business stuff. It was hard to see him suffer so much and yet, there was nothing I could do. I was still a child and had lost my mother the same moment he lost his wife.’

Enjolras broke off for a moment, ‘It was really hard. He couldn’t muster up the energy to get me ready for school, drive me to piano lessons or even make sure I did my homework. For a few months, I stopped caring, too, and would have slipped into a deeper pit, if it hadn’t been for Thomas.’

‘Thomas?’

‘Thomas was mum’s best friend since university. They worked together, she was the lawyer, he the psychologist. My parents shared an office and Thomas would be the one they included in their cases, if need be. He also works for the police part-time, in profiling. He might be the reason the police force in our area is so well-educated and fair, actually. Doesn’t matter, anyway. Thomas moved in a few months after mum died, he’d always been on his own and when he saw dad struggle, he wanted to help. He made sure dad got back on his feet, he got me to sign up for a few clubs in school that helped me and he got me a counsellor. All in all, he made sure dad and I would survive past the first year.’

‘Sounds like he helped a lot, then,’ Grantaire continued to pet Adonis, ‘he must’ve sacrificed a year for you.’

‘Not just a year,’ Enjolras set an indicator and pulled onto the next lane, ‘to this day, he hasn’t moved out. He has a study next to dad’s, cooks and makes the best soufflé ever. Actually, I’ll ask him to make it whilst you are there.’

‘He still lives with you?’ Grantaire raised an eyebrow, ‘I mean, it sounds like your father got around to living without you but replaced you with his best friend.’

‘Honestly, I don’t know how to say this next without sounding like a conspiracist. The thing is, and I might be wrong, I really could be because I’m rubbish with stuff like that, it could be that dad and Thomas don’t plan on him moving out anytime soon. Sometimes, when I am home, I have the impression that I am missing something, like there’s something in the room that I just can’t put my finger on it, most of the time. It’s almost like they have taken it further than what they could imagine after mum was gone. Time is a great healer.’

Grantaire coughed, ‘Oh, you mean – you mean your father and Thomas hit it off after a while?’

‘I mean, I don’t know officially, they haven’t told me anything, but I would definitely be okay with it, no matter what they would come forward with. No one but Thomas could support my dad in the way he already does without making me feel like they tried to replace mum.’

‘Your dad is bi?’

‘Might be,’ Enjolras shrugged, ‘if he’s happy with Thomas, relationship or not, I’m okay with it. I know they have each other’s backs and that’s the least each of them deserve.’

They drove a few kilometres in silence as Grantaire tried to comprehend what Enjolras had said. He played with Adonis’ tail and hummed a song. Enjolras was an enigma to him, he still had no idea what had moved him to take him onto a roadtrip in Combeferre’s car into a Christmas holiday he had not been prepared for.

‘Grantaire?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Does your mother disapprove of your orientation?’

The question took him off guard enough to answer honestly, without thinking, ‘Yes.’

He felt himself wince as soon as it left his lips. Enjolras nodded along, fingers tighter around the steering wheel. Grantaire cleared his throat and moved around in his seat a little.

‘Listen, she disapproves of me as a whole, my sexuality doesn’t really define that rejection. Knowing that I will not give her biological grandchildren added to the pile of things I did to upset her, I suppose. I don’t think she is a homophobe herself, she just doesn’t like me being into guys sometimes.’

‘That is literally what being a homophobe means,’ Enjolras grated his teeth, ‘and don’t you dare argue about it, there is no way you can find an excuse around that.’

Grantaire did not respond and leaned his head against the window, staring out into the dusk. Dark, leafless trees passed his eyes as if carried past them, there was snow on the ground that reflected the last light but overall, it got darker by the minute. He found himself unable to formulate a thought and slipped into a state of numb mindlessness.

Enjolras switched on the radio and let him know that they had only about two hours left before they were due to arrive. Grantaire nodded silently, closing his eyes to drift into a light slumber.

He dreamed of something that made him feel uneasy and frantic. In his sleep, he chased down a path, trying to reach something that he knew was just ahead of him. He could not reach it, no matter how much and hard he tried to speed up. His lungs burned and he panted, jumping over rocks and ditches, running until his knees gave out.

The emptiness hit him hard, knocked the breath out of his lungs and made him stumble. Grantaire gasped for air and opened his eyes.

He came face to face with Enjolras who leaned over to him, a smile on his lips, ‘Did you sleep well? We are here.’

Grantaire wiped away a tear that snuck out of his eye and sat up in the car seat. He looked around in the car and realised Adonis was back in his transport box, the car had stopped and Enjolras’ face was illuminated by a street lamp. The dim, orange light made it look like his hair had been dyed copper.

He looked past Enjolras and out of the window behind him. The looming façade of the house had him do a double take, he leant forward and gasped a little. In the darkness, it was hard to see more than shapes and silhouettes but it was enough for him to estimate the outlines of what he looked at.

‘Your house really isn’t small,’ he breathed out and rubbed his eyes, ‘wow, that’s huge, actually. No wonder everybody can picture you as a young lord with a fireplace and too much land to walk across in one day.’

Enjolras punched him in the arm but there was no real harm in it, ‘I know it’s a big house, too big for two people, anyway. Dad and Thomas should really get a dog or something. I would be very happy if there was a dog around.’

‘Will they be okay with Adonis running around?’ Grantaire scratched his head.

‘Of course! I sent a text ahead and Dad can’t wait to meet him. He loves pets, he would probably start his own petting zoo, if he could. Only time and Thomas stand in between him and a bunch of animals running around in the backyard.’

‘That’s well put,’ Grantaire grinned a little, ‘okay, now I want to see the rest.’

He opened the car door and stepped out. His boots sank into a pile of snow with a crunching noise, he felt the rush of joy through his heart and breathed in deeply.

Once he had left the car, he saw the house in its entirety, a manor house built of dark, rough stones that towered over them as they stood in the driveway. The snow sat on roofs and oriels like hats and scarves, wrapping the building into something cosy. Grantaire counted the windows and chimneys but decided to stop since the number made his brain refuse to work for a moment. Wooden window frames broke up the dark exterior and there were evergreen vines growing up the front of the house that ended somewhere close to a balcony that sat above the main door.

In some of the windows on the ground floor, he could see lit Christmas decorations and lights, it seemed like it had come out of a Thomas Kinkade painting, ready to force the festive spirit on anyone who would happen to pass by the building. The effect was not lost on Grantaire who had been adamant about not needing additional Christmas cheer to spend some days away from the academy.

As they walked towards the door, dragging suitcases and belongings along, he decided to do whatever was in his power to make sure Enjolras had a wonderful Christmas. He deserved it, with everything going on in his busy head at all times. The only thing between him and relaxing holidays, Grantaire figured as much after Enjolras knocked into the door whilst searching for his keys, and he waited for the keys to come out or any reaction from the inside of the huge house that appeared a little softer and homelier once they stepped closer and out of its shadow, was himself, after all. He smiled at his friend, a short thing that was supposed to make sure Enjolras was still there before the door opened and he had lost any chance to escape.

Chapter Text

‘There you are, we were almost worried you’d ended up in a ditch somewhere in the dark. Basically from the moment we received your text,’ the smile was the first thing he could take in, warm and inviting from the inside of the house, ‘your father has not been able to hold still. He’s been on edge practically ever since he found out you drove.’

‘I said no such thing,’ a second voice rang from out of the house, bristling with indignation, ‘this is slander and I am not standing for it. I will see you in court.’

‘Now, now, Perce, don’t threaten me with things you would never go through with! Come in boys, out of the cold, into the warm and dry.’

A heavy, rough hand came down out of the doorway and took his suitcase off him. Grantaire watched as a broad man with long, dark hair went ahead of them, back into the house whom he identified as the person attached to the hand. Enjolras rolled his eyes with a soft grin he had never seen on him before.

‘That was Thomas for you,’ he said, ‘let’s get Adonis settled in. Will he be okay around the new surroundings?’

‘You saw him prance around in the car without problem, he’ll be fine,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I should feed him soon, though.’

He followed Enjolras into something he could only describe as an entrance hall. It was certainly as big and high as the hall at the academy, and even more impressive. The stairs on both sides of the room led to a gallery from which stern oil paintings in gilded frames looked down on everyone who was to walk past them. Grantaire spotted the depiction of a young person with blond hair in a tress and a hand on the hilt of their sword that looked frighteningly similar to Enjolras. He bit his tongue and managed to avoid the comment about Enjolras’ obviously aristocratic ancestor who guarded the family chambers with his sword.

Enjolras set down his suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and motioned for Grantaire to do the same. There was light everywhere, Christmas decorations lit the way for them as they stepped into the room beyond the wide doors underneath the gallery.

A fireplace warmed the room in which high shelves carried the weight of thousands of books. They framed the long walls, rising to the high ceilings from which a lit chandelier shed light into every corner of the room. Around the fireplace, a sitting area had been arranged for maximum comfort, a pot of tea steamed on a tea warmer and a stack of books next to a full fruit bowl spoke of the owner’s sophisticated reading habits.

A man sat in a chair close to the fire. Grantaire looked to the side where Enjolras broke into a wide grin, set down the last bag he had still carried and left his place next to him. He crossed the room with a few steps and crouched down next to him.

‘Hi dad, we’re here.’

‘I have ears, son, Thomas made enough of a kerfuffle to alert the whole town to your presence,’ the man hugged him and stroked his hair out of his eyes, ‘did you lock the car? Don’t make me tell Combeferre you are not taking good care of his property.’

‘It’s locked up, dad, I promise,’ Enjolras grinned even wider, ‘this is Grantaire, by the way, I told you about bringing him in the text I sent earlier.’

‘Yes, I remember: One the way in Ferre’s car, bringing a friend and cat, don’t panic. Exactly the text I want to receive from my son at a time I think him to be on a train back home where we would have picked you up in the morning!’

‘I’m not going to apologise, Grantaire would have spent Christmas alone at the academy,’ Enjolras got back up, ‘so, we can accept that I made my call and asked Grantaire to join me, or you need to come up with more convincing arguments than parental worry.’

Grantaire could not hide the little huff of amusement that escaped his lips. Enjolras and his father turned to face him and he came a few steps closer. As he approached, he noticed something about the chair Enjolras’ father sat in that made him stop sooner than he had wanted to. He sat in a wheel chair, half turned to the fire, a book in his lap.

‘Hello, Grantaire. Enjolras has told me about you before but going by your reaction just now, he hasn’t told you everything. My son forgets, sometimes,’ he lifted a hand off the armrest of the wheelchair, ‘anyway, I am relieved you got here alright and hope you will enjoy spending Christmas with us. I am Percival.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire took the offered hand, trying not to stare at the wheelchair, ‘thank you for letting me stay here on such short notice and over the holidays.’

Thomas joined them again with a couple of mugs and began to pour out tea for them. Grantaire waited for someone to break the silence but for as long as the tea was poured, no one said a word. He got another look at Percival and Thomas who stood bend over the little table. A deep crease had appeared on his forehead, the concentration writ large in his face. His raven dark hair was long enough to slip from behind his ears and shone in the firelight as it obscured half his face. A few silver glimmers were the only indicators of his age. The shadow from the fire cast on his expression highlighted the laughter lines around his eyes and put emphasis on the dimples and lines around his mouth that showed that, despite his age, he loved to laugh.

He shot little glances to the side where Percival watched him with a smirk Grantaire knew all too well. There was no doubt about the family connection between him and Enjolras, on first glance, they could have been brothers. His curly, blond hair settled against sharp features that put Enjolras’ marble cheekbones to shame. Grantaire could tell that, if stood up, he would be tall and lean, the fingers in his laps were slender and his chin set with determination. Enjolras seemed to have adopted some of his father’s habits and expressions, his usual righteous fury looked a lot like his father’s concerned watch of Thomas’ actions as he added sugar to two cups, milk to another and looked up, the milk jug still in his hand.

‘How do you take your tea, Grantaire? Milk, sugar, both?’

‘Milk, please,’ Grantaire snapped out of his observing trance.

Thomas poured it with a smile and handed him the cup, ‘There you go. Sugar for father and son; here you are, Enjolras. Oh by the way, does your cat need something to drink as well?’

‘Adonis,’ Grantaire looked around to where they had left the transport box, ‘I almost forgot about him.’

He fetched the box and opened it, taking Adonis out of it. The cat seemed to sulk, jumped out of his arms and paraded through the room towards Thomas who poured some water into a bowl and set it down for him. Adonis immediately rubbed against his leg and purred a little before beginning to lap up the water. Grantaire sat down with a sigh and took a sip of tea.

‘Great, my cat hates me now,’ he rolled his eyes with a small, joyless laughter, ‘thank you for being okay with me bringing him.’

‘A cat named Adonis? How could we not want him to be here,’ Percival smiled at him, ‘I do hope you will get to enjoy your time here. Our home is open to whoever Enjolras decides to bring. We can be a bit much but we are a family, of sorts.’

Grantaire caught the quick look Percival and Thomas exchanged. Enjolras had been right about them, he was sure of it. The fire crackled in its hearth, Adonis lapped up his water and Thomas asked Enjolras about the journey they had had.

‘Enjolras told me who your mother is,’ Percival set down his cup and saucer on a little side table next to his wheelchair, ‘he also mentioned that, as much of a brilliant musician she is, she lacks in the maternal department. As a lawyer for family law, I have seen a fair share of dysfunctional families and would like you to know that you are more than welcome to talk to me, if there is anything I could potentially help you sort. Sometimes, it helps to sort your thoughts by ranting to somebody who is not at all involved.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire replied and cleared his throat, ‘uhm, I still have to thank you for introducing Enjolras to classical music and the piano. The world would have missed out, otherwise, and the academy would have no one to carry the torch the way he does. He is a wonderful pianist and an even better friend who just stood up for me when I could not muster up the strength. I still don’t understand how I got to meet and befriend Enjolras but it seems like I have not yet scared him off with all the issues I have going on.’

‘You are honest about yourself,’ Percival moved a little in his wheelchair, ‘it’s a feature Enjolras values and cherishes, and makes for a good relationship. Judging by what I heard about you, you tried to shield my son from the realisation how different your mother treats you. Never meet your heroes, might be something to be said in this situation. I know that Enjolras will struggle to accept it. Be careful, he’ll try to make it up to you!’

‘I will be ready to fend off his attempts,’ Grantaire grinned and watched as Adonis pranced along the carpet, towards Percival, before jumping onto the sofa first and his lap second.

Percival began to lazily stroke and pet him immediately. Grantaire caught Enjolras throw them a look, he cracked a smile at the sight of his father with the cat in his lap that made him want to break out in a grin as well. Then, a jaw dislocating yawn made him squeeze his eyes shut.

‘Right, we’ll have time for more chatting and getting to know each other over the next days. Enjolras just drove the car here and needs to sleep. So do you, Grantaire,’ Thomas motioned towards the door, ‘Enjolras can show you his – the guest room and the bathroom, the rest of the house will still be standing tomorrow morning for you to be shown around.’

Enjolras got up, ‘Let me help you with the dishes.’

‘No. Off you go, your father and I are perfectly able to do this. I might get you to take care of the breakfast dishes, though. Or maybe, you’ll find yourself doing the laundry this week.’

‘Off to bed,’ Percival joined in and nodded towards Enjolras, ‘you’ve had a long day.’

Enjolras seemed close to rolling his eyes but sighed and waved Grantaire to follow him. Percival parted with Adonis, and Grantaire followed his friend out of the library. They picked up their suitcases at the bottom of the stairs and made their way past the oil paintings on the walls, upstairs along the sturdy handrails that did not fit the house’s atmosphere but was sure to make things easier for Percival as he moved around.

There were a few doors going off of the sides from the gallery. Enjolras pointed to the first on the right.

‘Bathroom,’ he said, voice dragging just a little, ‘Dad has his bedroom downstairs, Thomas was in the guest room, initially, but moved into where my parents were, at some point. Although, I don’t think he spends a lot of time there, either.’

The next door he opened, was accompanied by a, ‘My room.’

Up next were the former master bedroom and eventually, the guest room. Enjolras switched on the softest light in form of an immensely long string of fairy lights that went along the walls and gave off enough light to show the inviting double bed between the two high windows on the opposite side of the room. Grantaire set down his suitcase at the foot of the bed and looked around. For a moment, he wondered whether Enjolras had remembered how much he hated the harsh light in his studio, as much as it helped him draw and paint.

A thought entered his mind that needed to be voiced or, he feared, he would just burst out laughing with no explanation, ‘Imagine, Enjolras, if, despite the size of this huge house and all, there was only one bed.’

‘Are you that eager to share with me?’ Enjolras replied after a beat, grinning tiredly, ‘If you need anything, let me know but there are towels in the bathroom and Thomas puts bottled water and glasses in the guest room whenever someone’s staying over. Will Adonis be okay?’

‘Sure, he’ll find my face very comfortable, as always,’ Grantaire sat on the edge of the bed.

Enjolras nodded and hovered in the room for a moment, lifting his gaze up to the ceiling as if looking for something, ‘Good night!’

‘Night!’

He settled into the room he would be spending the next days in. The wardrobe was quickly filled with the clothes out of his suitcase, he placed the sketch and drawing material he had brought along on the little table by the window. Adonis jumped onto the bed and curled up into a ball on one side of it.

Grantaire slipped into the bathroom to quickly brush his teeth and wash his face before changing into his sleep shirt and slipping under the covers. The cotton smelled of a cosy, homely washing detergent, fresh and friendly, that seemed to do one last thing and put him to sleep.

***

The sun was wrong. Grantaire opened his eyes and groaned out in frustration. Something was determined to have him awake at a time that seemed unreasonable to him and left him questioning everything. He stretched his arm out and fumbled for his phone on the nightstand. Looking at the time, he understood that it was not as early as he had thought it to be and once he placed it back down and let his head fall back into the pillows, he realised that he was not in his dorm room where dark curtains and bits and pieces on the window sill filtered the light before it hit his bed.

Instead, he found himself in an airy, light room that he only then saw as what it was. The guest room in Enjolras’ childhood home allowed for smarter curtains and orderly surfaces, high windows and natural light. He pushed himself up against the soft, textile covered headboard, keeping the blanket pooled around his legs. Adonis still slept on the side, head resting on a fold in the blanket.

There was a knock on the door and Grantaire called out some sort of invitation. The door handle was pushed down and Enjolras came in, a tray in one hand.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure you’d be awake. Dad and Thomas are still asleep but I couldn’t stay in bed any longer and decided to make something small as some sort of first breakfast. Tea and French toast?’

‘My god, Enjolras, that’s amazing,’ Grantaire moved to make room for Enjolras on the bed, ‘you are amazing! How long have you been awake for?’

‘Not so long,’ Enjolras shrugged, ‘I left some for Thomas to pick up when they wake up. I get restless and making breakfast is a good way to kill time.’

He sat down on the edge of the bed, handed the tray to Grantaire and pulled his knees up on the mattress. They handed each other mugs and plates and Grantaire bit into a piece of toast that had been soaked in syrup and dusted with icing sugar. A moan slipped off his lips as he felt the sticky syrup run over his tongue.

‘That’s heavenly,’ he grinned at Enjolras and licked his lips, ‘why have you never made me breakfast before?’

‘Come ‘round our flat some time and lock Courfeyrac in the closet before he can start burning down the kitchen. Then, I will consider making you breakfast,’ Enjolras replied.

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire bit into the toast and spoke through a full mouth, ‘I’ll gladly let Courfeyrac disappear, if it’ll get me a second helping of this.’

Enjolras shook his head with a smile, ‘I’m glad you enjoy it so much. Most of the time, I make it as a leftover comfort food and today was such a day.’

‘Does Thomas do all the cooking, if you’re not here?’

‘No, dad would never give up cooking. It might take him longer sometimes but he’ll defy anyone even suggesting he might not be up to it,’ Enjolras scratched his head, ‘I suppose you were a little surprised, last night.’

‘Surprise is a very small word,’ Grantaire swallowed, ‘but yes, I was surprised. You didn’t mention he had an accident.’

‘He didn’t,’ Enjolras sipped some tea, clearing his throat, ‘it’s something that just happened after mum died. It’s called Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, CFS, and it was part of why Thomas became so important for us. My father will have days on which the smallest task or movement will incapacitate him for days following. When mum died, he would try to make everything nice for me and ended up lying in bed for weeks with no way to rest, even after sleeping. Thomas helped, took the load off his back and convinced him it was more than depression, once it still was like that after six months. The diagnosis was harsh but dad’s come around. Despite the fatigue, the pain and tenderness he experiences from time to time, despite depending on crutches or the wheel chair in his office or in court, despite the aching muscles and the strain that puts on him additionally, he still goes to work. He is a great lawyer and maybe even a better father now that he thinks more about, has to think more about himself. Never, not once, has the condition stopped him from achieving what he wanted. His flare-ups mean he sometimes has to postpone meetings but I have seen him fight through it, go to court and win, nonetheless. Just because he’s in a wheelchair after long days or might need the handrail and some time to come up here does not mean he cannot work; the fatigue, as bad as it might get, doesn’t stop him and I am immensely proud of him.’

‘Wow,’ Grantaire stared at him for a moment, hands folded in his lap, ‘that’s incredible. I mean, a diagnosis like that could shatter someone’s dreams and aspirations, leave them in the dust. To work not only with it but past it – that’s amazing. Your father is even more of a hero than I thought!’

‘He is,’ Enjolras nodded, eyes full with pride and defiance against someone he could not see but knew to be present, ‘seeing my father stand strong, taking care of himself whilst taking care of others, even when he feels like moving from the bed to the bathroom is too much to bear, makes me want to do the same things. I want to help people like him but unfortunately, I am not much of the lawyer he is so what I can do, I try to do. My father is my role model, in all aspects.’

‘He should be,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘anyone who sees your father should adopt him as their role model! Did it change a lot when the diagnosis came in?’

‘Dad moved his bedroom downstairs. There are handrails in his bathroom, the handrails leading up here and we refurbished the kitchen to make more room. Thomas updated their studies and made dad invest a little. Sometimes, he’ll move around as if nothing’s wrong, that’s when he managed to balance it out. If he can still move around, the crutches will help. The wheelchair helps him move around at court, it’s mainly for when dad knows he’ll cross his boundaries or needs to work despite the exhaustion so when I come home to see it, I know not to mention it. Dad is okay with questions about his work, but on the worst days, his jaws hurt when he talks.’

Grantaire listened carefully, not willing to miss a single word of his explanation. Hearing how Percival dealt with his fate and the challenges it had brought on for him made him understand where Enjolras got his immense power and strength from. It was in his father’s eyes, as tired as he had been the previous evening, in the way he held himself in his chair and the way he took it on the chin. With just one evening done, Grantaire was almost sure that he would find out more about the family and their routines. Given everything he already knew about Enjolras and his beliefs, he was intrigued to find out more where it came from and how his father and Thomas had influenced him towards being the man he was.

‘Your father is amazing,’ Grantaire eventually said, ‘no wonder you are the full package you are. There’s just no way you were going to turn out any other way than you did. I mean, I knew you’d come far but that just puts everything into perspective.’

Enjolras grinned a little, fumbling with his hands. Grantaire watched as he searched for words.

‘Thank you, I suppose,’ he grabbed his mug tighter, ‘I mean, I know. Thank you for not freaking out, yesterday. I should have told you in the car or even before that, but couldn’t get the words out. Plus, I still had the whole business with your mother in my head and could hardly think of anything but how much I wanted you to have a nice Christmas.’

‘Oh stop it,’ Grantaire buried his face in his hands, ‘this is a team effort, now.’

‘Right,’ Enjolras managed a laugh, ‘do you want a tour around the house this morning?’

Grantaire looked at him temporising, ‘A tour around your palace? Yes, please!’

It earned him a shove from Enjolras that almost sent the plate to the ground, he held onto it and stuck his tongue out at him. He tried not to look at Enjolras too much or too long, his face felt hot and red already and he did not necessarily feel like testing the limits of his composure in that moment.

Instead, he opted for the safe way out and concentrated on what he knew to be enough of a theme changer, ‘May I just point out, though, that no one can wear a matching set of pyjamas like you. Is that really ironed, I mean, you didn’t sleep in that, did you?’

Enjolras blushed, ‘I told Thomas not to iron everything I leave here but when he’s stressed, he’ll even iron his own underwear. I don’t know why but he loves ironing.’

‘Enjolras, we’re talking about you changing into your pyjamas after waking up,’ Grantaire huffed out a laugh, ‘I mean, come on, what’s that about?’

Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘Grow up, would you? I can’t walk around the house without a shirt or trousers in winter, now, can I!’

Grantaire choked on his last gulp of tea. He tried to hide it but knew that his jaw had hit the floor. His mind tried, and failed, to banish the image of Enjolras in nothing but pyjama bottoms or underwear that formed in his mind. For him, there was nothing left but to dive out of the blanket nest, get a few steps between them, grab his jumper out of the wardrobe and gather the empty dishes they had left.

‘Right, should we get to it, then? You said you’d show me around, can we go now?’

Enjolras blinked at him for a moment but followed his lead and jumped out of the bed. He opened the door for him and waited until Grantaire had passed the threshold.

‘Start with the kitchen?’ Grantaire managed to get out with a smile that came out weaker than he had hoped.

Enjolras led the way downstairs and into a wing of the building, ‘The other side has dad’s bedroom, the studies and a more accessible bathroom. This side has the kind of rooms you’d expect of a house this size.’

He opened a door and revealed the kitchen, modern, sleek and brighter than Grantaire had expected in such an old house. It obviously had been built in more recently to allow for more space and easily accessible and adjustable appliances. Enjolras took the dishes out of his hand and sorted them into the dishwasher.

‘We got the new kitchen with the goal to make it easier for dad to handle things on his own,’ he explained, ‘it used to be further back but now we switched rooms and brought the kitchen to the front of the house.’

Enjolras opened the next door and invited Grantaire in with a wave. They stood in the doorframe, for a moment, whilst he took everything in. High, open windows let the light flood in onto more bookshelves and a piano at the far side of the room. There was another fireplace opposite a wide glass door that looked out on a conservatory and a garden beyond the glass structures.

‘That’s what you would call the drawing room, I suppose,’ Enjolras admitted, one hand scratching his neck, ‘that really is the stately part of the house. There are a few more guest rooms, Thomas’ squash room and the pool.’

His voice had lowered a little towards the end of the sentence. Grantaire still picked up on it and the glee about what he had heard was bigger than anything he could have ruined by looking at Enjolras for too long.

‘You have a pool!’

‘Shut up!’

‘You have a pool, an indoor pool,’ Grantaire jumped up and down a little in excitement, ‘you need to let me have this, I have just had a revelation.’

Enjolras looked at him with the look of somebody who regretted every word he ever said.

Chapter Text

They finished the tour of the house back in the kitchen. Whilst Grantaire set up a bowl for Adonis who slipped through the door when he rattled the box, Enjolras set to brew more tea for them.

The door opened and Percival came in, on crutches, rather than in the previous wheel chair. Deep shadows had settled under his eyes and he visibly struggled to put one foot in front of the other as he progressed.

‘Good morning, dad,’ Enjolras smiled softly at him, ‘I left some French toast for you and Thomas. Would you like some tea, too?’

‘Thank you, my boy,’ Percival managed to sit down at the table, ‘it sounded like Thomas is getting up as well.’

He leaned the crutches against the table and rested against the chair. Grantaire noted him watching Adonis feed with a smile and joined Enjolras at the counter who had moved on to heating up the French toast in a pan.

‘I see you dressed up for breakfast,’ Percival raised his eyebrows a little, ‘you don’t have to impress anybody here.’

‘I know, dad,’ Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘didn’t want to burn myself making you breakfast.’

‘He’s got you against the wall already,’ Thomas entered the kitchen, hair sticking out in all directions, ‘before you comment on my lacklustre appearance, this is my first day off and I deserve to look like this. Percival, you’d better not be having breakfast already.’

Enjolras stuck his tongue out at him and set a plate down on the table, ‘Here you go, grumpy old man, one breakfast coming up.’

‘What are your plans for today?’ Thomas asked a few bites in, powdered sugar in his stubble, ‘The snow is high enough to make snow angels, maybe have a snowball fight.’

‘Thomas,’ Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘we are no longer kids.’

Grantaire softly shook his head, ‘That could be really fun, though. I haven’t had a snowball fight in ages.’

‘I’m not entering a snowball fight with you, you’d obliterate me!’

‘Thank you so much, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘this is a very special moment. Please give me a moment to lock it into my heart.’

‘Shut up,’ Enjolras shoved him a little, ‘I think I might practise a little, later today. The composition exam is coming up after Christmas and I need to write something that’ll blow Lamarque away.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find the perfect melody,’ Percival said, ‘don’t work too much, though. This is Christmas, you are allowed to take a break and relax. We all get to do that, and kick up our feet.’

‘You are not kicking up anything, dad,’ Enjolras handed Grantaire another cup of tea, ‘I’m going to show Grantaire the hill, the orchard and the village. I still wanna find out just how close to each other we grew up without ever knowing.’

Grantaire could not deny a certain interest in that issue himself. It had been too dark to see anything of the surrounding area when they arrived and judging from the looks of what he could see through the windows, they were on top of a hill. Hills had been everywhere when he was a child, there had been hills with forests, hills with fields, one with a spring that sent water rippling down its rocky sides. He had played on those hills, collecting flowers and rocks, finding the houses of fae people and making sure to hide whenever he heard someone approach on the paths leading up and down the hills.

‘Sounds like a good plan,’ Thomas smiled and patted Enjolras’ shoulder, ‘will you be back for lunch?’

‘Don’t know. We could go for something at the pub, instead of whatever you’d burn and put on the table.’

‘Young man,‘ Thomas swatted Enjolras arm, ‘don’t think Grantaire’s presence will keep from giving you a piece of my mind!’

Enjolras flat out giggled and Grantaire felt goose bumps run down his arms at the sound of it. He tried to shake off the sensation discreetly but ended up splashing some tea on his trousers. For a moment, he almost felt a private relief that the mishap broke his focus on Enjolras. Then, he noticed the way Percival looked at him.

‘No matter where you decide to eat,’ he cleared his throat, ‘I’m sure you’ll have a nice day. Tonight, you’ll need to be back, though. Tradition’s calling.’

‘Tradition?’ Grantaire leaned forward a little, ‘please tell me more, does it involve dunking Enjolras in a bucket of snow?’

‘No, we dunk our guests, actually,’ Percival replied and winked at him, ‘we also douse their pets in water.’

Adonis meowed in the door, as if he had understood what had been said. Then, he disappeared entirely. Grantaire wondered whether he would find him curled up on a sofa some time later.

Enjolras appeared next to him, ‘We decorate the tree together, watch a movie and tell each other not to sneak glances into the living room. Then, we go into our separate rooms and stay up, trying to catch whoever leaves theirs first. Thomas lost last year.’

‘I did not!’

‘We caught you red-handed, dad’s present for you in hand,’ Enjolras crossed his arms in a display of outrage, ‘we set up those rules to make sure we all are equal in the way we open our presents, since we seem to have to give something!’

Grantaire winced internally. He had not thought about Christmas presents, as he had not expected to be around people for the holidays. The thought had entered his mind before, a tiny voice that had asked him how he could show his gratitude towards Percival and Thomas.

‘Have you got your coat?’ Enjolras smiled at him, pulling him out of the foggy circles his thoughts spun, ‘if we go out now, we can make it up and down a few more of the hills.’

***

They had suited up in no time, put on boots, coats, scarfs and hats. Grantaire had taken one look at Enjolras in a woollen bobble hat, thick scarf around his neck that hid half his face and a pea coat he had dragged out of an old, intricately decorated wardrobe in the entrance hall, and decided that he should not look at him again, if he valued his sanity.

He had put on his own coat and boots in silence, brooding about the way Enjolras managed to look effortlessly casual whilst he spent five minutes tugging on his beanie to get it to sit right over his ears to keep them warm. Once he had tied his boots, he looked up to see Enjolras at the door already.

‘Ready to go?’

‘Sure, let’s go,’ he stepped over the threshold.

The winter air hung low over the frozen, white ground. It was cold and crisp, stinging on his skin and creeping under the layers of clothes he had put on. The sensation reminded him even more of his childhood, he breathed in deeply, feeling the cold numb his nose immediately. As he took the first steps out into the yard, fresh snow crunched under his feet.

Enjolras skipped past him, kicking up snow as he went, ‘Come on!’

They ran along the driveway, through a snowdrift and past an iron gate, into a small branch of the forest that covered the hill. It took Grantaire a moment to adjust to the surroundings. The trees had thrown off their leaves and the black bark looked jarring against the white, pure snow, yet untouched by feet or tyres. Enjolras led them off the road and through thick undergrowth, past tree trunks that were thick enough to speak of a long history lived through and experienced.

The forest was quiet, almost dead silent. Every now and then, Grantaire could hear a bird taking flight from a branch with fluttering wings and indignant screeches of protest as they passed under its tree. The wood around them cracked but the only other sound he could concentrate on was Enjolras breathing next to him, present in the way the air billowed from his lips.

The forest cleared around them and Grantaire could see the end of the woods. He slowed down a little as the village came into view, a vane twinkled in the pale winter sun, a golden sun on top of the church tower, adorned with fluttering rays bent around it to suggest a comet-like appearance. It was distinctive enough to trigger Grantaire’s memory.

‘Enjolras,’ he stopped entirely, standing still as if a single motion would upset reality into collapsing, ‘Enjolras, this is the church. That’s – that down there is the pub and the old hall where my mother plays her charity gigs. You cannot tell me we just lived on opposite sides of the valley and didn’t know! How would that be possible?’

Enjolras stood next to him, looking out over the village, ‘Well, for one, the bureaucratic muck-up of school districts, I suppose. They just drew a line in the middle of a map and one side of the valley went to one school and the other half to another, resulting in low numbers of pupils in both buildings and teachers having to drive from one to the other. An absolute mess, of course and no way to provide for the future generations.’

Grantaire nodded along and watched the small shapes of people and cars finding their way through the roads and alleys of the village. He could tell where they went, who went to the store and who had an appointment at the doctor’s before Christmas. He knew the old lady walking her dog by the church, knew she would head over to the graveyard and place flowers on her husband’s grave. He knew the children in the playground by the school would be called home soon to join their parents in the preparations. He knew that there was a house on the other side of the valley, a house a little smaller than Percival’s, yet so much more intimidating, a house in which his mother and father sat in different corners of the living room, maybe with a few guests and friends, maybe on their own, without a word between them. He knew the way there, knew how far it was from the train station and where to go, if he was to avoid being seen on his way back from the pub. Not that that was an option any more.

‘Enjolras?’

‘Yes?’

‘We can’t go to the pub.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m barred from the house,’ Grantaire admitted, blushing a little under his hat and scarf as Enjolras looked over to him, raising a questioning eyebrow, ‘don’t look at me like that, I was drunk and somebody was seeking trouble. It was only a brawl.’

‘Only a brawl? It got you barred,’ Enjolras shook his head, ‘I suppose I should be thankful you told me before I could drag you there. God, Grantaire, you are unbelievable. Barred for brawling in the tiniest pub in the country!’

Grantaire heard the small huff Enjolras added to his words and grinned into his scarf, ‘It was a fun day that turned sour.’

‘You drank too much?’

‘You know me so well,’ he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat, ‘I was deep into a bottle of whiskey that day, started on enough food to keep me going for most of the afternoon and had a wonderful time by myself, until this idiot came in and thought it was a good idea to start annoying me. All I wanted was to be left in peace, I didn’t even start it!’

‘I believe you,’ Enjolras sighed, ‘and I hope all that boxing training helped you in the situation.’

‘Somewhat,’ Grantaire avoided mentioning the black eye-bust lip-combo he had sported by the time he went home after the landlord had kicked him out.

‘So, not the pub and I can’t really show you anything new around here,’ Enjolras changed the subject, ‘well, at least now we know just how close to each other we grew up. Weird, isn’t it?’

‘Well, my mother never really played here, the halls were too small for her. By the time you started going to her concert, I probably stayed home with nanny.’

‘You had a nanny?’

‘Well, turns out, you’re not the only posh boy in Les Amis,’ Grantaire snuffled, ‘plus, it was easier for my mother to have someone look after me whilst she was on stage. Nanny stayed with us for years until I went off to grammar school and after that, my holidays were so much duller.’

‘You didn’t –‘

‘Go to boarding school? No, not officially. I mean, there were full-time boarding students and parents had the opportunity to book their kids into their boarding house for a night or so. My mother used that opportunity up to five times a week.’

They walked alongside in silence for a bit, down the hill and past the graveyard and old church. Boulder walls framed the fields they walked past, all covered in thick blankets of snow.

‘Enjolras?’

‘Yep?’

‘I don’t have a present for your father and Thomas,’ Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘I want to give them something and I have no idea what to get them.’

‘Grantaire, you won’t have to,’ Enjolras put a hand on his arm, ‘please, don’t stress yourself about this.’

Grantaire risked another look at him. His nose stuck out of his scarf, red and shining in the cold, a few curls had escaped his woollen hat and he breathed sharply to keep warm. He looked better than before with snowflakes on his shoulders and boots, feet whitened by their walk through the snow banks. Enjolras seemed almost childlike young as he kicked up more snow and giggled to himself.

‘Don’t worry, Grantaire, dad and Thomas love you already!’

Grantaire remembered Percival’s look directed at him in the morning and left it at an unsure sound. He followed Enjolras as he set off again, towards the village centre.

‘Do you want to go to the old sweet shop?’

‘Is it still around?’

‘Of course it is,’ Enjolras dug in his pocket for spare change, ‘come on, I’m buying.’

They walked along the main road and entered the comfortable warmth of the corner shop that had played a central role in Grantaire’s upbringing. Nanny had brought him sweets when she picked him up from school, later, he had spent most of his pocket money on goodies, sheet music and art supplies. He could remember at least fifteen separate instances in which the sweet shop had saved his day.

The bell above the door jingled and Enjolras stepped to the side to allow him to enter beside him. Grantaire stomped most of the snow off his boots and stuffed his beanie into his pocket. Immediately, the smell of sugar, fruity aromas and chocolate surrounded him and filled his nose, he could see the huge glasses filled with sweets, hard-boiled candy and chocolates neatly on the shelves.

‘Oh, I can count on you coming in whenever you are home, Enjolras,’ the elderly lady that had run the shop since before Grantaire could remember and who was only known as Sweet Annie, ‘what will it be this time? Lemon sherbet, gummi worms or fizzy strawberries?’

‘Whatever he wants,’ Enjolras motioned for Grantaire to pick something off the shelves.

‘If my eyes are not deceiving me, I will need to get the Sour Patch Kids out,’ Sweet Annie smiled, her glasses slipping down her nose a little, ‘I’ve never seen you two boys come in together before!’

‘Sour Patch Kids?’ Enjolras turned around as Sweet Annie went to get the glass container.

‘Yes, I like them, sue me,’ Grantaire looked around the shop that looked as cosy and comfortable as ever, dark wooden panels distracting only mildly from the rows of jars, ‘they are cheerful.’

‘Not what I would have said about Sour Patch Kids,’ Enjolras mumbled.

Sweet Annie returned from the back of the room with a huge jar of sweets, took a paper bag and put it on the brass scale she kept on the counter, ‘Sour Patch Kids for Grantaire and for Enjolras Dark Chocolate Buttons.’

Grantaire watched as she filled the small paper bag with sweets and chocolate, and collected the money from Enjolras before handing over the bag. He took it from her with a small smile and opened it up, picking out the first sweet. Enjolras wrenched his hand into the bag as well and stuffed a very dark, round piece of chocolate into his mouth. Grantaire shuddered at the sight and sucked on his sweet, instead.

‘How you can possibly eat that, is beyond me,’ he grinned, ‘of course your favourite sweet is bitter and sugarless.’

‘Of course yours is as sour as your outlook on life,’ Enjolras shot back before pulling his scarf back up against the cold wind as they left the shop again, ‘where would you like to go next?’

Grantaire followed him along the main road, past the horribly kitschy tea rooms, cottages and front gardens he knew so well. The vicar’s wife walked the same old, asthmatic dog and the shop window of the charity shop still exhibited an old mannequin that almost every child in the village had had nightmares about.

‘Do you ever think about how tiny this whole bloody village is?’ Grantaire kicked up some snow, ‘how it’s basically empty because everybody has to work somewhere else, except for one half of the kids who get to school here.’

‘I do,’ Enjolras sighed, ‘and it’s sad to see the young people move away, leaving the old and inept to look after crumbling walls and forgotten inheritance.’

‘I’d agree,’ Grantaire scooped up some snow to press it into a ball, ‘but we are both at the academy, hours away from here and neither of us is likely to return here permanently. Well, you might, actually.’

‘You’ll stay away?’

‘Enjolras,’ Grantaire dropped the snowball again, ‘I don’t know what kind of thing would have to happen for me to decide to come and stay here but it would have to make a bloody huge impact on my life.’

He stopped, trying to imagine what would have to happen in order for him to live in what he had called his home for years without realising that it did not feel as warm as he’d thought it would have to. The thoughts that came to him were mostly moments of his childhood, running over the fields and hills, climbing into plum trees and getting into trouble for eating them before their time. He remembered the comfort of his room after a few hours of practicing, the way he could curl up around a book or a sketch pad and forget the world for a little.

Of course, all these moments had not lasted. He had been sent off to school, coming home to find Montparnasse sitting in the living room, and his room cold and dark until he first tried to banish the cold by chugging his father’s liquor crouching in his wardrobe for cover. He had been thirteen, if he remembered correctly. His memory had suffered under the excessive consumption but he remembered considering being sober for his fourteenth birthday quite an achievement.

A snowball hit him in the chest. Grantaire blinked at Enjolras who doubled over with laughter, hands hidden from his sight and eyes twinkling with delight.

‘I got you,’ he exclaimed as Grantaire still tried to figure out how to get the snow out of his scarf without tipping it down his shirt.

‘Well, bloody marvellous,’ he spat, ‘throwing snowballs at unsuspecting people, that’s just plain naughty!’

‘Oh sorry, I didn’t know that was a criminal offense,’ Enjolras wiped a bit of snow off his shoulder, ‘also, I thought you’d see it coming.’

‘I was in thoughts!’

Enjolras put an arm around his shoulder, ‘Since you can’t enjoy the pub’s hospitality, we should probably head back up soon.’

‘We haven’t missed much, have we? I always forget how tiny it is, you walk down the main road and that’s it. There is nothing more and there never will be,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘we could still walk around the premises a little later. You have to have some secret hiding spots around the garden.’

Chapter Text

Once they had climbed the hill and turned their backs on the village, Grantaire offered to help out with the lunch preparations when they reached the house. As a result, he found himself stirring risotto whilst Thomas set the table, humming along to the radio. On entering the kitchen, he had been equipped with an apron that said Hot Stuff Coming Through, a spatula and – he was not sure Enjolras had been present to see or remark on it – the white wine for refining the sauce.

‘Careful, Grantaire, glass on your right,’ Thomas set down wine glasses on a tray, ‘picking the right drink is tricky enough, Percival will tell me immediately, if he doesn’t like the wine. Such a picky drinker!’

‘That sounds rather childish,’ Grantaire wrinkled his forehead.

Thomas grinned at him, ‘Well, I do enjoy the look on his face when he realises that he can literally not open the bottle himself, most of the time.’

Grantaire shook his head behind his back and stirred a little more, concentrating on an even distribution of spatula movement around the pan. Thomas brushed past him with a testing glance before nodding and sticking his head out of the door.

‘Lunch is ready, Percival! Enjolras!’

Grantaire huffed out a laughter, ‘That’s efficient.’

‘What, your mother never called you to dinner in a really affectionate way?’

He looked over to where Thomas seemed to tell himself off mentally, clearing his throat and busying himself with the cutlery. Grantaire shrugged openly to show him that he was fine with the comment, with all its implications. There were worse things he had gotten to hear, especially from his mother, and seeing Thomas almost beat himself up about one quick, subtle remark was something he did not want to bear on his conscience.

Enjolras and Percival came in, deep in conversation. They only looked up when Thomas held out plates with toasted bread and an herb mixture for them to take to the dining room, almost knocking them into Enjolras’ chest.

‘Go make yourself useful, I’ve been slaving away with Grantaire here and you had a nice break in between. Where are your standards now that it’s me and your friend, hm?’

‘Ouch, low blow,’ Enjolras pouted but took the plates off Thomas, ‘you and Grantaire really do get along swimmingly. It’s like you’re mirroring each other.’

‘It can’t be that bad,’ Percival chipped in.

‘Oh, it is! R is the first one to point out where I stray and leave the path of reason. Even if I sometimes need a moment to see what he means, he helps me, in a way. Just like Thomas helps you,’ Enjolras set down the plates and shrugged again.

Grantire, who had followed with Thomas, tried to cover up his distraught yelp as a cough, ‘You think I help you?’

‘In the most annoying, negative, cynical way, yes,’ Enjolras conceded, sitting down at the table.

‘But I help you,’ Grantaire did not even try to hide the glee reflected on his face.

‘Anyway,’ Thomas cleared his throat, ‘Percival and me will have to drive into town for the last groceries we need for the upcoming days. We can’t have coffee without milk, after all! Will you two be okay on your own? Without tearing each other apart, of course.’

Grantaire nodded at the same time as Enjolras snorted into his risotto, murmuring something. Percival raised an eyebrow and started on his portion, slowly, one spoon after the other.

It seemed like the matter had been put to rest. As it turned out, Grantaire was wrong thinking that. Thomas and he had not yet finished washing, drying and putting away the dishes when they could hear Percival and Enjolras talk with raised voices a couple of rooms over. Grantaire could not make out what was said and it did not sound like an actual argument to him but Thomas sighed and cleared his throat.

‘You must have noticed that Enjolras has very set believes,’ Thomas closed the pantry door and sighed, ‘so does Percival, rare enough for a lawyer, and that is where they find extraordinarily huge potential for arguments and clashes. No family gathering goes by without a noisy exchange. You get used to it.’

‘I think I already am,’ Grantaire grinned after a moment of being taken aback, ‘usually, I am the one causing Enjolras to lose his temper.’

‘We certainly know how that comes about,’ Thomas agreed, ‘it really doesn’t take much, does it?’

Grantaire joined in the good-hearted laughter and filled a glass of water for himself, ‘Does Percival have tells as well? Those little flutters that’ll let you know when he’ll blow up?’

‘Fortunately, he doesn’t, not anymore,’ Thomas mimed wiping sweat off his forehead, ‘his fuse used to be a lot shorter. Nowadays, he’ll try to reason before losing his temper. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen anymore, of course. It’s usually Enjolras who tips him over the edge.’

Grantaire nodded along but before he could respond, Enjolras came into the kitchen, leaned against the worktop and grabbed the glass out of his hand to take a gulp, ‘Thomas, please tell him he’s being unreasonable! There is no way a mentally abusive father should be left alone with his child for a prolonged period of time, no matter the law.’

‘There’s a reason you are not a lawyer,’ Percival followed him into the room, ‘Enjolras, the law is the law.’

‘The law isn’t necessarily always right, it must be changed when it doesn’t protect those that need it as a safe line. Children, for example!’

Thomas handed out plates to be put into the cupboard and opened another bottle of wine to leave out and develop a bouquet. Grantaire motioned for him to skip his glass and leave it with the water he had poured himself, grinning softly as Enjolras and Percival both huffed in dissatisfaction.

‘Anyway, we are going into town in a moment,’ Thomas raised his voice enough to drown out either reaction, ‘Percy, I expect you to come up with a list of stuff you need, the grocery list is already sorted. This’ll be your chance to buy some last presents.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Percival rolled his eyes, ‘do you boys need anything?’

Enjolras shrugged and took the offered wine glass from the kitchen table. He still wore the deep crease between his brows that let Grantaire know he’d be unwilling to admit anything his father offered to him right then. It took him a moment to realise the stubborn look he had been directed at him more often than he could remember instantly.

Thomas mentioned a few of the things he needed to sort in town, Percival chipped in and contributed something and eventually, Grantaire felt comfortable enough to ask for oranges and dried fruit to bake a Christmas bread, a small contribution to the table but one he knew he would be able to pull off. Enjolras looked at him in wonder.

‘You bake?’

‘Not often, but I can bake fruit cake for Christmas,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘and I’d rather do that than not contribute at all.’

‘Which would be perfectly fine, of course,’ Thomas smiled at him, ‘don’t stress too much, please. This is your break as well.’

He seemed to have done something behind his back, Grantaire guessed a sharp, well-aimed kick because a moment later, not missing a beat, Percival followed suit, ‘Yes, we could not possibly allow you to miss out on your free time over something so easily arranged.’

***

Enjolras disappeared into his room soon after. As soon as Thomas and Percival were gone, however, Grantaire could hear his door open again, steps on the stairs and then, the sound of a piano lid being pushed up. He got up from the bed where he had digested the lunch, one arm propped under his head to keep himself from actually falling asleep. Not knowing what he would be up to, he grabbed his sketchpad, pencils and rubbers before closing the door behind him quietly.

Whilst he walked down the stairs and into the hall, he could already hear the piano being carefully examined. Single notes were struck and tested, the sound echoed through the rooms and promised something good coming up. Grantaire stuck his head into the drawing room where he remembered to have seen a piano. He could see Enjolras sitting on the stool, studying some sheet music.

‘Come in,’ he did not turn around but the smile was audible, ‘dad’s armchair is amazingly comfortable.’

Grantaire followed his directions, sitting down in the armchair near the fireplace. Only after he sat down he realised he could see Enjolras in his entirety from his spot, provided with a near profile of him at the piano. He could see most of his face and upper body, something that made his heart flutter a little as he realised what an opportunity he had been presented with.

He could pull his legs up onto the armchair completely, resting his sketchpad on his knees with ease. Until his joints started protesting, he guessed he would get on well ahead.

As Enjolras started to verge towards proper music and melody, testing out different keys and parts, before opening a folder with sheet music, Grantaire opened his sketchpad and started on a blank page. He began sketching rough outlines of what he wanted to capture, one stroke after another, crafting the silhouette of the piano in front of him.

He added first shades and details, down to the screws that held the wheels underneath the piano together. There were enough little reflections in the black paint that needed to be transferred onto the paper in front of him, enough edges and corners to be copied down precisely. Grantaire let his eyes flick from the piano and Enjolras to the sketch in front of him, taking in his posture as he concentrated on the sheet music on the stand. Enjolras’ shoulders worked with the music, in rhythm with his fingers dancing over the keys. He had closed his eyes halfway but Grantaire did not need to see his eyes to imagine them on the paper.

Once the rough outline of the piano seemed satisfactory to him, he got to work on the body. The proportions were easily done, partly concealed behind the piano. He concentrated on the shoulders and head, as far as he could see them from his position. It felt familiar, in a way, drawing Enjolras again, in a pose similar to a sketch he had left somewhere in his room at the academy, far away from where he felt himself sink deeper into the armchair, bending his arm to get the right angle for his pencil to shade in the spaces between the lines he had drawn.

He let the familiarity take over and wash over him with the pleasant warmth it was accompanied with. His fingers ached to fill out Enjolras’ figure, produce something worth looking at, something he could be proud of, knowing that other people would look at it. He was limited by time and the material on hand but he was determined to finish the job he had gotten himself into.

Enjolras began to play a piece that prompted Grantaire to look up from his work, longer than the glances he shot towards the piano to check posture and details. He started on facial expression and hair, something he wanted to get completely right, those being the distinctive features and all the more important.

The piece in question made him shudder involuntarily as the melody emerged out of the clutter of melodies Enjolras had come up with over the span of a few minutes. It seemed like he had abandoned them and turned into something darker.

‘You okay?’ Grantaire mumbled.

‘The melodies are betraying me right now, nothing’ll stick and my head is empty,’ Enjolras threw his head back and ran his fingers through his hair, ‘I’ll have to return to something I know before I can get around to writing something new myself. How are you getting on, drawing something worth your time?’

‘I’d hope so,’ Grantaire returned his gaze to his sketchpad, swallowing hard to get around the lump in his throat, ‘what are you going to play now?’

In response, Enjolras set his fingers back down on the keys. His last exhale before he started on the piece hung in the air as heavy as storm clouds on the horizon. Once again, the ominous sound of Beethoven lulled him into an almost narcotic state in which he had to actively remind himself to keep drawing. More than that, he had to drown out the melody and sight of Enjolras, concentrate on the strokes he applied to the paper, the way his pencil had to work to complete what he had begun.

The second movement of the Pathétique, one of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, rang solemnly through the room. He had heard it before, like so many of the pieces his mother had played or made him play. Its sombre undertone made its way into Grantaire’s sketch, bleeding into the lines and shades that turned a little darker as he finished the last strokes around the piano. He adjusted the top, the lines breaking up the hard form of the piano and the softer flow of arms and clothes that made up Enjolras’ body on his sketchpad.

The melody broke away from the soft, timid accompaniment, raising a glimmer of hope against the steady rhythm the left hand provided, a reminder of order and only rising to push the defiant melody back into its previous state. Still, as it rose and rang singing, Grantaire felt an eagerness to prove itself, stand out against the dragging order. He looked up and over to the piano where Enjolras leaned forward, head almost touching the wooden top as he tried for a lyrical touch. He had closed his eyes, carefully finishing off the piece with single chords. Grantaire halted, trying desperately not to disturb him as he let the last one of the notes linger in the heavy air between them.

Paper rustled, Enjolras filed through a few books of sheet music before grabbing one that looked dog-eared and worn enough to have been in his possession for years. Grantaire could not place the name he could almost make out on the cover as Enjolras put it on the stand, opened it onto a page that fell open under his fingers, and began to play.

Even more tranquil and set, the melody filled the room, questioning whether he played it right. A pressuring accompaniment forced the melody to go on, fight on, soldier on as something terrifyingly sad seemed to wait to break forth. It followed in harsh, demanding chords that seemed to reprimand the soft beginning for its forbearance. The melody recoiled, dying into a pianissimo ere a slightly atonal melody took over. Only fragments of the theme were audible as Enjolras let the piece die out, last note bleeding into the silence it made space for. He remained seated at the piano, hands hovering above the keys, waiting for every last hint of his music to disappear.

‘Scriabin,’ he said in response to a question Grantaire had not dared ask, ‘Etude in C-sharp minor. It’s wonderfully depressing, isn’t it?’

‘Very festive,’ Grantaire replied in something he supposed to be funny.

Enjolras looked at him, a thought sitting on his shoulder that seemed all too pensive, ‘I could play carols but I’d rather not drive both of us crazy. I don’t play many happy things on the piano, do I?’

‘I wouldn’t know what to ask of you, if you gave me the task to find something happy,’ Grantaire admitted, tearing his eyes away from Enjolras and looking back down on his sketchpad where the posture did not match what he had seen in front of him.

‘Now, for an uplifting piece,’ Enjolras murmured and rubbed his temples, ‘I have to have something around here.’

For a few moments, all Grantaire heard was him rummaging around behind the piano. He came up with two or three music books that he placed on the stand and opened up.

His hands leaped onto the keys, jumping from note to note, adding appoggiaturas now and then as the melody of something less tranquil rose out of the instrument. Grantaire felt his foot bop along, he hummed softly and set his pencil back down.

‘Schubert?’ he asked absentmindedly, following the spring in the melody as he put short strokes on the paper.

‘Third Moment Musicaux,’ Enjolras replied, shoulders agitated with the expression of the song, short runs and chords interlinking and skipping in something akin to uplift, ‘I figured it would be a little nicer to listen to now.’

‘In preparation for Christmas, without playing actual Christmas carols,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘hey, do your dad and Thomas exchange gifts in the morning or the evening?’

‘Evening, after church,’ Enjolras looked up suddenly, as if he had remembered something, ‘speaking of which, I need to call someone. Will you excuse me a moment?’

‘Of course.’

Grantaire managed to finish off the sketch before Enjolras returned to the room. He had gone over the details and shades again, improving them where his eye was drawn to inconsistencies and evened out little bumps in the lines. Not sure about colouring the picture, he held it at arm’s length to observe it again. The pencil looked alright against the blank background but something was still missing.

Grantaire could not figure out, what. Eventually, he went with a background and something on the piano. After some deliberating, he added different sized picture frames with hinted images in them. Thomas and Percival were resembled in one of them, the former standing behind Percival on a chair. Both of them watched over Enjolras sitting at the piano, a fond smile on their lips that Grantaire had copied out of his memory of their arrival.

For the background, he structured the wall behind the piano into something different. Again, he outlined a picture frame, more detailed and with a wider setting. The space on canvas he left free and continued with the wall around it, sketching a few more details and fillets where the wallpaper was intermitted.

Enjolras returned, smiling at him when he looked up to check the door. He stuffed his phone in the back pocket of his jeans and rolled his shoulders to loosen them up. Grantaire, unsure whether he would say something, pushed his pencil behind his ear and followed him around the room with his eyes.

‘Did you manage to get something done?’ Enjolras sat back down on the piano stool.

‘I suppose you could call it that,’ Grantaire scratched his head, ‘I wanted to ask something, please feel free to tell me off as much as you need to for even asking but I’m kinda curious; did you get your hair just from Percival or do you look a bit like your mother?’

Enjolras blinked at him, mouth hanging open a little. Then, he shook visibly and cleared his throat.

‘I think I look a bit like either of them. There’s a photo of her in the hall and one in the library. It’s my parents’ wedding photo.’

Grantaire nodded slowly, determined to look at the pictures later to commit them to his memory. When he looked back up, he caught Enjolras still looking at him with something quizzing in his eyes. He threw him a smile that was supposed to seem innocent but Grantaire knew that nothing about his face made it seem like he was.

‘I should tell dad and Thomas that I know,’ Enjolras turned on the stool and rested his hands on top of the piano, ‘they try so hard to pass it off as their old friendship but with every time I am here I think about the restraint of it, the show they put on to keep me happy, in their minds, at least.’

‘You want to end their suffering, how noble of you,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘I’m sure they’d appreciate it. It must be hard to keep appearances all the time; if there is something, it must weigh heavy on them.’

‘I would be happier if they got to be out and honest about it,’ Enjolras contemplated, ‘nothing would change, except for a few small things but I don’t know how to address it. How do you tell your father that you know about his relationship with his best friend?’

Grantaire snickered, ‘”Dad, I know you’re snogging Thomas?”’

‘Be serious!’

‘I am wild,’ Grantaire shrugged with a grin, ‘honestly, Enjolras, you’re overthinking this. Neither of them will react scandalised or disapproving. Correct me, if I remember this wrong but aren’t usually the people coming out to somebody the nervous ones?’

‘Yes but I’m planning to force them to tell me. I am not at all comfortable with asking them but I want them to stop feeling like they can’t trust me with this. Also, what if I am merely assuming something, what if they are not together?’

‘And they sleep in one bed for fun?’ Grantaire lifted an eyebrow, ‘you’re smarter than that, Enjolras. For that thought alone, I should dunk you in your indoor pool.’

‘Shut up,’ for the moment, Enjolras seemed calmer about the issue and Grantaire decided to help out.

He left the drawing room where Enjolras once again tried to come up with something worth salvaging for a composition. The sound of melodies entangling into different moods followed him as he made his way back upstairs. Grantaire left his sketchpad in the guest room, hiding it under the blanket. Adonis hissed at him for disturbing his sleep but was easily persuaded to settle back on the pillow he had chosen for his rest after he had been administered some strokes and cuddles.

His next target was the framed photo on the counter in the hall. He spent five minutes drinking it in, the figure smiling out on the spectator, propped up against the chaise lounge in the conservatory. She was as blonde as Enjolras and Percival, had kind eyes and narrow shoulders but her smile drowned out everything that made her seem fragile. Her skin was pale to the point of translucency and yet, her dark blue eyes and wide smile made up for it entirely. It welcomed the people entering the house, leaving Grantaire to wonder how he had not spotted it before. He thought the photo might be one of the later ones taken of her, closer to her death that had been illness-related, as far as he knew.

The one in the library seemed to be a little older. The corners of the frame were chipped and rounded, as if they had been through more. In the photo, the same woman as in the hall held a child in her lap and smiled at something or somebody behind the camera. Maybe, he thought, Percival had taken the picture. Enjolras could not be older than four years on the photo, he laughed up at his mother who secured him in her lap with one arm around his body and held his hand up to her face.

Grantaire tried to commit the image to his memory. He had found what he needed to finish his drawing upstairs, during the night.

The front door opened and Grantaire wheeled around. Percival and Thomas were talking in the hall, he could hear coats being taken off and bags being placed on the ground. He glanced back at the photo a last time before joining them to offer his help with the groceries.

‘You’re alive,’ Percival grinned, ‘I am impressed with both of you. Enjolras told me every time you clashed and when he said you’d be joining us, I half expected to hear you argue the moment you stepped out of the car. Colour me impressed.’

The warm smile that spread on his lips made Grantaire’s skin crawl in the best way. Percival disappeared in his study a moment later, giving the door a little nudge but not closing it completely.

‘Did you get everything?’

Thomas closed one of the kitchen cupboards, ‘Surprisingly, yes. Usually, Percival has his mind set on one key ingredient that we just cannot find but this year seems to be an exception. And what have you been up to?’

Grantaire handed him the first batch of ingredients and groceries from the box on the kitchen table and Thomas put them away in the cupboard and pantry, ‘I sketched a little. Enjolras is probably still practising but I don’t have any assignments over the holidays. Just leaves more time to draw whatever I want, for a change.’

‘Don’t you have the freedom to draw what you like at the academy?’

‘In moderation,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘but inspiration doesn’t follow a straight line.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Thomas laughed at him, no malcontent in his eyes.

‘How was your trip into town? You were gone quite some time, did you sit down for a coffee or something?’

The muffled sound of something hitting the counter made him turn around. Grantaire looked at the mozzarella package on the surface next to the open fridge, then to Thomas who tried to scoop it up quickly without him noticing. Red patches appeared under the skin in his neck.

‘Grantaire –,‘ Thomas sighed and turned around, fiddling with the mozzarella, ‘listen, we haven’t told Enjolras because we’re still not sure how he’d react to it. I know he would be the last one to tell anyone they could not love who they… well, it doesn’t change anything about the way we feel and Percival suggested keeping it a secret until he could be sure Enjolras would not think we were trying to erase or replace his mother. I don’t know if he told you but we were very good friends throughout our adult life and both she and Percival mean a lot to me, Enjolras has become something of a son to me, even if I got most of the teenager years and the grief over the loss of his mother –‘

Grantaire cleared his throat, trying to stop Thomas in his rant, ‘I know. Enjolras told me.’

‘But he doesn’t know!’

‘Get Percival to talk to him, tell him what you just told me and see what happens. Of course he knows, Thomas! You are very clearly happy and support each other as much as you can. Enjolras isn’t blind!’

‘Not in all regards and things that don’t concern him,’ Thomas sighed, still fumbling around.

Grantaire took the packed mozzarella out of his hand and put it in the fridge, closing the door afterwards. Thomas’ last comment did not make any sense to him but he felt confident knowing that Enjolras would have a talk with his father and the person he had spoken off so highly.

In fact, when Percival cleared his throat after dinner and asked Enjolras to lend him an ear, he excused himself with a wink and left them to it. There was a picture in his room, waiting to be finished and he did not intend to disturb the re-visited family as they made new bounds.

Chapter Text

By the time he had finished his pencil sketch, he thought to have heard Enjolras come up the stairs. Grantaire had not heard his door shut and he was curious to know whether anything had come from the talk he supposed they had had. His unrest on the matter was relieved a few minutes later, when he heard a knock on his door.

‘Are you still awake?’ Enjolras’ voice came through the door, muffled and a little jittery, ‘Grantaire?’

‘Yes, still awake,’ he closed his sketchpad after a last glance over the painting he had completed, ‘come in.’

Enjolras opened the door and peeked through the gap. He wore a bathrobe over his pyjama and his hair fell lose over his shoulders; all in all, he looked ready to go to bed. Grantaire sat up and slid the sketchpad under his pillow, not entirely sure about him seeing what he had been working on.

‘Hey,’ Enjolras said softly and tiptoed over towards the bed, sitting down on the corner and pulling his legs up until he sat cross-legged with his arms around his knees, ‘I’d hoped you’d still be up. Uhm, Thomas and dad talked to me. They told me.’

‘Told you?’

‘That they’ve been together for years now,’ Enjolras rubbed his eyes, ‘I’m not sure what made them decide to do it but it went well. Dad told me he would never forget mum and I told him I knew that, also, that Thomas was the best thing happening to the family in years, with everything that’s going on with him and me not being around most of the year.’

‘So, you reassured them of your support. Did you hug them?’

Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘Yes, I did. I’m not an emotionless shell, after all.’

‘Did you call Thomas ‘papa’?’ Grantaire grinned and winked at him.

In response, Enjolras tried to hit him, Grantaire dodged him, breaking into a giggle, ‘Don’t overdo it, R. It was funny the first time around.’

Grantaire settled against the headboard of the bed, ‘Why are you here, then? Nothing bad happened, right?’

‘No, it’s all great,’ Enjolras shook his head, ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

Enjolras began fiddling with his fingers, outlining his nails with the pad of the opposing index finger, ‘You’re here and you reminded me how tricky it is to come out to anyone. Maybe, you just helped me see it from their perspective.’

Grantaire felt the need to wrap his arms around himself, ‘I’m glad for all of you. With that out of the picture, you’ll get the opportunity to grow into a new, different family. Really, that’s a beautiful thing!’

He grabbed the sketchpad from under the pillow and opened it. After a brief moment of consideration, he shoved it towards Enjolras. The only light he had kept on was the string of fairy lights, hardly sufficient lighting but Enjolras took it nonetheless and inspected it.

‘What is this?’ he sounded curious enough to make Grantaire clear his throat and scoot a little closer again.

‘It’s what I thought of giving to your dad and Thomas. I don’t know them well enough to buy them something proper but with this, I thought, I could capture something that seems very essential to your family. It’s not much but it’s all I could come up with.’

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras shook his head, ‘this is positively beautiful. I’m sure they’ll love it, I mean, you incorporated everyone in this.’

He handed the sketchpad back with a smile, ‘Is this what you were drawing this afternoon? Why you asked about my mother?’

‘Maybe,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I wanted to get her right, after all. Couldn’t just assume she was as blonde as you and your father.’

‘You’re a good friend,’ Enjolras smiled, ‘I’m sure Thomas’ll insist on adopting you tomorrow evening.’

He ran a hand through his hair and shook his curls out. The grin on his lips looked self-satisfied to Grantaire who tried to put the sketchpad down without letting show how much his fingers shook.

For a moment, Enjolras just sat on the edge of his bed, staring into space. Then, he snapped forward, pulled Grantaire into a quick hug and darted out the room with a quick, ‘Good night and merry Christmas!’

Grantaire remained seated on his bed for a few minutes before he managed to pull himself out of a temporary paralysis. He glanced to his wrist watch on the night stand. The hands pointed on ten past twelve.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he sighed and slipped under the blanket.

***

He woke up curled around Adonis on the blanket next to him. His cat made soft sounds in his sleep, somewhere between snores and wheezing. Grantaire watched his small ribcage move with his breaths, steadying himself in the repetitive nature of it. He got up a few minutes later, trying not to disturb Adonis in his sleep. The house was still quiet when he slipped out of his room with his washbag, and into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and stepped under the warm spray, tilting his head under the water to soak his hair.

It took him a few minutes to loosen up his shoulders under the shower, wash his hair and push it back until even the last strands were out of his eyes, flattened back by the water. Even after washing up he remained under the spray for a few more minutes, allowing the water to wash over him and rush down his back. He hoped the absolute silence would help with the subtly pounding headache that built in the back of his head.

With a slight panic, Grantaire counted back how much he had drunk the day before, only to realise that he should be hydrated enough. He swallowed back an outcry that turned into a muffled sob.

‘Not at Christmas, please, not at Christmas,’ he begged to no one in particular, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples, ‘not, when I have a chance to actually enjoy being with other people for a few days! Please, no. Enjolras doesn’t need to find out, he knows the rest already!’

His head rewarded him with a more prominent pound to the inside of his forehead. Grantaire turned off the water, stepped out of the shower and dried himself off before dressing in the nicer shirt Enjolras had insisted on packing for him. Knowing he would look suitable for Christmas helped him ignore his headache for a few minutes as he tiptoed back to the guest room and wrapped up the sketch as much as he could.

Adonis lifted his head off the blanket and meowed at him sleepily. Grantaire set down his pyjama on the bed and spent a few minutes cuddling him awake, until Adonis seemed ready to get breakfast. Before he followed his cat, Grantaire swallowed one of the painkillers he carried on his person for emergencies. They would keep it at bay just a little. Maybe, he thought, he would get through the day. What came after, he did not want to think about.

Percival sat at the kitchen table and stirred slowly in a steaming pot. Thomas stood with the back to the door, bent over a few pans and pots on the stove, all of them steaming and at least one of them, sizzling.

‘Good morning,’ Percival said without looking up, drawling a little.

Thomas looked back over his shoulder, ‘Oh, good morning Grantaire! Merry Christmas! Do you wanna join Enjolras in the dining room? He’s decorating the tree. At least, I hope he is.’

Grantaire nodded slowly and left the kitchen again after having put down a bowl of food for Adonis. He slipped through the gap between door and door frame, into the room. Enjolras balanced on a stool, trying to get several ornaments onto the branches of a fir tree next to the fire place.

‘Hi, hand me that string of lights?’

Grantaire hurried over and picked up the carefully sorted fairy lights, lifting them up to Enjolras who took them and began draping them around the tree. He concentrated on the task, making sure to distribute the little bulbs on the branches. Grantaire held the strings up for him and made sure they didn’t tangle up as he made his way around the tree.

‘Dad has one of the worse days today,’ Enjolras sighed a little, ‘he might shut down before the evening.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Was it the shopping yesterday?’

‘Probably,’ Enjolras finished and jumped off the stool, ‘look at that, isn’t that pretty!’

‘Wonderful,’ Grantaire agreed, averting his gaze towards the tree just in time to avoid Enjolras’ eyes flicking back to him, ‘what are you going to do with the rest of the day?’

‘Don’t know, really,’ Enjolras shrugged, ‘I’ll probably end up helping Thomas in the kitchen for a bit. By three, I need to be at the church.’

‘At church? The service doesn’t start until five, if I remember correctly,’ Grantaire scratched his head.

‘Definitely correct. I play the organ, started to help out a few years back when the organist was needed in town more often, even over Christmas. Now, I do it every year but I need to head down to the church and look at the music they want me to play ahead of the service starting. Would you like to accompany me?’

‘I haven’t been to that church in years,’ Grantaire admitted, pulling his shoulders up, ‘my parents didn’t really think of it as necessary and most of the time, my mother had Christmas engagements, anyway. I don’t think I have set foot onto church grounds for at least five years.’

‘You should definitely come, then,’ Enjolras’ eyes twinkled, ‘not because of the religion stuff, I hardly believe in some kind of deity that guides our every step. Maybe there is something up there but if there is, it allows an awful lot of wrong that I cannot accept. So, I look at church and religion as conveyors of culture but everything is rather cloudy and should be observed critically.’

Grantaire opted not to challenge him on any of his points, for the sake of the holiday spirit and his still pounding head. Instead, he nodded along and let Enjolras rant on a little.

Thomas called them over into the kitchen a little later, just to load a few pots and bowls into their arms, ‘Put them in the pantry, boys. Just before you run off. I suppose we’ll see you there in a bit. Do you have any plans to kill the time?’

Enjolras checked his wrist watch, ‘Quick lunch and then I’ll have to get going. Grantaire, you’re joining me?’

‘Suppose I will,’ Grantaire calculated in his head when he would get to take another painkiller and realised that it would not be for a few hours, ‘I haven’t been back to that church in ages, maybe I can just sit in a corner and listen to the service where no one sees me.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you can bear Enjolras company,’ Thomas agreed and smiled at them, ‘the gallery is pretty empty, usually. Most people stay downstairs and get their kids closer to the nativity play.’

Enjolras nodded along, his face relaxed as he stirred the mashed potatoes, ‘Yes, you can definitely join me up there. Most of the service is quiet, anyway.’

Grantaire felt their eyes on him, even Percival looked up from the table where he had been immersed in an ebook reader. He cleared his throat awkwardly, one hand in the back of his head, rubbing where there had been hair not so long ago. It still felt weird to hit skin instead of a mess of curls and knots.

‘Yes,’ he choked out, ‘I suppose that’s a good idea.’

***

Enjolras knocked on his door after their quick, light lunch, a woollen cap on his hair and his coat around his shoulders, ‘You ready to go?’

Grantaire grabbed a sketchbook and a few pencils off the bed, just in case he needed to kill some time whilst Enjolras practised his pieces, slipped into his coat and pulled his beanie on. He followed Enjolras down the stairs and into the hallway where they put on their shoes, said a quick good-bye to Percival and Thomas and left the house again.

Grantaire thought it must have had snowed again, the snow was fresh on the driveway as they passed the gate and started their way into the village. Enjolras seemed in high spirits, he kicked up a little snow every now and then and hummed a song under his breath as the cold bit on his nose and cheeks peeking out under cap and scarf. The skin had reddened a little by the time they reached the cast-iron gate leading into the church yard.

There were a few people who stood outside the huge door leading into the actual building. Grantaire saw a few faces amongst them that seemed vaguely familiar, definite shadows of the past. The vicar, easily to identify by his robe, looked up from the song sheet he had inspected and gave off a relieved sigh.

‘Enjolras, how good to see you again! I take it you are providing us with the musical accompaniment tonight?’

‘Yes, vicar, it’ll be my pleasure,’ Enjolras replied and shook the offered hand, ‘shall I get upstairs and prepare?’

‘Oh, a good idea,’ the vicar nodded earnestly, ‘it should all be heated up, if your fingers make any trouble just let the sexton know.’

Enjolras looked back at Grantaire, almost as if asking what he would do. Grantaire nodded slowly.

‘I’ll stay out here for a moment, maybe wander around a little.’

As he turned away and began to make his way over to the graveyard, he heard somebody behind him ask Enjolras whether he would stay until the Christmas fundraiser and ball, inviting him to join their group. Grantaire did not wait to hear his reply and started making his way over to a certain tomb stone, black and looming in the snow. He stopped in front of it, looked around and took his beanie off before clearing his throat.

‘Hi granny.’

The tomb stayed silent. Grantaire sniffled a bit, the cold made his nose run a little and he had lost feeling in parts of his face. Again, he cleared his throat.

‘Yeah, I figured as much,’ he leaned against the tomb stone opposite his grandmother’s grave, ‘it’s become very quiet after you left. There are no fairy tales any more, no one laughs about their own silly jokes now and mum is even worse now.’

Grantaire kicked up a little snow. The flakes flew into the air and settled on top of the grave.

‘Grantaire?’ A voice from behind him made him whirl around, ‘I thought I’d recognised you. I haven’t seen you here in quite some time, you really avoided the sacred ground like a vampire the sun.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Grantaire felt like jumping into the air.

‘Only his worldly deputy,’ the vicar chuckled softly.

Grantaire swallowed back a lump in his throat, ‘Reverend! I assure you, there’s been no active avoidance on my part. I thought the grave was talking back there, for a moment.’

‘I’m sure I heard of substances that would have that effect,’ the reverend stepped over another grave, next to him, ‘how are you doing, Grantaire?’

‘I’m back here, is that answer enough?’

‘I saw you came here with Enjolras. I didn’t know you were acquainted.’

‘We study at the academy. Not together, obviously, he’s the music prodigy and I draw a little.’

The vicar rocked on his feet in the snow for a moment before clearing his throat, ‘Your grandmother would want you to be happy. Before she left this world, she talked of you, you know? How she wanted you to step out of the shadow.’

Grantaire nodded, ‘There are a lot of things my grandmother never knew about. She was better out without getting to know what would be after she left.’

The vicar remained quiet next to him, maybe waiting for him to say something, maybe for a movement. Grantaire pulled his shoulders up and pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat.

‘I’ll join Enjolras. Hope you have a good service,’ he nodded and turned away, towards the church.

Chapter Text

Enjolras studied a book of hymns and sheet music when Grantaire joined him on the balcony. He already sat at the organ and leaned forward a little, tapping a rhythm on the bench and humming along with the melody. There were a few chairs to each side of the organ, still empty and waiting for people who might be looking for a different perspective onto the service. Grantaire took his coat off, the church was heated after all and it seemed ridiculous to hide behind a few layers when he would be sweating in a little while.

He leaned on the gallery, looking into the wide room underneath it. There were a few of the elders who had already helped with proceedings in the church when he was little, walking up and down along the pews to distribute leaflets in preparation for the service. The vicar was busy herding a group of children into the front, presumably the group responsible for the nativity play. Grantaire watched as an angel pushed Mary who tripped, turned around and almost retaliated when the vicar put an end to it. He saw the final reminders being read out to the children and watched them as they took their positions to go through their scenes one last time.

‘There you are,’ Enjolras turned around from the organ and joined him, ‘having fun watching the kids?’

‘You make it sound sleazy,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘I think this might actually start to be a good way to spend my time.’

Enjolras grinned softly, ‘I went through the pieces the vicar has planned for tonight. Seems like nothing out of the ordinary for tonight, a lot of famous, well-known chorales and songs. Have you got a leaflet, you could sing along.’

‘Maybe,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘I’m not much of a singer.’

‘No time like the present,’ Enjolras shrugged somewhat easily, ‘no one’s gonna hear you sing, anyway.’

‘Now, it sounds like a threat.’

They watched the scenes put on by the children, maybe the dress rehearsal. The play seemed to concentrate on the ox and donkey in the stable, and how they experienced the arrival of strangers at their door. Grantaire sighed and switched off. He knew the story, after all, it was a repetition he had lived through enough times to sleep through it, and watching fifteen kids put on a play – or trying to – did not make it easier. Enjolras tapped on the wooden beam of the balustrade. Something in his eyes expressed worry but Grantaire could not see a reason for it. His head still pounding softly, he sat down and rested his arms on the balustrade, closing his eyes to rest them a little before the service.

‘You okay?’ Enjolras’ voice drifted towards him and enveloped him like a cotton ball.

‘’M okay,’ Grantaire mumbled, ‘just a small headache.’

‘You got painkillers?’

‘Took one this morning,’ Grantaire swallowed the lump forming in his throat, ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.’

Enjolras hummed and went back to the organ where he sat down and played on the keyboard without actually pressing the keys. With the quiet clicking and soft humming, it took only a few minutes for Grantaire to doze off.

He woke up with a coat laid over him. His back protested a little as he sat up and looked around.

‘Just in time,’ Enjolras grinned at him, ‘are you a little better?’

Grantaire checked his watch and took another painkiller, ‘Should be fine.’

‘I think the church is a little fuller now,’ Enjolras nodded over the balustrade, ‘seems like I’ll be getting the signal soon.’

‘You don’t seem nervous in any way.’

‘It’s just a few hymns and traditional Christmas songs,’ Enjolras nodded and opened his music book, ‘most of them are the same every year.’

‘The classics,’ Grantaire agreed.

For a moment, he listened to the hustle and bustle of people downstairs. He shrugged off Enjolras’ coat that had been placed over his shoulders and leaned forward to get a better view. The nativity kids had been seated to the side, mothers making sure their costumes remained in place with safety-pins. One angel’s wings looked a bit tousled but the child beamed with red cheeks into the room.

The vicar strode forward and looks followed him as he nodded to the sides in greeting. He took a stand in the middle of the choir and looked up to the balustrade. Enjolras who had checked the mirror above him, lifted his hands off the keyboard and began to play.

Joy to the World filled the air and yet, as much as Grantaire wanted to hear the well-known melody of a choral dragged and overused over the years, he could not ignore the way Enjolras managed to make it personal, filling the longer notes with flourishes and trills. It was undoubtedly Enjolras.

The vicar welcomed everybody on this high day, the rejoicing of the world audible to every believer – Grantaire desperately wanted to turn around and see whether Enjolras shared the sentiment but then the first song was announced and he knew Enjolras had better things to do. This time it was O Come, All Ye Faithful and the congregation joined in as Enjolras kept the flourishes to a minimum. In Grantaire’s mind, having him limit himself and his creative spirit so much was a crime.

They watched the nativity play from the balcony which seemed to go smoothly except for one moment when Joseph stepped on an angel’s gown and the shepherds interrupted the donkey’s monologue with a somewhat premature arrival. Enjolras had to play a few hymns during the play since every scene closed with a song. The First Noel seemed to close the play, Grantaire watched as the vicar stepped to the front and began to say a few words about the shared love and mercy Christmas meant to people, families and nations.

It was at this point that Grantaire let his eyes wander through the nave. Almost by accident, it seemed, his gaze locked on a familiar head in the congregation as he spotted Thomas and Percival, sitting to the side where Percival had some room for his cane. Both seemed to listen intently to what the vicar had to say, hands intertwined between them. Seeing them so open in the church made Grantaire’s stomach lurch. He remembered his mother telling him that the church would accept his orientation even less than her, how grateful he should be she did not drag him to the vicar, how well he was off with her instead of the heavenly fury. It had been on that day he stopped going to church, no matter where he was.

He smiled, seeing Thomas and Percival gave him hope where he had thought it barren. His gaze wandered off, searching through the faces for something he was not sure of.

He found it looking to the other side, almost exactly opposite from Enjolras’ family. The man’s face was what he noticed first, leaner than he remembered and with sunken, deep eyes that watched the children grow more agitated as the vicar continued. He held his head  high and seemed to sit too straight to appear natural, his posture captured as one who is used to looking out for something, scanning the close proximity.

Grantaire followed the line of his shoulders and arms to the hand he held between him and the woman next to him, mirroring Thomas and Percival. Only, that his mother did not share the smile his father wore looking at the children.

She looked the same as just a few days before when she had told him so effectively that nothing could make her proud of him. Her hair was impeccable, not a single strand rebelled against its placement and Grantaire was sure that the next few pews would still be able to smell the hairspray. He had thought his parents would not be around for Christmas, taking the car and fleeing for the city or a distant relative’s house where they had dragged him off to.

All in all, he had not been prepared to see his parents in the same vicinity and felt his shoulders tighten. Grantaire shrunk back against his chair, prepared to duck, should his father decide to look up to the balcony. He felt guilty in doing it, his father did not deserve his cowardice but he would not have put it past his mother to make a scene on Christmas, in church, for all that mattered.

Instead, he tried to calm his breathing with a few exercises he had learned years before, concentrating more on the way Enjolras shifted on his seat as he prepared the last hymn and the recessional. The music sheets rustled a little, wood sighed under Enjolras’ feet and the vicar spoke his last ‘Amen.’

The congregation fumbled for their leaflets, opening the page to find Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. The verses bled into each other and then the song ended, the vicar wished everybody Happy Christmas and nodded for Enjolras to begin the recessional.

Grantaire caught his gaze, the quietly mouthed “Don’t worry” before he began to play Händel’s Organ Concerto No. 5 in F. It did not hit him as hard as he expected, and yet. Every other organist would have had an easy pick at Bach at Christmas. Instead, Enjolras had opted for someone not too far away in time and era but not Bach. A small part of Grantaire wanted to believe he had been influenced in his choice by knowing Grantaire close by and having come to learn of his particular disposition when it came to Bach.

He listened to every scaling sequence, triumphantly declaring the arrival of something good in the world, watching Enjolras’ back and the way he shifted as the tempo picked up and got more demanding. Grantaire felt Enjolras’ spell being cast over him as his fingers flew over the keyboard. He drowned out the sound of people getting up and leaving downstairs, ignored the excited cries of children realising just how close they were to opening their presents. All that mattered to him in that exact moment was Enjolras coaxing a jubilating, exultant sound out of the old organ with all his might.

Grantaire imagined getting up after he finished, throwing his arms around his neck and kissing him hard, in the church, under the watchful eye of whoever looked up or down at them. He imagined stealing Enjolras’ breath, leaving him panting and blushing. It was the first time he felt himself dip into a notion as such with ease, certainly the first time he consciously decided to give in and dream about it. It was the first time he allowed himself to stray in his thoughts after the realisation that had struck him like a lightning bolt after the gala.

Enjolras, sitting at the organ in the building of an institution he did not believe in, be it through habit, a sense of obligation or the way Thomas and Percival had smiled at each other, was what Grantaire strove for. The glorious figure of the angel, sitting at the organ or piano, playing with a force that made the ceiling tremble and Jericho’s walls come down for a second time, bleeding light and joy into every single note, that was what Grantaire had chosen to love with all his heart and as he looked and watched as Enjolras finished off the piece, he felt his breath hitch in his throat, depriving his lungs of air.

It hurt to know what he strove for, hurt to know his own inability and unworthiness. Enjolras was for someone better than him, someone honest and good. The longer he allowed himself to dream, he knew that, the harder it would be to tear himself away. He had indulged himself by allowing his mind to rest on the idea of joining Enjolras and his family for Christmas. It was because of the realisation, fresh in his heart and blood that he had been weak enough to accept the offer. It was the last indulgence before the cold turkey.

He had known that from the moment his heart had beaten treacherously in his throat when Enjolras stepped in front of him as his mother unleashed her fury on him. He had known then that all he pretended to aim and strive for was a game, a mind game he could not win. All he could do was fill his mind with soft, warm memories to soften the blow.

***

He dodged his parents by staying with Enjolras as he packed up and made sure to leave the organ loft as neat and tidy as it certainly had not been before. Grantaire followed him down the stairs and into the main room where the vicar forced a small portion of the offertory into Enjolras’ pocket, telling him he would endorse exploitation, if he did not pay him. The comment made Grantaire realise that the old vicar perhaps knew them better than he had ever thought to consider. As Enjolras stuffed the bills into his pocket and said his goodbyes, the vicar took Grantaire’s hand and shook it.

‘It was refreshing to see you back here. Be safe on your way forward, may the Lord watch over you and your decisions. Rest assured, Grantaire, you are not what other people make of you. There is no place for fear and hate in this house of God. He sees you and loves you, as you are.’

He crossed himself over Grantaire, his kind eyes sparkling, ‘Go now, my son, and celebrate the love in this world.’

‘Happy Christmas, Mr Myriel,’ Grantaire said, thanking a long forgotten memory that provided him with the cleric’s name, ‘and thank you!’

Again, he followed Enjolras, this time out of the church and over the still snowy but more or less trampled church yard. Thomas and Percival waited by the car, the last people still around. As Percival pulled Enjolras in a hug that seemed partially to be a means to hide his tears, Thomas patted Grantaire’s shoulder.

‘Happy Christmas, lad.’

‘Merry Christmas, Thomas.’

They waited in silence until father and son pulled apart a little, either of them illuminated under the lamppost Thomas had parked next to. Their heads looked like they had been torched, light blond hair falling in soft curls around their faces.

Eventually, they moved onwards, getting into the car and back to the house. Percival still held Enjolras’ hand in the back, both sharing a moment neither Thomas nor Grantaire felt like intruding on. Something had changed in their expressions, mournful and elevated at the same time.

Grantaire pulled the gate open for the car and closed it after Thomas had passed him. Jogging down the driveway, he could see the windows alight with Christmas decorations and candle arches, inviting the cold and freezing into its comfortable warmth in the library where the fairy lights around the tree extended the shining greeting.

They got to work quickly, the whole family a well-practised team in setting the table for the Christmas dinner they were to share. Grantaire sat down next to Enjolras who seemed giddy, as if he had remembered something long forgotten and far off, regaining a moment’s notice into his childhood as a wheel of tradition and habit was set into motion.

Percival handed out the food to start, then Thomas took over, Enjolras and Grantaire just shared a look over the table. They ate quietly for a moment before Grantaire broke the silence to compliment Thomas on what he had cooked up. It was then that the conversation started flowing again, apparently, the nativity play had reminded Percival of a few funny things that happened to him back in law school and Thomas added parts of the stories now and then for detail. Enjolras recalled his own involvement in the play, complaining about being an angel every year, only for Percival to point out a memorable year when a six year old Enjolras supposedly had been jealous enough to try and light the first shepherd on fire with the candle he had carried to bring light to the world. Enjolras blushed to the tip of his ears and defended himself weakly. Grantaire could only marvel at the way the others interacted with each other. For him, Christmas dinner was a silent necessity before the children could be sent to bed with their presents.

For Enjolras’ family, on the other hand, the whole thing seemed to have a different value. They laughed and shared embarrassing stories of each other, not minding the chaos in the least as a wine glass was moved with a little too much passion. He had opted for water and grape juice that looked convincing enough but surprised him every time he sipped on it.

The roasted piece of meat on the table smelled delicious but Grantaire could not possibly eat more after he finished his portion with all the sides. Judging by the way Enjolras stared down his sprouts and potatoes, he struggled to eat more, himself. He still had the fork in one hand, pushing the vegetables around on the plate, busying himself.

‘Do you want to light the candles?’ Percival looked up at him, a smile on his lips that seemed a little less strained than a few hours earlier.

Enjolras all but shot out of his chair and grabbed some matches off the mantelpiece. He set to work, lighting one candle after another and lighting the wood in the fireplace, as well. It took him less than a minute, speaking of practised moves and a habit edged in time. Grantaire watched the precision Enjolras showed in holding the matches to the candle wicks just long enough to light them before moving on, the shine of multiple flames reflected in his eyes.

‘I’m done,’ he declared a moment later, sitting back down, ‘tree’s lit, you can start the CD, dad.’

Percival rolled his eyes at him fondly but pressed a button on the remote in his hand. The CD player in the corner kicked to life, starting an organ piece. The soft sounds accompanied the way Enjolras seemed to vibrate in his seat.

Grantaire looked between him and Thomas who shook his head, ‘One should think you’d grown up a little more when it comes to Christmas.’

‘After all,’ Percival joined in, ‘Christmas is the epitome of consumeristic capitalism.’

‘Oh shut up, dad,’ Enjolras got up again, as if shot from a spring, ‘here, that’s your present.’

He grabbed a slim parcel from underneath the tree and passed it along. Percival considered him with a look before carefully opening the paper wrapping. Under red paper and golden string, a CD case appeared that Grantaire identified as a self-recorded one.

‘You recorded yourself?’ Percival looked at the CD, turning it over to read the number of songs listed on the back in Enjolras’ neat handwriting, ‘these are wonderful, all our favourites. A little Schubert for Thomas, Liszt for me an even your mother’s favourite Chopin pieces? Thank you, Enjolras. This means more than anything to me.’

He motioned for Enjolras to step closer and embraced him, allowing Enjolras to hide his face in his shoulder. Thomas caught the CD case before it could clatter to the ground, inspecting it himself.

‘Percy,’ he said softly, ‘you didn’t read all of these. There are a few original pieces on here. Enjolras, you cannot imagine what this means to us. We shall not listen to anything else until you provide us with more material!’

Enjolras stepped out of his father’s arms and rested a hand on Thomas’ shoulder instead, smiling down at him, ‘They all came from moments when I thought about you. Everybody I love, condensed into three to seven minutes.’

‘I see. A Night at the Library, I wonder who that’s about, Percy,’ Thomas grinned, ‘A Well-Kept Secret. Huh, I suppose you really knew, didn’t you? And this one, Late Night Conversations. Who’s that about, Enjolras? The time I helped you figure out that it was acceptable to ask a boy to the Leaver’s Ball? Or when your father made you promise not to run off with Feuilly after you met him for the first time?’

Enjolras seemed to choke, Grantaire noticed with wonder. His friend blushed and coughed a few times, seemingly trying to avoid all of them.

‘It’s about all the people I love. This whole CD is a collection of love and emotion, everyone represented on here deserves the best the world has to offer. And no, it’s not just about you two, as much as I do love you.’

‘What was that about Feuilly?’ Grantaire asked, lost for words, otherwise, ‘Did I miss something? I will have to ask Courfeyrac!’

‘Don’t!’ Enjolras was quick to call, ‘you won’t get the truth out of him, just rumours and stories. He loves to make up more than there is to it. When I first met Feuilly, I had a very healthy, friendly crush on him. It doesn’t matter, anyway! Didn’t you have something, as well, R?’

Grantaire looked at him carefully but decided to indulge him. He got up and fetched the wrapped sketch from where he had left it under the tree.

‘I’m sorry I don’t have anything else. It is something very simple and could in no way be considered close to enough in exchange for your hospitality and willingness to accommodate not only me but Adonis, too. I hope it is enough to make you look at me favourable, as I intrude on your Christmas,’ he handed it to Percival who opened it with careful fingers, peeling back the paper and unfolding the sketch.

Thomas leaned in closer, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of what Grantaire had given them. For a moment, no one said a word and Grantaire watched as Percival’s fingers moved over the rough pencil lines making up Enjolras’ outline at the piano, further along the instrument and the picture frames on top of it and on the wall behind it. His thumb came to rest on the face of his late wife, smiling down gently.

Enjolras moved a little, shifting his weight from one foot to the other but he, too, was silent. Then, Percival moved. He pushed himself onto the cane he had kept close by and took a step towards Grantaire who fought the reflex to take a step back.

‘Grantaire,’ he said, as quiet as one trying not to spook an animal, ‘Grantaire, this is more than enough to repay a lifetime of hospitality and friendship. Friends of Enjolras are our friends and always welome in our home. I understand that it is hard to accept friendship and love when one is not used to being offered them and it hurts my heart to see you show the signs of neglect and abuse, things I deal with in my job more than I would like to. Grantaire, I see children as young as two or three recoil and shy away from every hand held out to them, I see them the same way I see you. Rest assured, you will never face doubt, demands or conditions in this house. Enjolras brought you here to celebrate Christmas with us and that you will. This work of yours will be given a place where every visitor will see it immediately a sign of what a family can be. You have a keen eye, Grantaire, and it would be my pleasure to see you rise above what you have been led to believe about yourself. Please, call me Percy!’

Grantaire felt his arms around his shoulders, squeezing him gently with a motion only a father could master. He was reminded of how his own father used to hug him after days spent at school or the first terms at the academy. Sometimes, he had come into his room to hug him after a particularly bad practise session, trying to pour oil on the troubled waters his mother left behind.

Percival – Percy – patted his back, ‘You now have a place here, Grantaire, whenever you should need it.’

He sat back down, careful and slower than before, the effort clearly written in his face but he seemed pleased with himself. Once it became apparent that no one else would address the scene that had passed, Thomas got up to hand Enjolras and Grantaire one present each.

The next organ piece started and captured them as one present after the other was opened, wine glasses were refilled and sometime later they managed to trick their stomachs into thinking they were ready for some dessert. Grantaire ended up in one of the armchairs, legs over the armrest, a book on Dürer’s technique resting against his knees and a thick, woollen hoop scarf in the deepest bottle green around his neck that Enjolras had given him. Adonis had joined them and rested around his shoulders like a second scarf, probably nestled into the comfortable warmth Grantaire felt building up in his neck.

He watched Enjolras and his fathers, as he had decided to address them in his mind, play a game of cards on the table. They had settled down, the night had fallen and the darkness had enveloped the house.

Inside, the cold and terrifying did not reach them for the time being. The fireplace and his cat kept him grounded in the feeling that it could not get to him.

For as long as they were together and celebrating Christmas in something resembling a family, he could imagine having a place there without disappointing Thomas and Percy for how much of an act he put on. As long as they were in the room with him, he did not have to worry about the thoughts invading the dark of his nights.

As long as he was in their company, he could push back the thought of his suitcase upstairs, of Adonis’ transport box and where he had left his boots next to the entrance when they had come back. His head was still aching with the throbbing pains that blinded him with their pulse.

Chapter Text

Not much remained to be done once his alarm went off. Grantaire got up quietly, got dressed and stored his pyjamas in his suitcase before zipping it up. He threw on his coat and grabbed the case and Adonis’ transport box, making sure not to startle him. The door closed behind him quietly as he tip-toed along the hallway, towards the stairs. He stepped over the squeaky board he had noticed on the first evening and passed Enjolras’ room. Apparently, he had left the door open a smidge, Grantaire saw the warm, yellowy light of more fairy lights above his bed, a desk in front of the far window and Enjolras, sleeping soundly with his head resting on a pile of pillows, hair spread out on the covers like a halo.

Grantaire tore his eyes off the face of his friend, moving on to the top of the stairs. For a moment, he listened to the silence in the house, the lack of any sound whatsoever before starting down the stairs, into the hall.

His boots stood next to the door where he had left them, he slipped them on and tied the laces with harsh, quick moves before he could think about his decision again. Adonis meowed quietly, showing him that he had woken up.

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire whispered, ‘I’ll feed you soon, we just have to get going.’

He stepped out into the dark morning. Snow crunched under his boots and his breath billowed in front of his mouth, he tugged his coat around his torso and started walking. His suitcase was dragged along, not really rolling, just gliding over the snow.

Grantaire strode forward without looking back at the house. He felt the headache pound in his skull, the early onset of the muscular rigidity that would prevent him from doing anything for a few days. The decision had come to him easily once he had thought about Enjolras finding out.

It was easier, he had decided, to leave and travel back to the academy on his own and endure the crippling pain and paralysis on his own, within his own four walls. Even with Percy there, Grantaire could not bring himself to come clean. It seemed to him that after he had met Enjolras’ father, he had lost any ground on which to place his own mental health struggle. After all the time he had been affected by it, he had come no further and still searched for a way to hide, rather than challenge himself.

Almost running down the hill, he made his way into the village quickly and without looking back. He had left a note on the bed but did not expect Enjolras to pay attention to a single word he had written down, it had been too much of a challenge to find the right words so he had given up after a few minutes of rolling around words without making any sense of them. After all, Jehan was the one with the literary degree and ink flowing through their veins.

He made it to the station with fifteen minutes to spare and bought himself a ticket, looking over his shoulder whenever a noise spooked him. It took him what little time he had had left to drag his suitcase to the platform and once he had accomplished that, he sat on the bench, staring into the snowy roadbed in which the tracks led towards the horizon like dark, polished ladders. Grantaire felt an itch to draw something, anything to put an outlet to his mind and get rid of the sloshing mess of thoughts in his brain.

There was no time left to dig through his bag for pencils and a sketchbook, he realised as the train rolled into the station and screeched to a halt. Grabbing the transport box and suitcase, he stepped closer to the train and waited for the doors to open. Adonis meowed in his box and Grantaire whispered something through the lattice to calm him down and get him to settle back into the blanket.

He made his way to his assigned seat by the windows and sat down, placing the transport box next to himself. Adonis could not roam around freely, even after he opened the little door. His cat did not like the harness and leash he put on him but it was necessary, if he wanted to allow him some freedom on the train. Once he had found a position for himself, half wrapped into his coat and with his knees propped up against the back rest of the seat in front of him, he dug through his bag again for cat treats and sketchbooks. With hours to idle away, he flipped it open to no page in particular, flicking through things he had started some time ago, future projects for his courses and a few things he had sketched to keep the idea in his mind for a point in time when he would be more open for its realisation.

There was a sketch of two figures he wanted to finish soon, it had been an idea and he had been fully convinced that he would get around to it, eventually. He thought about the moment he had first had the idea to draw it, back when Bahorel had said something about an altar Grantaire would turn to to pray and perish at. For him, it had been one of the greatest jokes he had ever come up with, for Grantaire, it had been an inspiration. Forming the outlines of those bodies, one kneeling in front of the stone altar, the other one lying on top of it as if sacrificed for the pleasure of a cruel god, had been easy enough. The greater details had as of yet to be added and Grantaire’s head could not stop coming up with ideas for decorations for the altar itself, the steps leading up to it, characteristics and expressions that all allowed different interpretations of the situation depicted.

Grantaire sighed and tried not to think about what he had done by leaving the homely house of Enjolras and his family. There was no point in denying that he had run away from something again. He had felt overwhelmed by the thought of spending time with people who actively made an effort. He had been overwhelmed from the moment Enjolras all but forced him to come but as always, his mind had needed a few days to come back up to speed.

The train was set into motion and Grantaire looked up from his sketchbook to watch the houses near the station pass by slowly then faster, he watched as the snowy hills of his childhood and the leafless trees got dragged by and through his vision. There was the candy shop, the old school he had never seen from the inside since it had been in Enjolras’ territory on the other side of the village, and then there was the church where he had heard him play mere hours before. It felt like a lifetime lay between the two moments and it made him long for the day before when he had been able to only watch Enjolras, drown out everything else around him and forget about it all.

The train passed the crossing and the boom gate, leaving it to be a mere flitter in his sight. For a moment, Grantaire had to pinch himself, trying to get rid of the image of the small car standing behind the bar, waiting to drive towards the station. It had been of the same build and colour as Combeferre’s.

He pulled back from the window, looking around in the cabin and fumbling for his phone. There was nothing more for him to do, so he opened his contacts, chose one and pressed the call button. Lifting the phone to his ear, he tried to steady his breath, preparing for the probability of someone picking up.

When the mailbox clicked on, he could not hold back the relieved sigh. He waited for the little message to play in its entirety. The beep returned his attention back to what he was doing.

‘Hi, uhm, this is Grantaire,’ he began quietly, cleared his throat and continued, ‘uhm, your son. I mean, you know that, of course, you only have the one, otherwise you would have to explain some things to me, I guess. Anyway.’

He leaned back in his seat in the futile attempt to come to rest, ‘I just wanted to wish you Merry Christmas, hope you had a calm, relaxing day, yesterday. Maybe, you and mum got to spend the day at home for once, with no trouble and stress.’

There was no need for him to tell his father he had been at the church, that he had seen his parents there, ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there with you this year, I – I suppose I just still can’t bring myself to swallow the pill and come home for even a few days. I’m really sorry. I miss you, dad, and I really hope you can forgive me. If not, that’s okay, too. Uhm, good-bye.’

He ended the call and put his phone back into his pocket. Having left a message for his father, he felt a little relieved, an effect of having done one thing that could be understood or interpreted as right or at least well-meaning. There was not much he did which he would describe as such but he let himself sink into the paralysing ease that took hold of his body.

He managed to sleep a little, leaning against the window next to him, playing music on his phone and keeping his eyes shut to rest them. When he woke up, Adonis had settled on his shoulders, having scaled him at one point and lay around his neck like a scarf. With the little leash still wrapped around his wrist, Grantaire had allowed him enough room to move around their seat but he could not run away or hide in the cabin.

‘Hey you,’ Grantaire said softly, stroking the ginger fur under his fingers, ‘have you slept a little, as well?’

Adonis purred into his ear.

Grantaire looked out of the window and tried to find any pointers as to where they were and for how long he had been asleep. His headache was still there, relentlessly pounding against the membranes of his brain, making him wince with every move. He had to stop looking outside because the rushing landscapes made it difficult to keep his eyes still and every twitch hurt him. With one hand still tangled in Adonis’ fur, he searched for his painkillers in his bag, pressed one pill into his palm and gulped it down with a few swigs of water from his water bottle. He cursed himself for not having thought about food and where to get something to eat from, without a meal to support his body and the energy flow, the pills would result into a weaker outcome and he would deal with the reaction his body put up against it.

Later, he told himself, there was nothing he could do as long as he was on the train. Once he was back home, of course, he would get to settle into the next days with all the repercussions to his nervous system.

Until then, he figured, he still had a few hours to get through. He settled back into the seat, stroking Adonis and scrolling through his music library. All of his friends were willing to help him find new music to listen to whenever he needed an update. Jehan in particular always seemed to know what Grantaire’s taste in music could profit from in the future. He listened to everything they suggested at least once before sorting through it. So far, he was yet to decide against one of the obnoxiously loud indie rock bands they told him about.

Whilst scrolling through the music library, a message popped up on his screen. Courfeyrac sent something with a lot of question and exclamation marks, asking whether he had really run out on Enjolras and his family, if he had contracted a bug that was eating away on his cerebral cortex and whether he was okay. Grantaire pocketed the phone again after closing his messages and hitting play on a random album Jehan had suggested to him.

The music pounded against his ear drums and he closed his eyes again, fingers settled against Adonis’ neck. His cat licked over his knuckles, the feeling of the sandpaper on his skin calmed him a little and allowed him to sink back into his restless shut-eye, a dreamless state he startled out of every now and then when someone passed him of Adonis dug his claws into his shoulders playfully.

By the time the train pulled into the final stop, he had managed to sit up again, draw a little and move around a little with Adonis who had started to meow into his ears to get his attention. He gathered his belongings and stepped into the queue of people who waited to get off the train. It took a moment, people pushed from all sides, seemingly not understanding that the train would be at the station for hours before the overnight passengers could even board.

He got out eventually after having helped three mothers with prams and a few elderly people with their suitcases. They thanked him for it and provided him with an opportunity to tout the museum.

‘We heard there is a special exhibition going on at the moment, either the museum or the Academy of the Fine Arts,’ an elderly couple told him, proceeding to ask him for recommendations on their short holiday, ‘we would like to spend a few days concentrating on the cultural aspects of life. Christmas seems a wonderful time to do that.’

Grantaire managed to stop blushing and tell them a little about both museum and exhibition, suggesting a few restaurants and galleries to them, too. With a chocolate in his pocket that the woman had forced into his hands, Adonis over his shoulders and the suitcase in the other hand, the transport box strapped to it, Grantaire set off back towards the comfortable familiarity of the academy dorms. Within hours, he would be in bed, settled for the nascent paralysis of his episodes. He knew the flat would still be empty, neither Bossuet nor Joly were to return before their lectures started again. There would be nobody around to see him as helpless and pathetic as the episodes left him, aching and hurting as his brain and nervous system once again acted out against him.

He felt the first strain in his shoulder already as he dragged his suitcase down the stairs and into the station hall where he stopped for a moment to pull out his phone again to check the time. Behind him, a mother chastised her daughter for tripping up her brother. Grantaire passed a few couples saying good-bye or greeting each other by hugging and kissing as if death and war had kept them apart, a group of people in dinner clothes who seemingly looked around for someone and a professor from the academy who was one of Jehan’s tutors.

He hoisted his bags back up and continued his way, towards the exit where he could already see the mixture of snow and rain falling from the sky, waiting to soak him to the bone and make it even more unpleasant for him to walk through the town. A White Christmas was well enough but it took its toll on everyone who did not enjoy the post-Christmas melting.

Grantaire pulled his coat closer together in order to attempt to keep the wet and cold away, wiped his nose on his sleeve and stepped out onto the courtyard. He would pick up a few snacks and enough food for Adonis on the way to get over the next days, he told himself.

He had just about left the station forecourt and turned onto the road by the wiver, when he heard something that made him almost stop. It had vague resemblance with his name so he slowed down to listen more carefully.

‘Hey! Hey, Grantaire! Wait up!’

Grantaire stopped, despite Adonis’ sleepy protests and turned around. Through the snow and rain that still fell in thick, heavy flakes, he could see a tall person in a dark coat stalk closer, one hand still lifted in greeting and a broad grin on their face.

Chapter Text

Grantaire stood, half-sheltered under a bus stop roof, hair curling even more than usual in the rain and dripping into his face. He felt a drop running down his neck and soak into his collar, adding to the uncomfortable coldness of it all but he stood there, waiting for the other to catch up with him.

‘Hey! I didn’t think you’d actually wait for me,’ Montparnasse came to a halt next to him, ‘what are you doing out here in this rain?’

Grantaire shrugged, ‘Just arrived. I’m on my way home.’

‘I’ll join you. Were you home over Christmas? How is your dear mother?’

‘Same old,’ Grantaire replied, rubbing over his arm nervously, ‘I guess.’

‘So you did not visit your parents. I might as well have guessed,’ Montparnasse patted his shoulder, ‘don’t worry, I called your mother to have someone wish her happy holidays. Oh, you should have seen her tree, she sent me a picture yesterday and it is glorious. Seems like she finally had the time to properly decorate and set up the house.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ Grantaire swallowed, ‘uhm, I’m heading home –‘

‘Perfect,’ Montparnasse said with a grin, ‘I’ll accompany you. There is not much more to be done today, anyway. Breaks on tour are hard to get through, I find. Bit of company will not do me any harm, I would only sit at home and do nothing, otherwise. The rest of the boys are busy, too and you are as good company as anyone, at his point.’

Grantaire walked on next to him, concentrating more on not tripping over his suitcase than what Montparnasse went on about. He wanted his bed, lie with his hand on a soft pillow and no more thoughts to weigh him down. Nothing else seemed of any importance to him and so he made his way down the road through the sludge of snow and rain, slowly mixing under the feet of the people walking along the river path all day.

‘Is that a cat around your neck?’ Montparnasse stuck a hand out to pet Adonis.

Before Grantaire could say a single word, Adonis had already hissed and clawed at him; his fur rose against Grantaire’s neck and he stood on his shoulders, rather than lie around them. Montparnasse instinctively stepped back a bit.

‘Fuck, is it rabid?’

‘Just recognises trash on sight.’

Montparnasse stared at him for a moment before baring his teeth in a fit of wolfish laughter, ‘Who would have thought that my little podge would be so sassy. What’s this newfound sense of humour, then?’

Grantaire continued onwards, leaving him standing where he had stopped for a moment. He heard the wet mass on the ground splatter and spray as Montparnasse ran after him to appear at his side again, shoving his heair out of his face with one hand.

‘Oh come on, now, podge, you know I’m only joking, right? You could never hide anything from me and I’d never leave you alone in a situation like the one you’re in right now. You’re about to drop into an episode, aren’t you?’

Grantaire ignored him and crossed the bridge leading up to the academy a step ahead of Montparnasse who still kept up with him. He had tangled his hand back in Adonis’ fur but the usual calming effect did not happen. A thought kept nagging him in the back of his head, a thought he had not given into in years and he tried to find the answer to the question why he had not done so. There was something about the ways he could trick his mind into complying some times but was utterly helpless when it came to different situations in which a sound decision was of greater importance. As he walked up to the academy buildings, one hand closed around his keys, the other in Adonis’ fur, his brain was unable to list reasons of common sense why he should have walked away from Montparnasse the moment he had seen him come towards him. Memories occupied his conscience, replaying in his mind, faded memories of gentle hands and careful touches, distracting him just enough to get through the pain, memories of hot breath on his neck and kisses sucked into his skin, kisses given by lips that were used to taking what they wanted. His nerve ends tingled with the unspoken promise Montparnasse’s words had meant and he was inclined to take him up on it, one more time to avoid the aching and pain that awaited him anyway for just a bit. The memories were pale and faded in his mind but he could not figure out why they would be as such, why they would try and hide in the corners of his mind where he could not see them clearly.

Montparnasse jogged up to him, ‘Hey, don’t run away, podgy. Wouldn’t you invite your old friend up to gossip and talk a little? Maybe have a bite to eat and reconnect for old times’ sake?’

Come to think of it, Grantaire could not remember why he would be reluctant to let Montparnasse in. More than anything, it would distract him, he had a point. All the thoughts of Enjolras and his smile, the way his fingers danced to the melody on the piano and how his eyes lit up with glee and joy whenever he caught sight of something abnormally sweet Thomas and Percy had done without realising it, it all swirled around in his head and mixed and muddled with his concerns, the anxiety, exhaustion and tiredness in his system.

With a lame shrug, he led the way, pushing ahead of Montparnasse and leading up to the academy building. Adonis purred in his ear, having settled back into his coat collar and scarf. Grantaire unlocked the door and stepped into the hall, letting go of the handle as soon as he had passed through the frame. He assumed Montparnasse had entered the hall as well. The urge to check his studio before doing anything else rose in his consciousness but even in pain and with his brain sending hazy signals to every nerve end in his body, he knew not to let Montparnasse in on every square centimetre of canvas he had ever painted.

As he climbed the stairs, up to the flat, he listened to Montparnasse’s breathing a few steps down from him. Grantaire lifted his suitcase over the last landing and fumbled for his keys again. The moment he stopped in front of his door and opened it, Adonis jumped off his shoulders and disappeared into the shadows, presumably to find his pillow or the empty bowl in the kitchen to toy with. At the same time, Grantaire felt Montparnasse pressed to his back, chin resting on his shoulder and hand snaking around his waist.

‘Poor little Grantaire,’ he murmured into his ear, ‘I went to see your exhibition, simply had to after reading about your award. You have come a long way, haven’t you? Little Grantaire, grown up to draw paintings that roll in awards at the academy’s big gala. First Enjolras beats me in that duel, now you find your muse. Oh, wouldn’t you like to have Enjolras? You would love for him the way you see him, ideal and shining, the beacon of the world. It is out there for everyone to see and he still didn’t catch on just how big a torch you’re carrying for him, did he?’

Grantaire felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Montparnasse slipped his hand under his coat, caressing his side with the tips of his fingers. It made him shudder and turned him to clay, pliable and desperate.

The door closed behind them, suitcase and backpack were dropped in the hallway and Grantaire felt himself being pushed deeper into the flat. He stopped for a moment to fill Adonis’ bowls and open the window for him, if he wanted to leave. Montparnasse tugged on his coat, opened the buttons and pulled it off his shoulders.

‘You only want to feel, am I not right about that? After all the years of neglect and pain, you set your eyes on somebody and they went and disregarded you. How inconsiderate.’

He opened the bedroom door and helped Grantaire into the room. His breath hit his neck, warm and wet, a mixture of lips sucking on his skin and teeth scraping over his collar bone, whilst fingers tugged on his shirt. Grantaire went to a place in his mind where he could shut the door behind himself, let himself become willing and pliant, as he had been so often under Montparnasse’s hands during their shared experiences in the familiarity of his childhood bedroom.

Montparnasse laid him out on the bed and Grantaire closed his eyes. He did not need to see him, he did not feel what happened, he was there for Montparnasse to use, help him achieve what he needed. His place had been made clear to him years before.

He had been trained properly. There was nothing he could do but try and make sure Montparnasse enjoyed himself.

The sound of Montparnasse undressing was all the signal he needed. He squeezed his eyes shut and let his thoughts drift away.

***

He woke up because the mattress was rustled under his torso. Immediately, he jolted awake, nerves on fire, bad enough to restrict his voice from crying out. His muscles felt tense enough to rip under the blanket that was pulled halfway over him. He knew he would not be able to move, not on this day.

Grantaire opened his eyes, just a smidge to see what had disturbed his sleep prematurely since it was still dark outside and he felt exhausted just looking into the night. He felt his legs twitch and the pain of the motion tugging on his sinews made him see stars for a second but it was only half as bad as he had expected it to be.

‘’Parnasse?’ His voice was quiet enough to disappear between the pillow under his head and the ears his remark was intended for, ‘you’re still here?’

‘Just leaving, podgy, don’t worry. You did well tonight, just like old times. I trained you well, don’t go changing for anyone, now. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me after everything we’ve achieved.’

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing and sending the distinct message to his brain. Grantaire gasped for air and a sad little sound escaped his throat in response. The fingers digging into his muscles were unyielding, relentless in their promise. Everything in his body wanted to recoil, move away from Montparnasse, hide in the dark corner of his room where he suspected one of his pillows to be, still on the ground from a few days ago when he had sat on the floor for a few hours to stare at the crow that had settled on the ledge of his skylight. It had been a pretty crow, with shiny feathers and a proud beak, it had sat on the ledge for hours and he had created a sketch, it was somewhere on his desk, for sure, he dropped everything on there when he only had half the mind to actually do something that was not for his lessons or focussed on his friends. His desk needed a good tidy, everything to be taken off the surface, a wipe down and then for everything to be arranged in a way that actually worked for him. He could open it up a little, move the desk underneath the skylight for better lighting and more options, maybe craft a little chest of drawers to keep more of his supplies, pens and papers in one place without him having to dig through months’ worth of work to find a pencil and some blank paper, whenever he got that feeling of having to commit something to paper or otherwise his mind would fray and he would be left without a smidge of inspiration in his bone. It would be a project to occupy him for several days and probably longer than he would ever think about anything like it in any other situation. The outcome was what counted, he reminded himself, having the space to work at, with good light and the possibility to watch the crow as it cleaned its feathers and croaked into the evening sky.

He would get around to it, eventually, when the clouds passed and the light shone into his room again, when the pain went away and he was back in control of himself. It was something to set himself as a goal for a time when he would not feel the need to hide and retreat into the dark. It was something for when he was free in mind and able to tackle a new project for himself.

The hand pressing into his shoulder and commandeering his body into the mattress reminded him of his reality and immediately, he felt sick to his stomach. He had moved not a single step away from what he had thought to be the darkest moment of his youth, the dirty feeling of having made himself available to be used. Again.

He would never manage to tear himself away from Montparnasse, and the way he felt a last cruel, possessive open mouthed kiss pressed to his lips, made it all to clear that Montparnasse knew, as well. It reminded him of Joly’s birthday but this time he had been alone, none of his friends were there to see or witness what had led to this moment. Who should understand his regret over something he had consciously chosen and followed? He knew just how it seemed to the outside. There had been consent, Montparnasse never followed through on his promises without asking first. That Grantaire did not know how to tell him ‘no’ and could not come up with a way to effectively rid himself of Montparnasse, no one would be able to tell from the way he let him take and do to him what he wanted.

He felt Montparnasse let go of him and listened as he walked through the dark room. A door opened and closed, he cursed at Adonis, something about the cat getting in the way, and a loud hiss indicated Adonis’ mutual aversion for him before the flat door closed shut. Grantaire felt the silence rush against his eardrums and closed his eyes, squeezed them shut tight enough to feel the muscles tense in his face. His brain reported the pain immediately and gave his body the sign to shut down again. He fell asleep with his head buried in a pillow, nose full of the musk Montparnasse had left behind.

The blankets provided little comfort against his bare skin but unable to move, he had to make do. At one point during the night, Adonis joined him, quietly meowing and purring as he rolled up next to him. He managed not to disturb him and Grantaire, in his dazed half-awake state, was thankful for his calming, warm presence for the rest of the night.

When he woke up, Adonis still lay next to him, cleaning his fur and licking at both his paws and Grantaire’s neck, switching places every few seconds to reach him properly. Grantaire tried to move a hand and immediately, Adonis was there, squeezing underneath his hand to carry it. It seemed to help him, Grantaire felt less of an ache and tug as his cat pawed closer to him, nudging him to move on his bed.

‘You think I can do it?’ Grantaire tested the waters, speaking alone seemed possible and a relieved sigh escaped his throat, ‘Okay, I promise. I will get you some food, you would be fine with that, wouldn’t you?’

He found that he was able to move a little as long as he took it slow. With a blanket wrapped around his naked body, he made his way into the kitchen and filled up Adonis’ bowls.

‘You will have to excuse me, I really need to shower now,’ Grantaire watched as Adonis slipped past him to diminish his food before turning away.

On his way to the bathroom, he switched on the heating despite the pain it caused him to lift his hand, his nerves were still sensitive and got pay back on every sudden movement. The cold flat gurgled in protest as the heaters sprung to life but he knew that he would come out of the bathroom with something more comfortable to walk out into.

He reached the bathroom, opened the door and switched on the light. A wave of smells and a sweet musk floated around his head and made him dizzy. Of course, the scent was clear in his memory. It had accompanied him through the years and stuck to his dreams like a rotten food to the digestive system. Montparnasse wore his eau de cologne like an armour and all but bathed in it to reach the effect he aimed for.

Now, the scent clung to everything in the bathroom, the towels, the shower curtain and the air in the room. Grantaire thought of the night passed and remembered the door opening and closing, barely there in his memory. It seemed, as if Montparnasse had left his mark on everything he owned.

He almost missed the cues his body gave him. As he vomited up what little content there had been in his stomach, Grantaire felt hot tears stream down his face. They were based on a mixture of guilt, disgust and overextension with a good part of pain stirred in and they dropped down the drain like the dream he had lived for a few days since realising what his infatuation with Enjolras was about.

The thought of his friend – if he could call him that any longer and had not gambled away what sympathies he had had – brought on a second bout of nausea as he emptied his stomach completely. Sobbing and hurting, he pulled himself up, flushed the toilet and got into the shower to spend a timeless eternity under the hot spray until his skin was red and threatened to peel off the bone.

As much as he craved the relief it brought on for his tense muscles, he knew that no water would get rid of the feeling clinging to his skin. He felt dirty and that dirt was there, for him to see and everyone to smell.

Chapter Text

He spent the day on the sofa, TV switched on, tablet on his knees and boxes of delivered food around him on the ground, together with what he had found to drink. Walking from the sofa to the door to open it and take the food had been enough for him to need to lie down and take a nap. He had woken up again after Adonis demanded his attention and curled up close to his feet, eaten close to half of the by then cold food he had ordered and taken another nap, waking up feeling worse than before. His whole body was back to aching, the morning’s relief had subsided and left him feeling worse than before, despite the junk food and cookie dough ice cream he had managed to eat and keep in his stomach. The second portion, at least.

Adonis had left his side at one point, leaving him to all the series he had meant to catch up on. He let the TV run, at one point reduced to mere background noise, not capturing his attention anymore. The program was a documentary on social injustice that he had heard about from either Feuilly or Enjolras, Grantaire did not recall exactly who had told him to watch it. Interesting as it was, it did nothing to him but make him tired and emotional. There had been a reason why he hesitated to get informed and involved, and every second he paid attention to the documentary, he felt his mood slip deeper into the mud of his mind and mental health, fucked up as it was.

He paused the documentary, lifting his hand slowly from the couch. Setting his tablet aside, he hauled himself up into a sitting position and swung his legs over the edge. It took him a moment to get onto his feet but once he stood, he could move around easier. His head insisted on a little vertigo but he made his way into the bathroom without running into or knocking over any furniture and made it into the room in time to kneel in front of the toilet.

A few minutes and a lot of dry heaving later, he pushed himself up onto his feet and rinsed out his mouth out over the sink. The taste of bile and exhaustion clung to his throat and stuck to him and he contemplated brushing his teeth again, for the fifth time since waking up. He knew well enough that it would not change anything about the way he felt about the situation, the faint memory of Montparnasse using his mouth –

He felt himself snap in half as he bent over, emptying bile and gastric acid into the toilet. His stomach and oesophagus protested against the biting sting they were subjected to once more, cramping and sending waves of pain to his brain. There was nothing else he could throw up but his body insisted on trying. It hurt him more than when he had vomited up his stomach full of pizza and ice cream.

In hindsight, it had not been his best idea to try and eat something. He should have known or imagined that junk food would leave his stomach rather irritated, all things and his psyche considered.

Grantaire waited a moment before straightening up again. It seemed like his bowels had settled again, for the time being. He rinsed his mouth out again and looked at himself in the mirror above the sink. His cheeks seemed fallen in and the dark circles under his eyes were deeper and darker than ever before. He noticed the way his jaw had set again, teeth grinding with the tension in his muscles.

He returned to the sofa and cuddled up with the blanket again. For a brief moment, he considered making himself a hot water bottle but the thought of leaving his nest again, after having settled into the cushions, left him shuddering against the otherwise soft blanket he had draped over himself for comfort. Even the fabrics against his skin were too much for his nerves and sent his senses into a frenzy that sent painful shockwaves across his skin.

Lying on the sofa, he let the hours pass him by, TV showing one movie after the other without his concentration ever fully being on it. He lay there apathetically, eyes flicking to the TV every now and then to check whether it was still running since he had muted it in order to keep any noise out of his mind. The loud voices of memories clinging to him were enough already.

He had switched his phone off after it had begun to buzz almost non-stop an hour into his day. There had been messages and calls from several people, he read the first, ‘How could you?!’ from Courfeyrac and decided not to give in to the temptation to chastise himself by going through his mailbox.

It had taken him less than another hour after his most recent trip to the bathroom to try eating again. There had been a little ice cream left in the tub and a bit of crust from one slice of pizza, which he forced down his throat and let it settle in his stomach.

This time around, the food stayed in his belly. Grantaire fell asleep in front of the still running TV after putting out some food for Adonis who had slipped out of the open living room window to walk along the roof and stray into town. The cold air got into the flat but he could not bring himself to care anymore. With three blankets piled on top of him and his head resting on a heap of pillows, he closed his eyes, missing the end of the last documentary that had been on his list of to be watched things.

The cold air was almost soothing on his skin as he fell asleep, surrendering to the dark arms that coaxed him towards the night and the loneliness it promised him. In his state, it seemed the better alternative and Grantaire felt the relief wash over him as sleep finally took him.

***

The window was closed when he woke up again. The sun shone outside, cold and pale, hardly peeking over the roofs of the neighbouring houses. Grantaire wondered briefly, whether he had hibernated, the sun had not risen in the mornings for days and it seemed too unlikely for the light falling into the flat to be morning light. He sat up slowly, muscles still protesting against every move he made and tried to decipher the display on the DVD player but it was too far away from him.

‘It’s almost noon, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ a voice came from behind him, making him startle, ‘careful now, we figured you’d be sore and in pain. By the way, the heating was on, you should have turned it down to kill yourself in the cold. As it is, you just left the windows open whilst the warmth got outside.’

‘Joly?’

‘I don’t need to remind you that you could suffer very real and very serious, actual harm from sleeping in the cold like that, do I? The living room blankets are not as warm as a duvet, there’s a reason we have them. Bossuet insisted on wrapping you up properly. I was in favour of having you learn out of your mistakes.’

He made his way into the room, arms crossed over his chest. There was something in his eyes that Grantaire did not like. His friend, the one who usually was the one to make sure everybody was healthy and looked after themselves, marched past him and walked into the kitchen where he rummaged through the cupboard.

‘I know you’re hurting right now. You try to hide it and you got so well at it, and yet, you fell asleep in the living room. That hasn’t happened in ages and believe me, when we walk in, it was scary for a moment. You have gotten better at hiding the traces but we’re still your flatmates. We know the ways you take when you want to retreat and make everyone believe you are just an arsehole, rather than telling them that you will be paralysed or in pain for days. I know you think it’s a weakness and you know that Bossuet thinks you could not be stronger if you tried. This time, though, you’ve gone too far.’

‘What do you mean?’ Grantaire rubbed at his eyes slowly, ‘’m sorry that I blocked the sofa.’

‘No, that’s not what I mean,’ Joly sat down across from him in an armchair, ‘we had not planned to come back already. Musichetta saw you, yesterday. She remembered Montparnasse from my birthday party and came back to us, asking why you were walking home with him. Bossuet wanted to come over immediately. When did he leave?’

‘He wasn’t –‘

‘Of course he was here. It’s Montparnasse and you, will this be the moment you managed to tell him ‘No’ and sent him on his way without making yourself available to himself in order to stop hurting for a moment?’

Grantaire bit his lip.

‘See? You don’t and we knew that. The last thing I wanted was to run into Montparnasse in our flat. You’re a grown person, Grantaire, we won’t say anything, it’s up to you to decide who you let close to you and what you do. At the same time, though, we are your friends and you’ll have to accept that we might just worry about you a bit.’

Grantaire turned away and stared out of the window, ‘Is Adonis back? I left the window open for him, in the first place.’

‘Yes, we did not lock out your cat, don’t worry,’ Joly sighed, ‘he’s not good for you and you know it. I haven’t mentioned yet that he contacted all of us last night, probably after leaving? We think he took – he took a photo of you sleeping, or something, the group chat is full of worried messages and anger. You didn’t answer so we came back a little earlier to check on you. Fortunately, I would argue.’

‘Where’s Bossuet?’

‘Can’t face you right now. He said something about not knowing what to tell you after everything he’s seen you do to yourself and us again. What were you thinking? Enjolras was worried sick, even before you decided to take Montparnasse home. He’s been spamming the group chat with nothing but questions about you and whether anyone heard from you, he didn’t give it a break, even when Bahorel attempted to start a discussion on capitalism and Christmas.’

‘Maybe he ate too much, got lazy and content?’

‘Grantaire, stop playing dumb,’ Joly shook his head angrily, ‘he was fucking worried about you because you disappeared over night with all your stuff and didn’t even tell him you were leaving. That note you left him did little to nothing to calm him in any way, you have to have known that. You’re not that stupid.’

‘Thank you, your belief in me is more than I deserve.’

‘Yes,’ Joly nodded, ‘yes, it is. You are back in your old patterns but that is nothing I need to tell you. You know it’s all back to what you were like when we first met and still, you chose to fall back on it. There is a point after which we cannot help you anymore. If you choose not to take it seriously and face the fact that there are people who genuinely worry for you, if you do not stop treating yourself like something disposable, you will end up the way you imagine yourself when you put on the mask, Grantaire. You’ll end up alone with nothing but the pain and certainty that you pushed everyone away. We are here to help you but you have to talk to us or someone else, if that is even remotely on your mind. Best would be to talk to somebody who’d exactly know what to do about your situation. I also bet you owe a few people apologies for the way you treated them.’

Joly had not finished his speech but Grantaire felt too tired to listen to more. The exhaustion settled deep in his bones, weighing him down more than before. Of course, he was right about it all. His friends were anything but stupid and as much as he could lie to himself, having perfected the tactic, but his friends still saw right through it whenever he tried it.

More than that, as much as he managed to convince himself that he did not deserve his friends and should push them away before he hurt them accidentally with his stupidity, the more they tried to coax him out of his shell. Somewhere along the way, however, he lost himself in what he told himself to make his friends believe in his inability to be good for them. His demons held a strong watch over him and he had not managed to slip out of their shadows, yet.

His mother had had him diagnosed at some point during his time at school. She had driven him into the city and gone shopping whilst the test were run and psychologists talked to him. It had been shortly after his first ever episode, once he could leave his room again without throwing up on the stairs because his body decided to feel too much pain to concentrate on something as trivial as digestion. There had been questionnaires and brainwave evaluations, interviews and a CT scan, just to make sure.

The result had been hard to accept for his mother: physically, he was healthy. The reason for the episode and the way he shied away from showing something he had made or achieved, the cause of his sudden lack of interest in music and practising, as much as his mother had wished for it, had not been a tumour or stroke. It was nowhere to be found. She had taken him home begrudgingly, talking to him about how there was no reason for him to act the way he did, how his excuse had been debunked.

When they arrived back home, she sat him down at the piano and watched with eagle-eyes as he stumbled his way through another Bach piece, demanding one repetition after another, slowly losing patience with him as the number of errors rose exponentially with the number of attempted run-throughs. At one point during that evening, she had taken up a pencil to give the beat with it. Grantaire had tried again, following her prompt. He had gotten as far as the third bar when he needed to check his finger position on the keyboard, hesitating for the fracture of a second.

The sharp sting of the pencil hitting his knuckles was in his brain, as fresh and painful as it had been back then as he had continued to try, tears in his eyes and teeth biting his lips bloody with the effort to keep quiet. He had not wanted to disappoint her even further than what damage he had already done to her by being his usual, helpless, pathetic self. Not even a simple etude had been open to him, no information seemed to be transmitted between his brain and his fingers and he had tried, and tried, and tried, and tried, and tried again to make her proud, to play the piece the way she wanted to her it and instead –

Instead, the pencil had become a familiar sight in her hands as she watched him practise. He had no reason to protest, he was healthy, and neither his brain nor his fingers were impaired in any way. His mother had reminded him of this circumstance regularly as she paced up and down next to him, the trusty pencil in her hands.

Years later, long after he had given up the piano and started to try out other instruments – for her son could simply not not play an instrument – he had found first symptoms on the internet that matched, if not the way his body shut down and hurt him, the way his own thoughts betrayed him. It had been so clear and reasonable to him. Reading through the article, he felt himself nod as he progressed, he read about feeling like a fraud, feeling unworthy of friendship and attention from people around him and it made sense to him. It had made so much sense to him, not because he felt like a fraud and undeserving of love and friendship. Grantaire had, at that point, reading about diagnosis and therapy, realised that there was one single difference between what the article described as a delusion of emotions that made people feel like they took a place they were not worthy for, and him. Whereas other people felt undeserving, Grantaire knew he was undeserving of it all.

The realisation had helped. There had been an easy air around him for a bit, cocooning him from his mother and her demands. Deep down, Grantaire had realised, she knew as well but tried to help him to achieve something despite his lack of qualities. Motherly welfare, he had found out, would try and see the child succeed, no matter their inhibitions. For some time, this thought calmed him enough to learn how to play other instruments and she seemed pleased with his effort, returning her own attention on her career.

Then, Montparnasse had – for lack of another word – happened. All of a sudden, his mother had stopped looking with something like acceptance at him hacking away on his violin. The bright boy and his mother became a regular appearance in their living room where Grantaire was to sit and listen to the women talk and the boy play. It had filled him with dread, what, if his mother wanted to show him off, too?

Montparnasse would realise what he was. The thought had bored into his mind, nagging, cutting, and snarling. The fraud he was would be unearthed under the other boy’s eyes and Grantaire did not know how to stop it. Instead of fleeing, as he had tried to tell him, instead of doing the smart thing, he had come clean of his own accord. He had told Montparnasse just what a failure he had been all his life, how much he wished to make his mother proud and that he, Montparnasse, was better equipped to do so than he, Grantaire, would ever be.

He had taken him up to his room for the first time on that day, whilst their mothers exchanged the newest gossip about the lawyers on the other side of the valley. Montparnasse had looked around with teenaged curiosity, studying the backs of Grantaire’s books and browsing through a few sketchbooks he had forgotten on his desk. When Grantaire tried to close them and put them away, Montparnasse had kissed him for the first time, hungry and determined, with little room to escape.

The kiss had bruised his lips and left him with a sour taste in his mouth that he could not place but Montparnasse had assured him that everything was fine, sat down on his bed and started to flick through another sketchbook. They had been in their teens, two boys easily overstimulated by something as simple as a touch. It had been Grantaire’s first kiss.

After that, Montparnasse insisted on coming to Grantaire’s room every time he came to visit. Their mothers in the living room listened to him play and since Grantaire was no longer requited to be there for the show, Montparnasse had come to find him afterwards, dragging him away from whatever homework Grantaire had been doing, demanding to be kissed and Grantaire complied.

As much of a failure he was, Montparnasse had said with the air of somebody who knew what he was talking about, Grantaire was not the worst kisser, apparently. Their kisses had made him feel warm, for as long as he could ignore the panic in his stomach, Montparnasse knew what he wanted and Grantaire followed his lead, too scared to lose what he had found to be a friend.

He could not remember when Montparnasse’s hands had ended up getting him out of his trousers for the first time but he remembered how scared he had been, how quick everything had happened and how painful it had been. Montparnasse had whispered in his ear, asking him to be quiet for him, to be good, to be something his mother could be proud of.

‘Imagine,’ he had said, ‘if she found out that you couldn’t even do that. I’m afraid she would lose interest in you, little podge.’

Grantaire had kept quiet, biting his lips instead and it was something Montparnasse had liked. The way their kisses after tasted of metal and stained their lips red had made him wild, hungry, even.

Over time, he had stopped to call Grantaire by his name and he did not play a lot anymore when he came by, with his mother or without her. He went up to Grantaire’s room straightaway and locked the door behind himself.

It was love, he had said, love for everything Grantaire gave him and Grantaire had replied, echoing the words Montparnasse grunted into the sweaty heat of his dark room. They did no longer need light, he said, they knew each other well enough. They did not need to go out together, he said, they were in their own world where no one in a restaurant, in a museum, at the pool would judge upon seeing Grantaire. He said, it was to protect him from stares, from gossip, from the people who could see behind his mask and discovered the fraud inside. His voice had been soft on that night, Grantaire remembered, softer than usual for there was nothing soft about Montparnasse.

Montparnasse had been patient with him, shown him that being selfish as he had been was a bad thing, that Montparnasse needed him to comply with him, to help him blow off steam and relax afterwards. Montparnasse had helped him understand what he needed to do in order to be exactly what he needed when he sprinted up the stairs, taking three steps at once, unbuckling his belt before he reached his room.

Grantaire was a fast learner.

Grantaire was there for Montparnasse.

Grantaire helped Montparnasse.

Grantaire loved Montparnasse.

Grantaire had ruined it all.

He had not been careful enough. It was shortly after the accident, when Montparnasse lost his parents to the cold, slippery winter roads of their home. Maybe, there had been a tree involved, Grantaire struggled to remember these things. Anyway, Montparnasse had been all alone from on moment to the next and he hurt, worse than Grantaire had ever hurt during his episodes, he had told him. He had needed Grantaire to be the best for him, all he could ask for to get through it, Grantaire had been to the key to it all, Montparnasse had told him afterwards with disappointment and disgust in his voice.

Grantaire had not been at the funeral, his mother had said it was better that way and he had suffered an episode, anyway and could barely move from his bed. He had spent the day lying there, knowing that his parents would return in the evening, after the reception.

Someone had come in earlier, opening the house door with the spare key that was kept in the nest box on the wall of the garden shed. Grantaire had just lain there as the steps came up the stairs, angry and loud and impatient, too sore to move a muscle.

The door had opened and Montparnasse had stood there, shirt no longer tucked into his trousers, belt unbuckled as always and furious. He had needed Grantaire at the funeral and instead, he had had to come all the way to him. As he had come closer, he had shouted and spat at him in righteous anger because he was right, Grantaire had failed him.

He demanded of him to make it right, to help him, to be there for him and Grantaire had tried to apologise but he could not lift his head off the bed to open his mouth. Montparnasse had decided to claim his atonement himself.

He had never been this hungry and wild and cruel before and Grantaire had thought, for a moment, that he did not like Montparnasse doing it. His body had protested, too, warned him that it was too much, the sensation had singed his nerve endings, his head had threatened to explode and blinding pain had shot through his body in time to Montparnasse moving.

Then, with one last crippling surge of agony, he had passed out on his bed, after vomiting over the duvet.

His mother had found him the way he had been left, undressed, in his own vomit, with tell-tale signs across his back. Montparnasse had disappeared after the funeral and a few months later, Patron-Minette had risen to stardom with song lyrics that sounded like the poems one of their class mates had written.

Grantaire had not known what to do with himself after that. His mother no longer tried to even look at him, instead, she pretended not to have a son. She followed Montparnasse’s career and lamented the loss of her friend as much as his absence from her house, making sure for Grantaire to hear her.

It no longer made a difference. With only his father there to hear him as he sobbed through the nights and went to school without sleep or food, he had lost what little happiness he had held dear. He had lost the man he loved because of something that was not there, his mother had paid doctors to look into his head but in the end, he had been deemed healthy. Why then, would his mind trick him into believing to shut down, if not for the fact that he was, and would always be, a fraud?

Grantaire pushed himself off the sofa, sending the blankets to the ground, sprinted past Joly who tried to get up fast enough but failed and pushed into the bathroom. His joints and muscles protested against the harsh treatment, reminding him that the pain had not subsided as he vomited again.

A small voice in the back of his head had the audacity to remind him that he should drink, that he had not drunk any water since Montparnasse had left and that a body that had been heaving and retching needed fluid to stay upright. Grantaire felt his consciousness slip and as he looked back into the hallway one last time, he saw Joly try and climb over the emptied bottles of whatever kind of alcohol they had still had in their flat, hidden away before Gavroche had moved in. He heard his friend yell a name, one shaking hand dialling up something on his phone.

Then, there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Somebody squeezed his hand. It did not really hurt, only ended up slightly uncomfortable, but not the worst going by as much his throat seemed to be scratched up from the inside. It hurt not half as bad as his guts and his head had before. As he came to slowly, Grantaire tried to open his eyes but found his eyelids too heavy to achieve this goal. Instead, he listened to what he could hear going on around him.

The faint sound of rattling and wheels was far away, compared to everything else that made its way to his ears. There was a faint sound of humming devices that interfered with the otherwise quiet air around him. Then, there were voices, several of them, closer to him than any of the other noises. He knew them, Grantaire thought, as his brain set to deciphering who exactly was talking.

‘I’m just glad we were allowed into the room.’

‘Yeah, there are only so many brothers and partners we could make up for Grantaire.’

‘The main thing is that we are here, doesn’t matter which excuse we found to sneak into the room, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘You dragged me along, against my will, if I might add. Hospitals are the worst place for healthy people, I told you! Why would a healthy person seek the close proximity of contagious ones?’

‘Grantaire is not contagious, love.’

‘Only the biggest idiot in the world.’

‘I think we all know that, and so does he. He needs our support, in this situation as much as with everything else. We know roughly what happened but I really don’t know what we can do anymore.’

‘Must be bad enough when you give up. Do you think we’ll ever get him to even consider therapy?’

‘Unfortunately,’ someone sighed deeply, ‘he seems almost allergic to the mere suggestion. Last time, he went on to tell awful jokes for days, didn’t he?’

‘Don’t remind me of that,’ the mattress dipped under his body and the hand around his got a little tighter, ‘I just want him to wake up. The doctors said he should come around soon, didn’t they?’

‘They did, Baz. Give him time. His body shut down completely due to dehydration, it needs time to get back up to speed.’

‘How could that happen in the first place?’ The words were accompanied with another squeeze of his hand and Grantaire finally felt confident in his recognition of Bahorel’s voice.

‘It’s easy, really,’ Joly sighed, ‘he didn’t drink water. Judging by the state of our flat, he found the last stashes of alcohol, mostly Bossuet’s stuff. Unfortunately, despite being a liquid, alcohol does not hydrate you in any way, it has the opposite effect and you dehydrate even faster. That’s why you should drink water when out drinking. Considering that he already was in pain from everything else going on, he probably didn’t realise that the symptoms were beginning to show. They are actually quite similar, judging by what I have seen Grantaire going through. It probably didn’t help that he looked like he threw up most of what he’d eaten since Christmas.’

‘Shit,’ that was Bossuet, ‘I mean, it was hard enough to come back home and see him going back himself with the booze but that’s even worse.’

‘Have we – have we heard anything from the others?’

Grantaire recognised Jehan, their voice was breathy and it almost sounded like they had been crying. Bahorel let go of his hand, probably to comfort his partner instead. It left him feeling alone, as if he had lost something anchoring him in the moment.

‘Did he just move?’ Bossuet came closer and then there was another hand in his.

Grantaire squeezed it with all the strength he could muster. The reaction from Bossuet was a soft stroke across the back of his hand and a slightly choked sound that seemed to alert the others to what had happened.

‘Grantaire?’

He managed to blink his eyes open for a moment, to see four heads floating above him, all of them looking down at him. Jehan’s face still seemed a little blurry at the edges, their hair fell into their eyes and they held a hand out for him, a little unsure whether he was alright with it.

‘My arm hurts,’ he rasped out, his voice barely audible.

‘Of course it hurts, you’re attached to an IV,’ Joly deadpanned, ‘idiot.’

‘Be nice,’ Jehan chipped in.

‘He knows what I think about his stupidity,’ Joly shrugged, ‘why should I start sugarcoating it now?’

‘Appreciated,’ Grantaire said with some effort, ‘thank you.’

‘What for exactly? Calling the ambulance, making sure you didn’t choke on your own tongue or vomit or calling Bahorel for backup?’

‘All of it,’ his voice was a mere whisper and his head still felt foggy but as he carefully moved his hands, he felt no pain in the muscles, ‘am I okay again?’

‘No idea, they gave you painkillers with the IV.’

He looked up to where the tube disappeared in a see-through bag with liquid, ‘Great. Could I just get that all times?’

The door opened and a nurse came in, ‘Ah, you’re awake. I don’t have to tell you that drinking alcohol on a sensitive stomach and without water is a bad idea, that’s common sense. Don’t do it again, if you don’t want to end up here again.’

‘What about the chronic pain?’ Jehan sat up where they had sat on the mattress.

‘Chronic pain? Your friend there was dehydrated and drunk, a hangover is nothing chronic,’ the nurse checked the IV tube and checked Grantaire over briefly, ‘now, you’re okay to go home tomorrow, the doctor’s ordered a psych assessment for you later today.’

‘Why though?’ Grantaire whined, ‘there’s nothing wrong with me!’

‘Well, some comments your friends made about you whilst waiting for you to wake up had the doctor decide to have you evaluated. It should not take you long and then you can have something to eat afterwards, if you can stomach it,’ she turned around to the door and walked out again.

Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment and sank back into the pillows, ‘Just my luck. I can’t catch a break, can I?’

‘What if they finally find out about the episodes, though?’ Jehan asked softly.

‘You heard her, they don’t believe there’s anything wrong with me, they’ll come to the conclusion that I’m a nutter, probably a pathological liar and lock me up for the betterment of society. Hey, you should tell Enjolras that, with me somewhere out of the way, he would actually achieve some improvement in the world!’

‘Stop it,’ Jehan shot him a nasty look, ‘no one will tell Enjolras any of what you just said. You have to stop beating yourself up. I really hope that an assessment like that could help you find your way in the coming time. I know you don’t like hearing it but there is so much going on with you, how would you find your way, if not with some help? Just this time, accept that some people just want to help you. Humour me for a moment, if an actual diagnosis emerged? You could get a direction, support, maybe something more substantial to sort through the things going on behind that mask you try to keep on.’

‘We know you, Grantaire, don’t forget that,’ Bahorel sighed, ‘and it’s not like this is the first time we talked about it. The drinking, beating yourself up and reducing your own worth. It all seems like either a cry for help or a disaster.’

‘And frankly,’ Bossuet crossed his arms over his chest, ‘I can’t take it anymore. I’ve seen you self-destruct so often, I don’t want to see that anymore. You have a gift with your art and the way you can express your thoughts in paint and pen, don’t break yourself over something you can tackle. It’s no longer eighteen-thirty two, you can get help and no one will see you as weak for it. Come on, man. An assessment, some time to do a deep spring clean in your head, that’s all it is.’

Grantaire did not reply. He tried to ignore the small voice in his head that urged him to pretend like it was all ridiculous, like he needed nothing but a little sleep and his painkillers. His friends looked at him with sorry eyes and he was ready to believe that he had managed to push them away for good. Then, Jehan lay down next to him and rested their head on his shoulder.

‘We’ll never leave you alone, R but we are limited in what we can do as your friends. At some point, our resources are exhausted.’

Grantaire smelled their strawberry shampoo and Bahorel’s cologne on their skin and remembered that they had probably just come back. They traced his arm over the hospital duvet, fingers warm against his cold skin.

‘Will you try?’

The question got all of them to look at Grantaire who tried to squirm under his blanket, hide from their gazes. Joly shook his head in warning, seeing right through him. Bossuet’s fingers dug in his own arms. Bahorel stopped mid-motion in tying his hair up. Jehan tapped a rhythm on his chest.

‘I’ll try,’ Grantaire heard himself say, nodding slowly along to Joly, ‘I’ll try. I’ll get thrugh the assessment and then I’ll do something.’

‘Even, if that something might be a recommended therapy?’

‘Even that,’ Grantaire agreed under Jehan’s stern look, ‘do you want me to swear?’

‘No swearing for you, you forfeited your soul years ago,’ Bahorel kicked them and Jehan rolled their eyes, ‘Sorry. Pinky promise?’

Grantaire smiled, dragging the corners of his mouth up slowly and hooking his pinky finger in Jehan’s, ‘Pinky promise.’

‘I’ll let the others know that Grantaire’s okay,’ Joly grabbed his cane tighter and left the room.

Grantaire could see him pull his phone out before the door closed behind him. Bossuet cleared his throat and excused himself. He seemed to be unable to look Grantaire in the eye and he could not hold it against him.

‘I’ll go get something to drink,’ Bahorel sighed, ‘hot chocolate, darling?’

‘Please, and peppermint tea for Grantaire,’ Jehan waved after them before cuddling back into Grantaire’s side.

For a moment, they were silent. Then, Jehan cleared their throat. Grantaire peered down his arm to meet their eyes, turned up towards him.

‘Do you want to talk about it at all?’

‘What?’

‘Montparnasse. What happened, why – why did he end up at your flat? I don’t need to know why you left Enjolras’ place, I can imagine why. He still doesn’t know, does he?’ Jehan sighed deeply, their body pressed against Grantaire’s side, ‘It’s to your credit, and it’s your choice to tell him, maybe tell him once you have had the talk with the psychologist, maybe later – at your own pace. I understand, I really do. It’s a lot to let people see you at your weakest.’

‘Maybe,’ Grantaire weaved his fingers in their hair, ‘maybe it’s time, though.’

‘Yeah,’ Jehan nodded, ‘so, you don’t need to tell me about that bit of the whole story.’

Grantaire contemplated his next words a little before continuing on the topic, ‘As for the other part, he was at the station when I came back. Called out after me, kind of followed me and I was – I was tired and in pain, and all I wanted was to get home so I just didn’t care when he tagged along and then he spoke of old times and a drink for old times’ sakes. He just came upstairs and then –‘

He had to stop for a moment, drawing in his breath and swallowing around the lump that had begun to form in his throat, ‘Joly’s right, you know? I see him and everything is back where it was, I don’t learn. Or I do but forget about it all again. Montparnasse has that sort of influence on me, apparently. It was all as it was all those years ago, you know? He – it was all about him and I was there for him to use and take what he needed until he was satisfied and did not need anything more from me, and then we fell asleep and when he left – before he left, he did it again and I was just there, like a hollow shell, as if all of myself had left my body. I – want to reorganise my room, my desk, tidy it all up and make more space for all my things, my painting stuff. That’s what I thought of. During. He left me, after. Didn’t bother to leave me with…anything.’

Jehan shuddered next to him. They seemed to try and avoid his gaze but Grantaire could not look into his eyes, anyway. Their experience with Montparnasse, brief as it had been, compared to the length of time he had spent with him, had left them emotionally raw and in a fragile state.

It had been just before Grantaire had met them through Bahorel who had stood by, seeing his friend suffer the effects of what Jehan had begun to call ‘Dickbag-Disease’ once they stopped crying and shaking. Bahorel had told Grantaire about the crush he had been harbouring on them, unable to deal with the perceived loss of their easy-going nature after the encounter with Montparnasse. Grantaire had tried his best and over time, all of them had come to terms with it.

At least, that was what he thought had happened. Evidently, Jehan had kept the memories closer than they had thought themselves. They grabbed his hand tighter and began to draw patterns into his skin, a clear sign of their agitation to those who knew him well enough.

‘Grantaire?’

‘Hm?’

‘We are a pair of broken people, aren’t we?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I still can’t do certain things for Baz. You still revert back to what you were with him as soon as he makes another appearance. I would call that broken.’

‘You are not broken, Jehan, you are a wonderful person. I love and admire you for the strength you have come forth with, it’s definitely not weakness I see in you when I look at you. Baz knows what you went through and he will always understand when you cannot cross a certain line. There is no one else as considerate and supportive as him. You are lucky.’

Their fingers began to tap on the back of his hand, ‘I know. It doesn’t change anything about the way I think about it, and I still think both of us would be better off never having met Montparnasse but with all that has happened, nothing remains but to show the world that he did not manage to dominate us. At least, at some point, we will be enough to withstand him. Hopefully.’

Grantaire felt their soft hair against his fingers and combed through it carefully, trying to avoid tangling and pulling on it, ‘Do you think we can ever leave him behind us? Do you really think we can get better without hearing him in our heads as soon as we have a quiet moment?’

‘I would like to hope so,’ Jehan met his fingers with their other hand and tangled them together, ‘Bahorel helped me a lot already. It’s nice to know that, whenever I feel like I need someone to just talk to, to share those quiet moments, to get some warmth when my body cannot feel anything anymore. I know it’s cheesy but having a boyfriend really helped me through the thick of it.’

They looked up at him, eyes big from Grantaire’s perspective, filled with a question that they seemed to be unsure about, they cleared their throat and looked away briefly before coming back to his face. Grantaire raised his eyebrows and nudged them in the side. As much as he feared hearing it, he knew Jehan were genuine in their concern and the question seemed to burn into their mind.

‘Go on. You’ve got something you want to ask?’

‘Well, I thought about Bahorel and how much he helped me. Is there no chance for you to have someone you trust enough to get there, too?’

Grantaire looked up at the ceiling. He knew that any answer he could give would either excite Jehan or make them look at him with puppy dog eyes that he did not want to be confronted with as he said it.

‘There might be something I have come to realise. Promise me you won’t laugh, shriek or hit me?’

‘Yes.’

He took a last breath and cleared his throat, ‘I think I might be in love with Enjolras.’

***

His friends trickled back into the room one after another, Bahorel first with steaming hospital mugs. Jehan got up from the bed and pressed a kiss to his cheek in exchange for one of the cups, filled with watery hot chocolate with a few streaks of molten cream on top.

Joly and Bossuet entered a moment later, the former pocketing his phone, ‘The group chat is informed. They wish you a speedy recovery, Éponine says to kick you for being stupid and Marius misspelled something, I think, otherwise he wishes you drown in a well.’

‘Thank you, Joly,’ Grantaire said with a whimper as he pushed himself up against the pillows a little, ‘did – did one of – of the Triumvirate –‘

‘Combeferre said you’re an idiot but he’ll won’t shout at you until you’re out of hospital again. Courfeyrac is sulking and cross with you, he wants you to know that. They have left Combeferre’s parents this morning to go see Enjolras before they come back for New Year.’

‘How’s Enjolras?’ Jehan chipped in before Grantaire could ask the same question, he met their gaze and saw the way they nodded at him.

Bossuet bit his lip before answering them, ‘He’s awfully upset, I think. The only thing he sent was ‘Good, see you all next year for the first meeting back.’ I only told them Grantaire woke up and is getting better.’

Grantaire slipped deeper under the blanket and pulled it up to his nose in order to hide how the words hit him. Jehan did not move from their position, looking straight at Bossuet, maybe granting him the dignity to get it over with before anyone else turned their attention back on him. Of course, Enjolras would not want to even hear about him, not after what he had done. Not, after he had left without a word or an explanation. Not, after he had been dead to the world for days. Not, after Montparnasse had –

He forced the thought down, out of his mind and put the smile back on his face, ‘Well then, I think visitor hours are over soon, the nurse has been lingering outside for a bit now. Are you going to come back tomorrow? Baz?’

‘Yep, will come pick you up as soon as you say the word,’ Bahorel hugged him clumsily around the shoulders, ‘god, you look great in that gown.’

‘Hey, no flirting whilst I’m still in the room,’ Jehan pushed past him to throw his arms around Grantaire.

‘You’ll find that that was no longer flirting, Jehan, your boyfriend just basically proclaimed his love for R,’ Bossuet grinned, ‘nothing better than love between guys.’

‘Yeah, I love you, too, buddy,’ Grantaire patted his shoulder, ‘try to calm Joly down, will you?’

‘Try not get locked up.’

‘Shut up, Grantaire, that’s no laughing matter,’ Joly rolled his eyes, ‘I’m sure the assessment will be over in no time and we can take you back home.’

‘Okay. Promise you’ll,’ Grantaire swallowed and looked up at him, ‘promise you’ll never let me drink again, okay?’

‘Of course,’ Joly pressed a kiss to his forehead, ‘we’ll make sure you can come home without risk of…relapsing.’

‘Thank you, it means a lot. And you,’ he pointed at Bahorel, ‘beautiful bastard, the moment I can stand up straight again, you’ll need to pummel my brain back into its right shape.’

Bahorel laughed, heartily and loud, ‘You bet!’

His friends left the room, one after the other with a small wave or smile back at him. Bahorel winked at him and caught a hit in the ribs from his partner, Jehan dragged him along and started to berate him in the hallway. Grantaire sighed and let his head fall back into the pillow, all tension seemed to bleed out of him as he watched his friends walk away from his room.

‘Grantaire?’ A doctor stood in the door, smile plastered to her face, ‘I trust your friends cheered you up a little? My name is Doctor Guillotin, I will be taking your assessment today.’

‘You must get a lot of recommendations with a name like that,’ Grantaire grinned to himself, high-fiving himself mentally for his comment.

‘And that sure is the first time I heard that,’ the doctor moved the chair closer to his bed, sat down and crossed his legs, resting a clipboard on his knees, ‘now, I am much more interested in what you have to say about a few standard questions we like to bring up in every assessment.’

Grantaire pulled his blanket closer around his shoulders in an attempt to warm his skin a little. He felt cold despite the effort. Doctor Guillotin cleared his throat and checked what Grantaire thought to be his file.

‘In the last six months, have you experienced any of the following symptoms, if so, how often,’ he began, ‘you don’t need to add details and elaborate. We’ll begin with anxiety.’

‘A few times.’

‘Actually, a little more detail might be in order.’

‘What do you want to hear, constantly?’

‘I am not noting what you think I want to hear. This is about your own mental health and I am just trying to get a grasp of what we’re dealing with.’

At this point, the therapists who had interviewed him as a child had already made up their minds about him and started to scribble away. Doctor Guillotin just raised an eyebrow and looked at him.

‘Depends. Sometimes, I go a few days without feeling too bad. But it’s a constant presence,’ Grantaire mumbled.

‘Have you experienced situations in which you felt like your life was out of control?’

‘Yes.’

‘Felt restless, agitated, frantic or tense?’

Grantaire thought of his episode and how they left him thinking about when the next one would hit, ‘Yes, almost always.’

‘Do you have trouble sleeping, either with falling asleep, sleeping through the night or feeling well-rested after waking up?’

‘Yes.’

‘In which case?’

‘Mostly feeling well-rested.’

‘In the last six months, have you experienced your hands, legs or entire body shaking, trembling or felt tingly?’

‘Yes. Mostly in combination with pain.’

‘Did you experience difficulty breathing or swallowing?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire swallowed, his throat felt drier than it had in weeks.

‘Did you experience pain in your chest, maybe like a heart attack?’

‘Does it count when the whole body hurts with every move?’

Doctor Guillotin seemed to accept it, ‘In the last six months, have you felt like throwing up or had diarrhoea?’

‘What kind of question is that, you should be able to tell from my file that I was brought here after dehydrating from alcohol and throwing up several times,’ Grantaire wanted to get up and leave, rolling his eyes at the psychologist.

‘What about feeling dizzy, like you were going to faint?’

‘Mhm.’

‘Do you experience cold or hot flashes?’

‘Not much?’

‘How frequently did you experience panic attacks in the last six months?’

‘Panic attacks? I –‘ Grantaire huffed out a breath, ‘I don’t know, honestly, I have no idea what counts as a panic attack, I am panicked all the time and take care of the feeling.’

‘Do you purposely avoid situations in which you might experience a panic attack?’

‘Definitely,’ Grantaire managed a joyless laugh, remembering once again the feeling of his throat closing up he got when he tried to imagine the rest of his friends finding out about his episodes.

‘Are you a victim of a traumatic event?’

‘We’re all traumatised, aren’t we?’

‘If you don’t mind, I would like to ask the questions,’ Doctor Guillotin put a cross somewhere on his notes, ‘now, just regarding last month, have you been haunted by flashbacks, memories or nightmares about the event?’

‘What event?’ Grantaire tried to stare down the man sitting across from him but was met with icy silence, ‘yes, okay? Several times. In my defence, I literally met the person who –‘

He interrupted himself and dragged his eyes away, to the side. Doctor Guillotin cleared his throat and noted more on his pad, ‘Do you feel like you lost trust in humanity and yourself, beginning to expect the worst of others and situations?’

‘That’s a trick question,’ Grantaire said, ‘you are literally a person I should expect the worst of.’

‘Do you feel fear, guilt, shame or blamed for what happened?’

‘Sure, I’m an easy target, a sitting duck, right?’

‘Have you lost interest in activities you used to enjoy?’

‘I think that’s just growing up. Of course, everybody does.’

‘Have you become irritable because of minor issues or no reasons at all?’

‘Not to the outside.’

‘Have you become reckless?’

‘Just a little.’

‘Become vigilant, tense or on guard?’

‘Not really.’

‘Had trouble remembering or focussing?’

‘A little. There is a lot going on.’

‘Have you purposely avoided things or situations reminding you of the event?’

‘I try to. I work best with a clean slate.’

‘Have you found yourself unable to feel happiness, contentment or joy?’

‘More recently, yes.’

‘Have you felt any of these symptoms for longer than two weeks: feeling like you can’t go on, stopped having fun doing things you used to enjoy, experienced weight changes or your appetite changing, or did you feel slowed down compared to your usual pace?’

Grantaire nodded along as the doctor read out from his clipboard, ‘Definitely feel slowed down lying in this bloody hospital.’

‘Exhaustion?’

‘You’ll find that my whole generation suffers from that.’

‘Felt worthless or guilty?’

‘Trash knows where it belongs.’

‘Ever wanted to take your life?’

‘Not in recent years.’

‘Do you think the sadness makes it difficult to function in your personal life?’

‘Intimate, doctor, those questions usually only come out after you buy me a drink.’

‘How often do you drink alcohol?’

‘I tried to cut back, got drunk off my arse on whatever I could find yesterday.’

‘Cannabis?’

‘No.’

‘Hallucinogens?’

‘No.’

‘Inhalants?’

‘No.’

‘Opioids?’

‘Never.’

‘Stimulants?’

‘No.’

‘Sedatives or pain killers?’

‘Only when I need them.’

‘Which of them caused the most problems for you?’

‘Alcohol.’

‘You said you tried to cut down, how’s that going?’

‘Did go well until the day before yesterday. I hadn’t drunk for weeks before that.’

‘What happened that made you return to the bottle?’

Grantaire winced and looked out of the window, ‘Wanted to forget. Stop feeling for a moment.’

‘Any cravings or withdrawal symptoms?’

‘I sometimes wanted a drink and didn’t get one, does that count?’

‘Did your friends know about you drinking?’

‘Yes, they didn’t like it but when I cut back, they helped out in situations where it could become difficult.’

‘Thank you,’ Doctor Guillotin got up, ‘for you cooperation. I will come back with some advice or a diagnosis tomorrow.’

‘What, that’s it? You come in here, ask some generic questions and then you disappear like a fairy godmother in scrubs?’ Grantaire managed to look him in the eye properly and saw something akin to amusement in his expression.

He did not like it and Doctor Guillotin raised an eyebrow at him, his face a mask of professional distance and silent questions, a lot of them. Grantaire felt like he had not asked all the things he wanted to know but tried to calm himself.

‘I can promise you, Grantaire, that my verdict tomorrow will suggest further treatment and therapy. It is a suggestion, though, no one can force you to do something about the situation, if you are not willing to change or at least face possibilities.’

With that, the doctor left the room and closed the door, allowing Grantaire to lie back and close his eyes, exhaustion catching up with him before he could remind himself to check his phone for more messages. As he drifted away for the first time of many during a restless night interrupted by nightmares and memories, he remembered Jehan’s face when Bossuet told them about Enjolras’ cold answer. They had looked just as hurt as him. Grantaire did not like seeing them this way and tried to keep hold of one thought before falling asleep.

He would get them something spectacular that would make them smile and beam.

Chapter Text

A surprising visitor next slipped through the gap in the door early in the morning, whilst Grantaire still cleared his small breakfast of the plastic tray after a night of rather restless sleep on a hospital bed that smelled like desinfectant and a rather cold washing detergent. As far as hospital food went, it was almost tasty. Grantaire had already finished a surprisingly dry piece of buttered toast which his stomach had accepted so far. He washed it down with a gulp of cold peppermint tea and had just about finished worrying about what the day would bring, when he heard steps approach, quiet, careful steps that stopped in front of his room’s door.

As the door opened, he looked up, expecting a nurse or Doctor Guillotin back to check up on him a last time before he left. Instead, he met glinting eyes hidden behind a mask of long, dark hair.

‘Claquesous? What the hell are you doing here today?’ Grantaire sat up against his pillows and stretched his hand out, almost as if trying to pull him closer, ‘visiting hours have not yet started and I’ll be discharged in a little while, anyway.’

‘I couldn’t stay away. Sneaking in was easy,’ Claquesous dragged the chair across the room towards the bed, ‘finding you was a little trickier. This hospital is a maze, worse than most backstage areas. You wouldn’t believe how many venues seem dead set on the musicians never making it onto the stage. How are you doing?’

‘Well, I’m in hospital and I got somewhat closer to drinking myself to death,’ Grantaire grinned, offering his jelly to Claquesous, ‘I didn’t know you were still in town. Or again?’

‘Still in town, my parents allowed me to leave the house without breakfast for once,’ he grabbed the bowl of squiggly red stuff and began to slurp it off the spoon, ‘seriously, man, drinking yourself to death? You are a stupid-fucking idiot. Epic on one hand, fucking ridiculous on the other. For what? A moment’s peace and quiet and the certainty that you’re giving Montparnasse an opportunity to get the upper hand? Didn’t we agree it would be better for your mental health to try and stay on top of it? Come on, man, I feel like I’m repeating myself and I don’t like it!’

He finished the jelly and set the bowl back down on the tray. Claquesous seemed out of place in the hospital room, even more than he already seemed based on the ridiculously colourful Christmas jumper he wore. Grantaire would have laughed at him and joked about it, if it had not been for the IV still attached to his arm and the hospital gown that scratched his skin where it was tied in his neck. He was hardly in a position to mock anyone.

‘I tried my fucking best,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘it’s still all in my mind. I manage for a bit but then I just crumble and give in to it all. It’s just easier to get it over with, no one needs to be concerned with what is going on with me.’

‘See, you say that but then you go and do something as stupid as drinking yourself to kingdom come a couple of days after Christmas. You can’t demand that people leave you be, and then do the most attention seeking shit possible. I’m getting mixed signals here, darling, and it’s not pretty for anyone.’

Grantaire sighed but Claquesous cut him off with a wave, brows drawn together, ‘Get off your high fucking horse, Grantaire, and accept that people want to help you, every now and then. Therapy or counselling don’t make you anything less than what you are. It makes you stronger, helps you see clear and take out your enemies one by one. That’s what my therapist told me, at least.’

‘Damn, I need your therapist,’ Grantaire finished his tea, ‘can you get me their number?’

‘Did you just agree to start therapy? Because I would love to share them, if you actually followed up on that,’ Claquesous snapped forward in his seat, ‘Gotcha!’

Grantaire could not help but chuckle, ‘If I agree to therapy, will it help me tell certain people that I can barely move every few months?’

‘It might. Therapy is hard work. You might feel exhausted afterwards, maybe, you’ll find out some things about yourself you never expected to see but it can help,’ Claquesous frowned a little, ‘I wouldn’t have made it through the first tour without therapy. Just consider it, okay?’

He put the chair back and cleared his throat. They could both hear steps in the hallway as the hospital came to life more and more. Within minutes, Grantaire figured, someone would walk into his room to open it back up for other patients.

‘I should go, they’ll discharge you soon enough, anyway. Shoot me a text when you’re out, we should meet up some time without anyone else there to talk about stuff. You hear that? You can talk to me, even when you don’t feel well,’ Claquesous patted his shoulder, ‘’specially when you don’t feel well. I’ll try to keep the phone close by. Babet, Gueulemer and I have a meeting coming up, about the douchebag I still need to kick out of the band, somehow.’

‘You’re thinking about getting rid of Montparnasse? But he’s Patron-Minette’s voice!’

‘Doesn’t really excuse his behaviour, does it? He has to change, think about how he’s treating people and come to a conclusion. I don’t think Babet’s going to tolerate his antics for much longer. We played a Christmas gig a week ago and Montparnasse tried to re-negotiate our contract, trying to turn a charity appearance into a profitable thing. Let’s just say, Babet doesn’t appreciate people getting their hands on money that’s supposed to help children,’ Claquesous shrugged and stepped back a little, ‘well, I hope to see you up and about again soon.’

‘Thanks,’ Grantaire watched as his friend disappeared the way he had shown up, without a trace or sound, leaving only the empty bowl of jelly on his tray as a sign that he had been there at all, ‘see you soon.’

Less than a minute after the door closed, Doctor Guillotin came into the room, followed by a nurse. She went over his vitals a last time, nodded approvingly and detached him from the wires and the IV.

Guillotin cleared his throat and pushed his glasses up his nose, ‘Well, that’s that. We’d like to arrange a first therapy session for you.’

‘I got a recommendation from a friend.’

‘Can I trust you to follow up on that?’

‘Can you force me?’ Grantaire massaged the crook of his arm, ‘I’m back on track, I can call them and get my own appointment.’

‘You certainly ask enough counter questions to make a psychotherapist blush,’ Guillotin sighed but signed the discharge papers for him and held them out for Grantaire to take, ‘just make sure you drink enough water on an everyday basis to keep yourself out of hospital. I hope our little talk and your friends really got through to you, there are clear disadvantages to drinking excessively but that’s nothing coming as a surprise to you, I suppose. My diagnosis, as shallow and brief our talk was, would certainly border on depression or at least a depressive disorder. I am sure, a colleague will examine you further but for now, all I can do is suggest to seek professional help beyond the short encounter we had to make sure you are stable or learn how to cope with the struggle. Give this to your friends and make sure you rest for a few days with lots of fluid, water or tea, to support your body.’

Grantaire waited until the doctor had left with a last stern look back at him, then, he darted to where his clothes lay folded on the side. He sent a text message to Bahorel, letting him know that he was free to leave. The answer came promptly, asking Grantaire to come to the front of the visitors’ drive. He had just about gotten dressed and put on his shoes – Joly had grabbed them for him and placed them close to the bed – when his phone rang and Jehan called him.

‘I’m on my way, everything okay?’

‘Sure,’ they grinned audibly, ‘Bahorel is speeding to get you. You should be proud of yourself, it seems dangerous to be driven by him right now.’

‘Great,’ Grantaire replied and grabbed his last belongings off the chair, ‘I’ll meet you downstairs in a bit.’

‘Did you have breakfast?’

‘Hospital breakfast. Do you know whether Bossuet and Joly are home, or should I get groceries?’

‘They told us to get you home immediately, apparently, they have plans,’ Jehan seemed to tell Bahorel something, taking their ear away from the phone, ‘oh, and Gavroche’s going to be back in January. Éponine isn’t quite sure whether he’ll be back on your couch, we think you should probably concentrate on your own problems first – and on getting better. Yes, I know I can tell him when we get there but Ép sounded pretty urgent.’

They had clearly directed the last sentence at Bahorel, Grantaire grinned to himself, ‘I’m gonna meet you downstairs. Don’t get killed in that tiny shoebox of a car, there are better ways to go. More poetic, too.’

He hung up and pocketed his phone before leaving the room with his coat wrapped around his shoulders. Jehan and Bahorel would not mind him taking another minute to compose himself before leaving the hospital. Claquesous’ visit and his words had reached something inside himself. He had called him a stupid idiot but Grantaire had been almost sure he meant ‘I love you and you are my friend but you had me worried and I will never forgive you for that.’

Jehan jumped out of the car and came rushing towards him as he walked down the drive. They wrapped their arms around him and squeezed him tight enough to make anyone believe they had not seen each other for weeks, instead of one night.

‘You’re up and on your legs,’ they grinned, ‘it’s good to see you. Come on, Bahorel’s waiting and we need to get something proper into your stomach!’

He followed Jehan to the car and squeezed into the back, patting Bahorel on the shoulder, ’Morning, thank you for picking me up.’

‘No problem, are you strapped in?’

‘Yes, everything’s okay, you can go,’ Grantaire threw him a grin in the rear view mirror.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, he pulled it out and opened his messages. Claquesous had come true on his promise and sent the details for his therapist, both phone number and email address. Grantaire sighed, feeling a little relieved and as if at least one load had been taken off his shoulders.

‘Everything alright?’

‘Yeah, just got a message from ‘Sous.’

‘Claquesous?’ Jehan turned around in the passenger seat to face him, ‘what did he want?’

‘He came by the hospital this morning.’

‘Uhm, visiting hours –‘

‘Visiting hours don’t apply to Claquesous,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘he came by and suggested his therapist to me, just sent me their details.’

‘Wait, did Claquesous of all people get you to consider therapy as a serious option?’ Jehan failed to pick their jaw off the car floor, ‘I’m impressed, should I send him a fruit basket or something? He managed to do something we’ve been trying to get you to do for years? I really don’t know whether I should be cross with you just following his lead but being such a piece of work!’

Grantaire leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to their cheek, ‘Don’t be cross, please. You’re one of my closest friends, maybe, Claquesous just caught me at a good time.’

Bahorel snorted. His partner threw him a dirty look and        turned back around to the front. Jehan crossed their arms over their chest and pushed their bottom lip out in a pout.

‘Oh come on, darling, I didn’t even say anything!’

‘You didn’t need to! I know exactly what you were thinking in that moment, and it’s enough for you to be obliged to buy me lunch for a week once we’re back in classes!’

Bahorel did not object and drove them farther towards the academy buildings. Grantaire could see the smile tucked in the corner of his mouth and the way he softly shook his head at his partner’s antics.

‘What are your plans for the next days, then?’ Jehan tried to keep their tone light but still sounded a little strained, ‘I suppose you’ll have to rest a little?’

‘The doctor gave me this,’ Grantaire handed over Guillotin’s note with a shrug, ‘said to give it to my friends.’

Jehan unfolded the paper and read out loud, ‘Make sure he drinks enough water or tea, have him rest and try to keep him from staying awake too late.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Grantaire groaned out, ‘it’s not enough that I have to go see a shrink, he wants you to babysit me?’

‘I don’t think babysitting is not the right word,’ Jehan broke out into a gleeful grin again, ‘we should not mention that word again. Instead, I would like you to think of getting pampered.’

Bahorel parked the car behind the academy buildings and got out first. Grantaire, still voicing his displeasure at the note Jehan held in their hand, slammed the door shut a little too forcefully, making Bahorel jump and look at him with a stern look.

‘R, that’s a car, not a dead piece of wood you can kick around,’ he scolded, ‘doesn’t matter whether you’re pissed off right now, don’t break my poor car!’

Grantaire mumbled something neither of his friends understood and followed them towards the back door, leading into the dorms. They made their way up the stairs, Grantaire finding himself in between Jehan and Bahorel, as if they were trying to make sure he would not faint on the way up.

‘They should really modernise this building,’ he remarked, the picture of a stair lift flashed in front of his eyes, ‘Joly has so much trouble getting up and down sometimes.’

‘True, old buildings and monumental protection should not keep them from being accessible, really,’ Jehan shrugged, ‘we could suggest it as a topic to Enjolras for one of the next meetings.’

‘Good idea,’ Bahorel nodded, ‘I think that would be something worth fighting for, and influential on the whole campus and student life in general.’

Grantaire pulled himself up the stairs with one hand on the handrail. He tried not to listen as Bahorel and Jehan argued who should be the one to tell Enjolras about the idea. At the top of the stairs, he could see the first doors.

‘I want my bed,’ the words slipped out of his mouth before he could think about what they implied.

‘Sure, we’ll get you cosied up soon enough,’ Jehan took his hand and pulled him along the hallway, ‘probably not the bed though, bit too early. We will get you some food and company, if you want to.’

‘You better phone that therapist first thing in the new year,’ Bahorel added, bringing a heavy hand down onto Grantaire’s shoulder, ‘maybe Joly knows of a prescription free possibility for the last few days?’

‘Worth asking,’ Jehan knocked on the door, ‘he would be the one to know useful medications that don’t need actual doctor’s appointments.’

It was Joly who opened the door for them, ‘There you are! Come in, Bossuet is in the process of burning some breakfast and overcooking hot chocolate.’

‘I heard that,’ Bossuet’s voice came out of the kitchen, followed by a sizzling sound and a, ‘shit, no, don’t do that!’

‘That must have been the cocoa,’ Joly sighed, ‘get comfortable, we turned the couch into a nest. Everybody just grab a seat and get cosy, we’re going to have brunch and start watching a new series. Grantaire, do you wanna pick?’

‘Sure, I’ll just – I’d like to shower beforehand, if that’s okay? I feel filthy,’ Grantaire toed off his shoes in the hallway and went to hug Bossuet before walking through the living room and towards his bedroom.

‘Yeah, we’ll be a moment,’ Joly grinned, ‘take all the time you need. Do you need anything?’

‘Just some warm water, a shave and fresh clothes,’ Grantaire sighed and grabbed a pair of sweatpants, ‘be with you in a bit.’

He stepped into the bathroom and locked the door, pulled his worn, crinkled clothes off and stepped into the shower. The warm water seemed to wash off layers of sweat and sour smells clinging to his skin immediately. Grantaire squeezed enough soap into his hands to wash a whole family, the calming scent of Joly’s essential oil based washing products enveloped him further and opened up his airways. He washed his hair, scrubbed his face under the spray and shut off the water, eventually. He wrapped himself into one of their fluffy towels, dried himself off and stepped into his fresh clothes.

When he emerged back into the living room, his friends had already settled, leaving a space between Bossuet and Jehan for him. Grantaire climbed over the backrest of the sofa, slipped under the blanket lifted up for him by Jehan and grabbed the remote from Bossuet.

He picked a Christmas comedy and started the first episode, tossing the remote back on the coffee table. Joly and Bossuet really had prepared brunch and hot chocolate, set up everything for a marathon and forced Jehan and Bahorel to sit down and get comfortable.

Joly was explaining the numerous options of different prescription free antidepressants that would at least calm somebody down, if not improve their mental state. Grantaire watched Jehan type a note and send it to him, it was a list with five different medicaments with different effects and they added a ‘we should get at least one of those today or tomorrow.’

They settled into the sofa with plates full of food and looked ahead. The TV screen was filled with snowy landscapes, soft music came from the speakers and Grantaire could feel Jehan wiggle into the nook of the couch. They seemed content and pleased with themselves, resting their head against Bahorel’s shoulder.

Grantaire managed to get through three episodes of the show without drifting off. The plates had been cleared and he had offered to do the washing up, standing in the kitchen he heard his friends laugh and chuckle in the room next door. He scrubbed dried scrambled eggs off a plate and tried to get it clean entirely, when he heard them laugh out loud again, this time mentioning plans for New Year’s and the first Les Amis meeting back after the break.

‘Enjolras should be back before New Year’s, he mentioned being game for a game night or party,’ Grantaire knew that Bahorel was physically unable to speak quietly but even for his friend, it had been loud, ‘we could get together, have dinner or a buffet and get the game console out.’

‘Group gaming night, great idea,’ Bossuet chipped in, ‘maybe even karaoke? I haven’t heard Enjolras drunkenly sing Don’t Stop Believing in ages!’

‘Oh yes, that’s certainly is a sight to behold!’

Grantaire set down the plate quietly and grabbed the next one. His fingers had begun to shake again, he noticed, as he submerged it in the sink. The warm water stung against his cold skin but did not seem to help, instead, it got so uncomfortable that he pulled his hands out, leaving the plate in the sink.

He felt the cold wander over his skin, seeping into his pores and stunning him, rooting him to the spot in the kitchen. Just out of the hospital, he felt sick to his stomach again.

The day with his friends, meant to be fun and light hearted, turned sour within seconds. He still had not heard from Enjolras himself but just going by what his friends had mentioned, he could not rely on being contacted.

He had just realised the extent of his feelings for Enjolras and come to terms with it. He had tried to drown these accepted feelings and it had landed him in hospital.

Now, he wanted them to go away, go back to where he had been before, oblivious and ridiculous but content. He wanted to return to a point in time before he knew Enjolras in person, before he knew of him, before he got invested. He had gotten to know a person he had seen as an apparition, an angel of music. He had had expectations of what he would be like, once he got to know him, and like his mother waiting for him to turn out a musical prodigy, he had been disappointed in a way he had not banked on. Of course, it had been positive.

Until it was not.

Enjolras was different than what he had expected, of course he was. His father once had told him that those who carried expectations could only be disappointed.

As it turned out, he had been right and as Grantaire tried to find a way for himself out of the maze of his mind, he found one dead end after the other.

At one point, he had slid down the kitchen cabinet, onto the floor. He buried his head between his knees and gave in to the urge to breathe against the overwhelming load of thoughts in his head, breathing faster and faster with ever drawn breath, letting the tears spill down his face again.

Chapter Text

Jehan came looking for him a few minutes later, a steaming mug in their hands and a smudge of ketchup on their cheek from the scrambled eggs they had wolfed down earlier. As soon as they saw him crouched on the ground, however, they put the mug down on the counter and crossed over to them.

‘Hey, Grantaire, are you alright? What happened, are you hurt?’

He found himself unable to speak or make a sound; still hugging himself, he looked up and shook his head, not sure which question he answered with that move. Jehan seemed to interpret something and squatted down next to him.

‘Can you tell me what’s wrong?’

Grantaire managed to shake his head, tears still running down his cheeks. He tucked his head between their chin and shoulder, hiding his face. Their hand came to rest on his shoulder and stroked through his hair.

‘Is it a general reaction to everything that happened over the last days,’ they asked quietly, almost whispering into his ear, ‘or more specifically triggered by something else?’

Grantaire mumbled into their neck, ‘Both.’

‘Enjolras?’

‘A little,’ Grantaire admitted and closed his eyes.

‘Oh poor soul,’ Jehan soothed over his hair and neck, trying to hold him still, ‘just know that I’ll always be here for you, if you need or want to talk.’

‘Are you okay in there, it’s been a while,’ Joly came through the door, a few plates in his hands, ‘hey Grantaire, is everything alright?’

‘Panic attack,’ Jehan explained calmly, ‘we’re breathing through it with a bit of space and quiet. Would you care for another cup of hot chocolate?’

Joly nodded quietly, filled his own mug with steaming cocoa and crouched down next to Jehan and Grantaire. He put an arm around them before sitting down properly, stretching his leg out in front of himself.

‘Do you wanna talk about it?’ Joly cleared his throat, ‘I’m not sure I can help you with it, you’ve gone through a lot over the last days and there’s only so much I can do – but I promise we’ll get you through it all, okay?’

Jehan still weaved their fingers through his hair and Grantaire settled against his touch. He tried to calm his breathing and match it to theirs, aiming to get himself back to a normal state.

‘Is this about Enjolras being a little cold?’ Joly watched him intently, ‘I figured something’s up, you haven’t been the same since the hospital.’

‘I doubt you could say anything about me is alright, at the moment,’ Grantaire wheezed through a few sobs, ‘and for your information, Enjolras has every right to be cross, distant and cold to me, I have betrayed his trust and friendship, I left him with no word of warning, I just left and now he has every right to protect himself from letting a leech like me into his life. It can’t be that he lets me be part of his life, I would call him stupid and reckless, if he did.’

‘Grantaire –‘

‘No, let me finish this, I have to say it, once and for all!’ Grantaire drew breath, deep enough to fill his lungs, enough to make him feel like he would be able to get out full sentences without interrupting himself, ‘all of you know that I don’t talk to my parents. All of you are well aware why and what happens when my mother gets her hands on me, we were all there when she was let loose at the gala. You were the friends I made when I came here and I appreciate every single one of you so much, you can’t even start to understand how much your friendship means to me. Without you, I wouldn’t have finished my first term at the academy, I would have drunk myself into jumping off a bridge or into an even earlier grave. This is not me being dramatic, it’s a sad truth that I have carried around with me like a badge of honour. Your friendship helped me through so much, you especially, Jehan, once we found out about our common connection to Montparnasse.’

The mention of this name made Jehan look up at him with sad, big eyes. They rubbed his arm with one hand, digging into his muscles a little. Grantaire found himself being grounded by the comforting warmth they radiated. It was enough for him to continue.

‘I didn’t intend on going home this Christmas,’ he admitted quietly, ‘I had planned on a few days on my own, with movies and take out, not thinking about my mother, her delusions or that blasted village I called my home. And then, Enjolras knocked and made me go with him. He noticed that I had not gone to the station and maybe that was enough for me to join him, the realisation that he had paid attention enough to see me. Or not, does that make sense?’

Bossuet nodded from the door where he had stopped to lean against the frame. Grantaire met his gaze and took another deep breath, nodding to himself as he recalled the drive in Combeferre’s car.

‘Guess what, Enjolras grew up on the other side of the village, different school district, we never crossed paths but he took me straight where I didn’t want to be. Figures, my luck wouldn’t favour me enough to grant me such small relief. Actually, I am not giving credit where credit is due. Enjolras’ family is wonderful, they love and care so much, no matter who steps into their house. I get where Enjolras got his strong morals from, now. Waiting for Christmas surrounded by so much warmth and genuine joy was a nice change, to be honest.’

‘And then?’ Bahorel asked, Grantaire realised that he had drifted off for a moment and hurried to clear his throat.

‘Then I felt another episode coming up. It started with headaches, as always,’ his voice gave out, breaking away as he made to explain how the turn of the last days had come about, ‘I couldn’t bear it. I could not bear the thought of Enjolras seeing me like that. Pathetic, hurting, driven into isolation by my own body reacting to something no one has managed to explain and diagnose. I could not bear him seeing me, judging – judging me for it, worst of all, pitying me. In my mind, I just wanted to get away as fast and as far as possible.’

‘So you left?’ Joly interceded, voice soft and cautious.

Grantaire nodded, ‘So I left. Got my stuff together persuaded Adonis to tag along, went to the station and got on the train. I think – I believed Enjolras followed me by car but I’m not sure, I tried to leave quietly and it was still dark outside, I don’t think it was Combeferre’s car.’

‘Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t,’ Jehan said, ‘please tell me you let Enjolras know in some way.’

‘I left a note but I don’t think it’ll make much sense, it hurt so much to write it, come up with what I knew to be a lie and an excuse. Enjolras is better off keeping a distance to me. Especially after I returned here with Montparnasse in a desperate attempt to stall the paralysis.’

‘But surely, he would understand, if you explained the episodes, the pain, the emotional strain they put on you, the way your demons get so close to you. He would understand, and then –‘

‘And then, he would want to help, and that’s where he would find himself confronted with something so overwhelming and cruel that even Enjolras would have to give up and throw in the towel, forever wondering and asking how he could have done more, what he could have done to help me. You know him, too, tell me he would not question his every decision until he found the fault with himself. He tries to come across as a strong leader but he is just as insecure as the rest of us.’

‘One difference, though,’ Bossuet interrupted lightly, ‘we know. Enjolras is the strong leader but every single one of us knows he is only human. He tries his best but if he hits rock bottom, we will be there to lift him up and raise him. That’s what friends are for, Grantaire. Enjolras isn’t a superhero or a god, he is a music student with a heart too big for our society and a brain too idealistic to accept set situations. We need the rule breakers, the thinkers, those people who are ready to sacrifice something in order to achieve their goals. Enjolras is that for Les Amis but Les Amis is nothing without the rest of us alongside him, the friends who make the group, the silent wall around those in need, the loving group of people who will drop everything to make sure one of us is doing alright.’

Grantaire rested his head against Jehan’s shoulder, hiding his face and the tears still streaming from his eyes in their hair. Soothing fingers rubbed circles into his scalp.

‘Enjolras would never leave you alone and you shouldn’t assume the boundaries of his capabilities and willingness to help somebody out,’ Bahorel said into the silence that settled between them, ‘and I don’t think you should only see yourself as pathetic and lacking. You are your own person, Grantaire, don’t measure yourself against Enjolras or his opinion of you.’

‘I’m not measuring myself against Enjolras,’ Grantaire managed to formulate, ‘I just think that I am a kind of person Enjolras should not concern himself with. What have I got to offer to someone who burns so brightly, who is passionate enough to make prophets wonder and past leaders shake in their boots? What can I show Enjolras, what can I bring to the table?’

‘Grantaire,’ Bossuet cleared his throat, ‘are we still talking about why you left about how you left Enjolras and drifted back into the arms of the toxic person who made you crumble the first time ‘round?’

‘No, obviously not,’ Grantaire felt like he was suffocating on the thoughts that were on a merry-go-round in his head, they screamed at him to stop being stupid and secretive, to just tell everyone what was going on, a part of him just wanted silence and a blanket, return to the series they had not finished, ‘obviously not, I am talking about how I am in love with Enjolras and made a complete fool out of myself!’

At least, he had achieved complete silence in their kitchen, apart from the tap that had started to drop over the holidays.

***

Claquesous made a point of calling him every night. He had figured out his schedule in no time and called right after Grantaire had fed Adonis, before he could get ready to change and get cosy for the night with a movie and his pillows stacked up to make a nest. As it was, Grantaire decided not to allow Claquesous to interfere with his evenings in the slightest and carried on with his routine nonetheless. It gave him a slight pleasure to hear Claquesous shout over speaker phone whilst he brushed his teeth and pretended to be muffled through the sleeves of his sleep shirt. Once he had built his bedding and pillows into a fort no nightmare or annoying flat mate could get into, he pulled his various sketchpads and notebooks over from his nightstand and started working, all the while still talking to Claquesous who, by then, mostly finished his own reports on what the day had brought for him. Grantaire could tell him little more than that he had managed to make it through another day so he took to describing what he had sketched or which movies he had watched.

Claquesous seemed to be alright with that. He would prepare himself an evening snack with Grantaire on speaker phone, eat in front of the TV with Grantaire ranting about the colours he meant to use but could not find, and start a game, Grantaire back on speaker phone until he fell asleep. In the morning, Grantaire could retrace roughly when sleep had found him by the timestamp ending the call.

Whether it was down to Claquesous or not, he had slept through the night without nightmares every single time, even as New Year’s Eve rolled around. His friends had tried to convince him to join them as they made their way to Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras’ flat but did not put up any fight when he declined, likely due to newfound understanding for his situation.

Instead, all of them had come up with alternatives and suggestions for him to spend the evening. Jehan seemed to have given out a checklist before requesting possibilities, every single idea would keep Grantaire as far away from booze as possible and seemed to have at least three other people present, even though not his friends. Between an open lecture evening at the academy, night canoeing on the river – Grantaire failed to see how that would take place without alcohol – and his own idea of helping out at the animal shelter to try and accommodate anxious dogs and cats once the fireworks started, his choice was easily made.

Bahorel dropped him off at the shelter before going on the food and booze run for their own party. Grantaire waved after the car before pushing his bag on one shoulder and adjusting the transport box in the other hand. He had been to the animal shelter a few times before, sometimes looking into the animals up for adoption, a model for an assignment – that spot had been occupied by Adonis, as of late – and sometimes, he had volunteered to walk the dogs to get out of his room and spend some time with furry, anxious bundles that made him feel not so alone. The brightly lit reception made him revisit a few of the times he had visited before. He waved at the young woman behind the counter who motioned for him to leave his coat and bag in the back room. If he remembered correctly, her name was Angelique.

‘Great that you wanted to help out tonight,’ she smiled as she unlocked the connecting door to the kennels, ‘it’s hard to find enough people for New Year’s, everybody is out partying and has a good time, I mean, they are allowed to have a good time, of course. No one seems to remember that some sectors need work, though. Have you volunteered with us before?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire answered, ‘must be half a year since the last time.’

‘Okay, so you know the premises,’ Angelique continued, ‘we are three tonight, you, me and Muriel.’

Grantaire remembered Muriel vividly. She was in charge around the shelter, her name was the last to be put on adoption papers after she checked potential new owners thoroughly. During their first meeting, she had told Grantaire she had a superpower that allowed her to know at the first glance whether someone was fit to adopt one of her pets. She had foreseen him to have several pets who he would care about a lot.

At the time, Grantaire had laughed but now, Adonis in his transport box, impatient to bet let out, he wanted to reconsider her words and his reaction. He had brought Adonis along to test his ability to get along with other animals on one hand, and on the other, to look after him once midnight came around. Grantaire had no idea how his cat would take to fireworks and it seemed the worst time imaginable to leave him alone to experience them for himself.

Muriel met them in the walk way between the kennels, hair pulled into a strict bun and hands holding bags of fodder and treats, ‘Grantaire! There you are again, young man, how dare you show here after six months of radio silence, hm? Make yourself useful, we still have to feed the army.’

Her gaze got stuck on the transport box in his hands, ‘What’s that, are you planning on taking someone away?’
‘This,’ Grantaire laughed, ‘is Adonis, my cat. You were right, I ended up with a pet without really realising it. I picked him up on the street, he’s still small but I want him to get along with other animals.’

‘No problem, if he behaves himself,’ Muriel shrugged, ‘possibly a good idea to let him out here and see how he reacts to the other cats and dogs around here.’

Grantaire nodded, bent down and opened the transport box, ‘Out you get, I have to work.’

Adonis stretched his legs and yawned before prancing out of the box. Muriel watched with a smile on her lips that she reserved for animals alone. As if he had noticed it, and determined to make the most of his opportunity to shine, Adonis walked straight towards her, meowing and purring whilst his tail flicked above his head.

‘Aren’t you a handsome fellow,’ Muriel cooed and crouched down to pet him properly.

The bags of fodder lay next to her, Angelique and Grantaire exchanged a quick glance and a smile before picking them up to continue where she had left of. Every animal in the shelter had its information posted on the kennel door, fodder name, measurements and quantity. It made it easier to feed the cats and dogs with changing volunteers, Grantaire had learned the first time he helped out.

As he went to open one kennel after the other, stepping in to fill the bowls with fodder, he looked back and saw Adonis walking up and down between the rows of bars, inspecting the animals behind them with a curious glance. Grantaire felt a first wave of relief wash over him. His cat seemed perfectly fine amongst others, coming up close to the bars to get a better look at some of the cats and dogs. A few of them looked over at him cautiously, at least one cat hissed and seemed the threaten Adonis but he seemed unperturbed by it, continuing his promenade down the aisle. The dogs were more willing to come forward, sniffing the air Adonis moved in his stride. A few of them seemed to try and test his endurance, barking a greeting at him to watch his reaction. Adonis still seemed unfazed by the kerfuffle he caused in this way, simply strutting past them with a glance to the side every now and then.

Grantaire reached the end of the aisle, a kennel with a seemingly bored dog in the corner. He opened the door to fill the bowl with food. The dog in question had white, brown and black fur, some sort of border collie mix with a wet nose and deep eyes.

When he turned around to close the kennel again and return the bags of dry dog food, he found his cat curled up against the dog’s side, cleaning his fur. Grantaire cleared his throat.

‘Adonis, I didn’t bring you along to pester the other animals,’ he whispered, not entirely sure what Muriel would say if she found his cat in the kennel without her supervision.

‘Oh leave them be,’ as if summoned, Muriel appeared next to him, ‘this is one of our oldest inhabitants. Well, old in time spent at the shelter. A sweet soul but easily spooked. She is returned every time we think she has found a perfect home because apparently, dogs with panic attacks are something people underestimate. What use is a dog that you have to pet for half an hour before going in a quick walk, huh?’

She stepped into the kennel to stroke the dog’s fur. Adonis watched her every move, stretching up a little until Muriel had petted his head as well.

‘She is a good girl but we don’t know what kind of trauma she went through before she came here. Must be something a woman did to her, she would hardly come to me when she arrived here and it’s still easier for our male carers and volunteers to take care of her.’

Grantaire waited in the kennel door for her to leave the small space, given what Muriel had said, he did not want to crowd the dog. He closed the door after she had walked past him into the aisle, leaving Adonis in there – he doubted the bars were too close together to prevent his cat from strolling in and out at his will. They returned the bags of fodder to the store room where they met back up with Angelique.

‘Tea, anyone?’ Muriel rubbed her hands, ‘Later tonight, we’ll take them into the playroom to keep an eye on them, should anyone grow too distressed, we will separate them from the group and calm them down on their own. No use having everybody barking and howling as we try to make somebody more comfortable with the situation.’

Grantaire and Angelique nodded along, following her into the small staff kitchen. There were a few Christmas ornaments on the window sill and a plate on the table promised biscuits, gingerbread and chocolates but Muriel turned to fill up the kettle first thing.

‘Why are you here today of all days?’ Angelique asked curiously, eyes trained on Grantaire, ‘Girlfriend break up with you on Christmas Day? Kicked out by the parents? No friends? Why are you celebrating New Year’s at the shelter?’

‘No to all three of those,’ he replied, ‘kinda. My friends are throwing their own house party tonight but I’m trying to stay far away from parties and alcohol at the moment so I opted for something calmer.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Muriel sighed, ‘we never know how many of them need to be comforted. Last year, I had two animals on each hand.’

‘A shame,’ Angelique nodded, ‘all those fireworks being set off, no one thinks about their own pets in the process, let alone shelter animals and wildlife.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Grantaire mumbled, ‘Adonis hasn’t experienced New Year’s, yet, I will have to watch him a little. I hope he’ll be fine but how am I to know? The most confident pet can transform into a ball of jelly, if it’s just loud enough outside.’

He hoped his concern did not show too much. Muriel’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. Her eyes promised him something he was sure went beyond assuring him about Adonis. Like animals, she seemed to be able to tell a person’s true feelings and concerns apart from the ones presented outwardly.

Three big mugs were placed on the table between them, each equipped with two tea bags for adequate strength of the brew. The kettle whistled and Angelique got up to fill the mugs to the brim. They passed around the plate with sweets and biscuits for a bit, Muriel got up to switch on the radio at some point to fill the comfortable silence between them with the annual countdown.

There were still hours to go.

At some point, Adonis slipped into the kitchen, having left the dog kennels. Grantaire gave him his own food and a little water in a saucer Muriel wordlessly held out for him and stroked his fur, asking about the dog in the last kennel and whether Adonis had made a friend.

Adonis purred, meowed and turned his attention towards the bowl of cat food.

‘He is handsome,’ Angelique smiled at him across the table, ‘how did you get your hands on him?’

‘Found him a couple months back in a box in an alley way. To be fair, I was drunk off my head and should probably have been in bed but he was so alone and tiny, and it rained, I couldn’t walk past him. I basically stuffed him in the collar of my coat, ruined one shirt and brought him home with me,’ Grantaire grinned, reliving the memory for a moment, ‘I have to say though, I would do the same thing sober, just with a few more stops in between to get cat food and a litter box.’

‘Very reasonable of you,’ Muriel said and Grantaire was not sure whether she mocked him or not, ‘well, that cat is very lucky to have caught your attention. You are a good pet dad, Grantaire.’

‘Should we round everybody up? I think there’s less than an hour left now,’ Angelique listened to the radio carefully where the news had ended and the next song started, ‘I think we can get started on the whole thing, Muriel.’

‘Alright then,’ Muriel sighed, ‘are you ready, Grantaire?’

He nodded and followed her back to the kennels. Angelique brought the tea mugs to the play room where she perched them on the window sill, out of reach for even the most talented cat. Muriel and Grantaire opened the kennel doors and one after the other, the dogs and cats trotted down the aisle, into the biggest room in the shelter where they had access to toys, ramps and blankets.

Between twenty and thirty cats and dogs were there altogether, not included the rabbits, guinea pigs and hamsters Muriel would check on later. Grantaire sat down next to Angelique and rekindled their conversation, exchanging information about their respective studies – she was training to become a vet at the university – and showing her a few of his recent sketches, mostly Adonis somewhere around the flat.

When she requested he draw her he could not say no. He rarely drew women and when he did, they tended to turn into caricatures. Sitting back and directing her into a pose that would be comfortable enough to hold for a little longer, he got a pencil out and started on his outlines and reference lines. Angelique proved to be gifted with patience, she barely moved whilst he drew line after line, studying her facial expression carefully to make sure to capture her truthfully.

‘Look behind you,’ she interrupted him softly, ‘I have never seen that happen before.’

Grantaire turned in his sitting position and followed her pointing finger. The dog Adonis had visited earlier lay in one of the corners, far away from the chaos the playing dogs around her left behind. She had rested her head on her paws, seemingly watching but not daring to join in. Between her paws, however, Grantaire spotted his own ginger cat, eyes closed and probably purring against her neck.

‘What do you mean?’ He was a little confused as to why she felt the need to tell him, Adonis was a cuddly cat, surprisingly hard to overwhelm with closeness.

‘She doesn’t usually let other animals near her, especially not ones she doesn’t know. It’s hard enough for her to make sense of the world as it is.’

‘Why?’

‘Muriel didn’t tell you? She is deaf!’

Grantaire wanted to respond, or continue on his sketch but Muriel tapped them on the shoulder and nodded towards the clock in the corner, ‘We should get ready. They started the countdown. We did close all the windows, right?’

Angelique got one quick nod in before the radio finished counting down and a cheerful “Happy New Year” came from the speakers. At the same time, the first loud cracks came in from outside, crackers and fireworks exploding, wheezing and whizzing, howling and spinning, tinting the floor with neon coloured flashes and lights. The light alone was enough to prompt seizures in epileptic people, Grantaire groaned as the sound came through and echoed through the play room.

‘It would be even worse in the kennels,’ Muriel said quietly, ‘Angelique, you have a candidate. Grantaire, the boxer, please.’

Grantaire looked back to Adonis and his new friend but his cat seemed fine despite the colours and loud bangs and the dog seemed all but asleep, head nestled in between her paws and Adonis’ body. They seemed surprisingly fine and content with the fireworks and mild panic going on around them.

He turned back around and focussed on the big boxer who seemed agitated, barking at the light flashes and showing his teeth. Grantaire grabbed his collar in a quiet moment and dragged him into the small veterinary clinic, a room where he knew the sounds would be muffled and he would be undisturbed.

‘Come on, boy,’ he praised, guiding the heavy dog into the smaller room, away from everything.

He closed the blinds in front of the window, successfully drowning out the lights. The dog still growled lowly, the sound reverberating in his throat. Grantaire sat down on the chair, trying to let the dog realise his surroundings had changed.

Eventually, the boxer blinked at him, confusion in his eyes. Grantaire held out one hand for him to come up to, if he felt like it.

‘Yeah, there are no more fireworks, big boy,’ he grinned, ‘are you going to be good now?’

The dog cocked his head, looking up at him. He rested his head on his thigh, only mildly agitated as the muffled sounds of a few fireworks made their way into the room.

Grantaire settled for calm, regular strokes across his head and neck, petting the boxer thoroughly. After a few more minutes, he seemed to have calmed down entirely.

The door opened and Muriel brought in another dog, whining and with fearfully opened eyes. Grantaire handed over the boxer who seemed to have no immediate problem with returning to the playroom and focussed on the new dog.

***

‘Thank you,’ Muriel closed the last kennel door, ‘seems like the last fireworks have been burned. They should really regulate those more, there is no use in firing them at four in the morning!’

‘I agree,’ Angelique yawned, ‘hey, Grantaire, wanna help clean up the clinic after your basket case tore through the place?’

‘Yes, I will help you tidy up, no worries,’ Grantaire grinned at her, ‘will there be cocoa when we’re finished, Muriel?’

Muriel sent them off with a wave, not deeming his question worthy of an answer. They returned to the clinic where bandages, utensils and paperwork had been scattered around. The last dog to find out about their dislike for fireworks had run around the room, turning it upside down whilst Muriel had just sighed and motioned for Grantaire to let it tire itself out.

Angelique tried to return everything to its rightful space but gave up five minutes in, ‘My boss can just sort through it the day after tomorrow, she has to take the inventory, anyway.’

‘Good to know,’ Grantaire grinned and threw a pack of bandages into a drawer, ‘Hey, have you seen Adonis anywhere?’

‘Your cat? No idea, but you’ll probably find him in the kennels. Seemed like he was more than unwilling to leave his lady friend,’ Angelique laughed at him, ‘come on, he’ll be fine. We, on the other hand, must surely perish, if we don’t get our hands on some hot chocolate soon!’

Grantaire rolled his eyes and followed her, switching off the light as he went.

Chapter Text

He was almost thankful when lessons started back up and he had an excuse to leave early in the morning, stay in the academy until late, work or lock himself into his studio until he was tired enough to fall asleep and head upstairs and to bed. Madame Lacombe had welcomed his enquiry for more hours with open arms and when he came in for his first shift, only halfway changed and in the middle of putting on the pressed uniform trousers, she came into the staff changing room to present him with his new contract. Grantaire turned beet red but signed it, a shy grin on his face for the rest of the day as he led three separate groups through the museum who had booked family trips for the last days of the school holidays. Even dealing with several men who seemed set on getting him to break his professional cover. He had to try and keep himself from rolling his eyes to hard but one of the wives touched him on the arm and gave him a short nod.

Grantaire finished his shift and clocked out with his uniform back in his locker and a small tip in his pocket that had been passed to him by the three wives. It almost seemed like they had collected between them to pay him off for their spouses’ stupidity.

The money would pay for dinner and a few necessities whilst he was on the way home. Joly had lamented the loss of a few things they had eaten since Christmas and Bossuet had requested fruit for what he had planned for the next date night they had planned. It seemed like Musichetta got her boys to try cooking a few dishes for her whenever they met up and Grantaire had apparently been assigned the role of food provider and grocery shopper. He could imagine why, his role throughout the last days had been a little disappointing to all of them.

He still managed to stuff everything on his list into his backpack and pay with only his tip. The relief to know his pay check untouched in his bank account calmed him a little since he had not yet figured out completely how he wanted to tackle his finances and New Year’s resolutions. With every year, he made his mind up about something, wanted to get through them and stick to what he promised himself. He succeeded in the least cases but it still felt good to have some goal.

Once again, quitting his drinking was at the top of his list. His body and his stomach still seemed to suffer the consequences of his recklessness and the effect had made him think about his choices a little. So far, he had figured he would need a plan to sustain his abstinence for longer than he usually got, maybe talk about it with Joly and Bossuet.

By the time he returned home, Musichetta had arrived and stood in the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand. She looked up at him when he came in and sat down for a moment, dropping his bag at his feet.

‘Long day?’ She grinned at him.

‘Kinda, there’ve been a few idiots at the museum. I really don’t know why I do that job!’

‘Because you need both the money and the exposure,’ Bossuet said and pushed a bowl towards him, ‘put that in the fridge, dear? Madame Lacombe could help you find a footing in the whole art business.’

‘And you need any support you can get, same with music and stuff,’ Joly came back from the bedrooms, wiping at his trousers, ‘had to get changed, some food spilled on me. What are your plans for tonight?’

‘Join you and watch you like a cat until you’re uncomfortable and leave the sofa to me,’ Grantaire winked, ‘Plan B would be locking myself into the studio to start the first project of the year. Lafayette really knocked it out of the park this time with the assignment, I still don’t know what to do with it.’

‘What is your topic then, if you complain so much about it?’ Musichetta sipped her wine graciously.

‘Divine senses made visible to the human eye,’ Grantaire sighed dramatically, ‘I’m sure Lafayette must have had a great Christmas break to have come up with such nonsense. With a project idea like that, he must have been having a good time, maybe a little too much eggnog and mulled wine, too. No sound human being would make that the topic of a really important project at an academy for the fine arts. Honestly!’

‘Sounds like the fox got some over the break,’ Bossuet grinned and set down a plate on the counter, ‘good for the old man, his wife must be a happy woman.’

‘I don’t think he’s married,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘he doesn’t wear a ring and he doesn’t seem the type, to be honest.’

‘But maybe he just met somebody, just because he has a few years on us doesn’t mean he can’t date or anything like that,’ Bossuet held out his hand for the few things Grantaire had bought for him, ‘hey, I could picture him with a cute little date and a glass of wine in front of the fire place, after a long walk along the river in the park or in the evenings, at the opera or a concert with all the classical music he likes.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘As much as I appreciate you as a friend, Boss, I don’t want to imagine my tutor in that way. I would prefer to see him as a sex- and private life-less amoeba and continue seeing him the way I do; as my tutor and the professor whom I can turn to whenever I get stuck with an assignment or don’t understand the apparently huge correlation between politics and art – I mean, of course there are commissioned pieces and inspirations, but some of the connections are just too wild to actually see and follow them.’

‘I’m sure there is sense somewhere in what you are rambling about,’ Musichetta took over at the stove as Joly began to look for something in the cupboard, ‘sounds like a lot of very interesting stuff. But of course, your tutor is a human being, too and you should support him in his ventures for new love and happiness.’

‘Not you, too,’ Grantaire groaned, ‘I have had enough of this, the three of you are just unbearable!’

He grabbed his water bottle, filled it up at the sink and went to his room to collect his supplies before heading back out. Musichetta had shooed her boyfriends away from the food and now waved about a wooden spoon to keep them away. Bossuet held a bowl of gummy bears and laughed right into her face whilst Joly ducked out of her way.

‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me for anything,’ he yelled in their general direction, ‘shoot me a text, if I should stay in the studio tonight. Or if you want to let me know the coast is clear.’

‘Go away,’ Joly screamed and avoided Musichetta’s outstretched arm and the wooden spoon, still covered in sauce, ‘leave us! Flee whilst you still can!’

‘Good to see you again, Musichetta,’ Grantaire said with a wave, ‘it’s been lovely. Have fun doing whatever you are doing there, looks like fun, bye, see you in the morning, leave some food for me!’

He closed the door behind himself and made his way down the corridor. His steps were muffled on the carpet as he stepped past the doors and flats and turned towards the staircase. There were a few sounds around, instruments being played and a few lines recited. The academy came back to life as more and more students came back to the dorms and moved back into their rooms.

His studio welcomed him with silence and warm air from the radiators. He had left his work out on the easel and only had to drop his water bottle and other belongings on the divan, grab his pencils and turn around to his sketchpad to continue working. What he had come to draw was the outline and sketch of the idea he had had thinking about Bahorel’s words.

The altar was easy enough to come up with, its rough stony shape had been comfortable enough to pull up on the paper. His thoughts and ideas had left him at that point, he had no idea how to form the bodies and faces of the two people that were perched on top of the altar and in front of it.

One early idea had been putting his friends around the altar and Enjolras, in a slightly altered form, on the sacrificial stone but this idea had disappeared faster than he had come to it. The one thing he tried to keep himself from, was deliberate pain and drawing his friends mourning one of them was a certain way to achieve that pain.

Another idea had been historical figures of ambiguous sexuality, both women and men, but that as well had been scrapped soon again. It did not feel personal enough for him to include it in a project for school, something Lafayette would mark vigorously. No, for an assignment as the one he tried to get a grasp on he needed something outstanding, heart wrenching, if he really decided on the altar.

For the time being and because he could think of nothing else to do, he got to work on the background and surroundings, replacing the sacrificed youth on the altar with a wine bottle in a new sketch which he used to explore the details. He wanted to create a temple of sorts, a place oozing divine power that became obvious to the spectator.

Grantaire could recall Lafayette’s email well enough as he sent it around, it had asked all his students to, ‘channel your inner Renaissance painters contracted by the church. Create with your heart and soul as much as your head and reason something worthy of a religion. Your depiction of divinity may be based on any known earthly religion, a depiction of religion in popular culture or something you have come up with. In your essay, I ask you to show the thought process behind the creation of both the painting and the decision on a religion. Link this process to the literature we talked about in class or find your own sources. The first part of the project has to be handed in by the end of January. I will see all of you in class to discuss the interdisciplinary course offer of this year’s excursion shortly.’

He had followed this text with an image of his Christmas tree, wearing a star at the top and a few miniature paintings of famous artists as ornaments. Grantaire had, upon zooming in on the picture, found an ornament in the shape of a piano and some tinsel that looked like shredded sheet music hidden amongst the branches and it had made him question his tutor for a moment. Then, he had realised what sort of pressure, time investment and stress the project would put on him.

Grantaire switched on his music, putting the phone down on the small table. He had created a new playlist with songs that seemed powerful and epic enough to channel divinity for him and he listened to it over and over again. His earphones were a little strained with the hammering basses but still good enough to get the melody, rising up and carrying him away from the spot where he stood in front of the easel. It got easier once the music had taken over, once he felt his pulse beat in time with the music, his fingers fidget as the melody became a strong presence in the way he held his pencil, brush or chalk.

Settling on a medium to convey what he believed to be one of the better ideas he had had in recent weeks, was a different story altogether. Once he had established a simple outline, an idea of what the painting should include, he could focus on what to use to breathe life into it.

Under his hands, the image developed itself out of the lines and strokes he had placed on the canvas already. Some of them seemed to fall into place easier, others were still insecure about where they belonged. Grantaire nudged them into the right place, assuring them they were alright as they were, coaxing shadows to come forward a little with soft pencil movements until they were strong and had fed on the light he placed on the canvas. He imagined a simple light or ray of sunshine to be the sole source of light in the painting and as he contemplated where to put it, he remembered one of the movie nights with Jehan and Bahorel and their excursion into Middle Earth.

When he stepped back from his easel a little while later, the ray of light fell through a small arrow slit onto the altar underneath it, making it gleam with bright reflections from the stone. He would have the time of his life to actually bring about some radiance when adding light and accents to the painting, Grantaire hummed along to the song he played on the speakers, ready to tackle whatever the new year would hold out for him.

‘Who would believe it,’ he murmured to himself as he washed out his brushes a few hours later, ‘I think I really ought do something to end this whole dreaded situation once and for all. Wouldn’t you agree with me?’

He looked around for a moment, only to realise that he had not brought Adonis down with him. Grantaire said a silent prayer for his cat thinking about what the poor animal might witness in their flat.

***

The stars were burning in the night sky when he eventually left his studio. The hallways were dark, only lit by the pale emergency lighting above the doorframes. They tinted the hard wood floor and walls green, leaving the rest of the corridor in black shadows. The staircase beyond the glass door across the hallway, on the contrary, was floodlit and drenched in yellow. The harsh light there hurt the eyes of the late passers-by, the single young man who made his way upstairs was squinting against the lamps suspended from the ceiling. He yawned and padded further upstairs, passing one hallway after another, setting one foot in front of the other.

Joly had sent him a text, notifying that they had left the dorms to go and see whether they could find a club to go to or in the very least retire to Musichetta’s flat where all of them fit into one bed. Grantaire congratulated himself on having gained a night by himself in the flat with no one but his cat present to bother him.

Before he pocketed his phone, he checked the animal shelter’s website, something he had picked up recently and repeated several times a day. His recent work there had rekindled something he had thought lost and Adonis seemed to watch him with hawk’s eyes whenever he got close to the door.

He saw it as a sign to either pick up his volunteer shifts again or do something about the gnawing in his stomach. The heavy burden he felt on his conscious could only stem from two thing, either the regret over the animals he had not visited for so long before New Year’s or the dread and discomfort he felt when he thought about the thing he had put off for days, weeks, at this point.

Grantaire reached the music corridor. A single light was still switched on behind the glass door and after all the time he had spent sneaking around it, he knew it was in Enjolras’ music room. He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

‘You have run away far too often, Grantaire. It’s time you explained yourself properly and apologised to him. You don’t have to tell him you love him, that would be rather silly. Just let him know that you never intended to hurt him, that you are a coward and that you ran because you were afraid to show him the most painful part about yourself. Let him know that it wasn’t his fault that you ran, that you appreciate his friendship and that you wouldn’t dream of hurting him again. Leave it up to him to decide. No more running!’

Grantaire opened the glass door separating the music floor from the staircase. His steps were quiet on the linoleum. He passed the first few doors, still talking to himself to drown out all the voices in his head telling him he was about to make a huge, an irreparable mistake. He talked them down by bolstering himself up.

The next dark doors drifted past him, Combeferre and Cosette’s rooms, both so alive with music whenever they practised. Grantaire thought about inviting all his friends over once Gavroche was back, once Éponine knew her work rota. They could have a lovely evening with food and a movie and he would say nothing about all the couples cosying up on the sofa. Maybe, Feuilly would be willing to gossip and mock them in their ways.

Grantaire was convinced he made a pretty Cosette to Feuilly’s Marius, if they only put their minds to it. If he remembered correctly, the group had a birthday coming up in January, his memory betrayed him and he would have to check his phone and calendar before planning anything particular but they had not had another birthday since Joly’s had been so rudely interrupted –

He stopped himself. Remaining silent as a stone in the middle of the hallway, Grantaire told his mind to cool down. The last thing he wanted to happen was a panic attack in Enjolras’ proximity where he could not talk and explain himself before he came to some kind of conclusion that was bound to be a misinterpretation of the situation. Grantaire had come to realise that Enjolras tended to do such things that left him clutching for straws to piece together what had happened to aggravate him.

Arguing seemed to be a thing they were particularly good at together. But not that night, Grantaire told himself as he stepped closer to the door of Enjolras’ music room where he had heard soft notes being played. It had been less of an actual piece and more creative improvisations, maybe for the assignment he had mentioned having received from Professor Lamarque before Christmas.

‘Enjolras, I need to tell you –‘ he began, opening the door before comprehending what he saw in front of himself, startled out of their calm position.

Enjolras sat on the piano stool, eyes blown wide with surprise as his head wheeled round to face him barging in. There was an unopened book of sheet music on the music stand in front of him, still wrapped in foil and to his feet lay the remains of what must have been wrapping paper and a neat bow, detached from its position on one of the corners. Two mugs of tea steamed on top of his piano, two coats lay on the armchair to the side and two sets of eyes looked at him after he had interrupted what had seemed like an intimate moment between them. Enjolras’ breathing sounded a little laboured as he tried to smooth down his hair behind his ears.

Feuilly blushed under his auburn hair as Grantaire’s eyes measured him with a look. His lips looked red and puffy, bitten raw and a little slick. He looked just as Grantaire would have expected after being interrupted in the middle of a passionate kiss, a kiss distracting enough to not hear the door opening. A kiss distracting enough to leave him dazed and confused for a moment, licking over his lips as if chasing the sensation, a rather astonished, unwitting reflection of the turmoil inside him.

Enjolras was first to gather himself enough to turn around completely, open his mouth and speak, ‘Grantaire, I didn’t know you were –‘

Grantaire did the only thing he could think of in the situation spread out before him.

He ran away.

Chapter Text

The snow turned into slush and froze again overnight, several students hurt themselves trying to skate and skid on the black ice that covered the pavements and new snow fell on top of the icy mess. A few days later, the river itself froze over, ice spreading from underneath the bridge and along the stone banks where school kids stopped on their way to and from school and threw small pebbles and bigger rocks onto the ice to test its thickness.

After thorough testing by the council, the ice rink was eventually put up in the market place by the bridge and opened by the mayor with a few cautioning words and a small band that played a few songs amongst the vendors with mulled wine and tea, the skate rental opened and distributed boots to all the kids swarming the small stall, and a tent was put up for waiting parents and adults. Another day later, someone had installed speakers that gave off loud music into the crowd.

Grantaire tried to drown the rather insulting blaring of disco music out with his own music on his earphones whenever he had to walk past or through the gathered crowd to get anywhere. No matter whether his schedule saw him to class, the museum or his new, weekly appointments with the psychologist Claquesous had recommended to him. Madame Tallien was firm but straightforward in her approach to his darkest moments, on hand with both words to reign him in and tissues and biscuits to comfort him. His first session with her had ended with her stopping him from goofing off and calling him to order. Her words had been poignant enough to cling to him in his everyday life, he could recall them wherever he went.

‘No one is ever completely fine, Grantaire,’ she had said, ‘and that is okay. Sometimes, we feel no longer able to take care of ourselves and then we need to remember or be reminded of what it is that weighs us down, and how to pull ourselves out of the darkness. I can help you detangle your thoughts and point you towards the reasons, I can maybe even help you find ways to work through what comes back to you.’

She gave him tasks, too, thoughts and things to look into from one week to another. Sometimes, it was nothing more than a question, something he should answer for himself and tell her during their next session. So far, she had not given him a single question he was able to answer without second-guessing himself. The first task had been to describe his daily routine, something he failed to do because he tried to find something resembling a schedule in the things he found himself doing.

‘We’re going skating with Gavroche this afternoon, you coming?’ Joly leaned in the door to his room, ‘Also, Bossuet picked up a parcel for you at the post office. We left it in the kitchen.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire pushed himself off the ground where he lay, feet on his bed and head halfway underneath his desk, ‘I might drop by later, got an appointment first.’

‘Madame Tallien again?’ Bossuet skidded past the door, ‘how often a week do you see her again?’

‘Once, Boss, I’m sorry that you can’t tell the days of the week apart but it’s only once!’

Grantaire got up to his feet and stretched his arms. He grabbed his sketchbook from the floor and threw it onto his bed. For some reason, he had found it rather inspirational to lie on the carpet in order to come up with new ideas for his next assignment.

‘Have you cleared your studio already for the spring inspection?’ Bossuet tried to peek into the corners of his room where old paintings and new sketched found a home.

‘Spring inspection my ass,’ Grantaire grunted, ‘no way they‘re doing a spring inspection in January! Don’t they post it around the studios weeks in advance?’

‘Sweetie, they did post it weeks in advance,’ Joly grinned, ‘why, do you think Bahorel helped me up the stairs with all those books a couple of days ago? My studio’s been cleaned out, we’re finishing off Bossuet’s one later. There is not much left, anyway.’

Grantaire felt a sudden rush of emotions overwhelm him. Of course he missed the brightly coloured notices on the notice-board, he had been walking past them without taking a closer look, they had seemed too much like the invitations too house parties regularly posted. Something about them had been off, he had to admit but the academy had never before made any of their announcements on coloured paper.

He voiced as much to his friends as he tried to catch his breath. Bossuet nodded but seemed unable to say anything as he watched his friend try and mostly fail to suck in air. Joly, however, took a quick step towards and put one hand on his shoulder as Grantaire tried to straighten up.

‘Listen, I know it’s a lot. It’s a lot every year,’ he said, keeping his voice calm and soothing, ‘you have your appointment with Madame Tallien later, try to breathe in for me, yes? In – and out. Well done. Again. In – and out. You’re doing great. After you finish your appointment, you start on your studio, wrapping up all the pictures and gathering everything. We’ll come by on our way back from the ice rink. How does that sound? Does it sound good?’

Grantaire somehow managed to nod. His breathing was still a little shaky but he felt the panic subside a little.

‘Maybe Jehan and Bahorel are up for helping, too,’ Bossuet said from the door, ‘Jehan’s studio doesn’t take longer than five minutes to clear and Bahorel is easily convinced to help with a cake or some food held out in prospect. We could invite them over for dinner afterwards and he would be up for it without another moment of consideration.’

‘You have a point,’ Joly took his hand and pressed a kiss to his temple, ‘I’ll leave the convincing to you, then. Shall we get ready?’

‘Wait,’ Grantaire got up carefully and grabbed one of his scarfs out of the wardrobe, ‘you’ll just catch a cold standing to the side. You have to wrap up yourself even more now it’s this cold constantly. Seriously, I thought you’d know that.’

‘Thanks, R, very considerate of you,’ Joly grinned and wrapped the scarf around his neck, ‘well, we’re off now. Take care, okay?’

‘I will,’ Grantaire gave his friends a wave as they returned to the living room where Gavroche waited already, peeking around the corner to see where they had got to.

Grantaire mustered a smile for the boy before he heard the door close behind them and he was left in the flat to gather his things for his appointment. Since beginning the sessions, he did not leave the flat without something Madame Tallien called The Log, a journal of things that were stuck in his mind at the end of a day, both positive moments and negative thoughts and whether he had shaken them off. Gathering his beanie, another scarf and his boots, he made his way through the living room where Gavroche’s bedding was back on the sofa, next to what he recognised as a few boxes Joly used every year for the spring inspection when every student had to vacate their studio for a group of instructors to check the condition and need of repair of anything. During this process, students had the opportunity to apply for a new studio, music room or workshop. It was unlikely for anyone to wish for another room since they all grew attached to their rooms over time but sometimes, it happened that one of them found the light lacking and was assigned a room with bigger windows. Grantaire cursed every year anew since his studio was one of the more spacious ones amongst the rooms available which meant that he had enough room to paint and work but also more room for him to store things. The biggest part of his room would be filled with canvases and paintings for over a week until the next notice informed them changes to the room assignments and repairs taking place.

Grantaire hoped someone on the committee would try and switch on the heating. It worked but the loud sounds it gave off were rather disruptive in his painting process.

The parcel Joly had mentioned sat on the kitchen counter. Grantaire grabbed a knife and opened it with a few slashes across the folds. Inside, he found a bag of his favourite sweets, two wrapped presents that felt like books and a card. The books, he noticed a moment later, were on Leonardo da Vinci’s sketches and Anglo Saxon art and metal works, both fresh off the press and full of glossy pictures. He opened the card next and read what his father had written in there for him.

‘My dear son, I hope these books are of use to you, I would love to see your works again. Maybe, these can inspire you,’ he read out loud to himself, eyes darting across the card, ‘I read about you winning the Dean’s Award on the academy homepage. I am so very proud of you, my boy, you need to know that. Please, if you can see yourself forgiving your mother at some point in the future, come home for a visit. I miss you terribly, love Dad.’

He slipped the card into the book on da Vinci and placed them back on the counter. His father, as caring as he had proved to be, still failed to understand the reason Grantaire no longer visited, no longer talked to his mother. Whether it was blind love or something more Grantaire did not want to think about, was something he did not want or could think about. It hurt to think about him but it was a situation he was used to. Fortunately, hearing from his father or reading his pleas no longer sent him into crying fits and he could move on quickly afterwards.

He slipped into his leather jacket, wrapped the scarf around his neck and made sure to stuff his hair underneath his beanie before grabbing his keys. Even though he could, technically, close his jacket over his jumpers, he preferred the look of his hoodies under the jacket. He rarely got a cold, anyway and a fashion statement was a fashion statement, as Jehan had once put it. If they were not right about that, who was, anyway?

The ice rink was busy enough as he walked past on the opposite bank. He could still spot Jehan’s pink winter coat through the dim afternoon light and smiled to himself as he saw the bright dot that was his friend jump up and down, either because they were cold or just plain excited. Grantaire walked on, crossing the river behind the ice rink which was a detour but saved him the shuffling through the crowds at the rink.

Madame Tallien had her office in one of the town houses near the old told centre. It was in a pedestrian zone, calm and quiet, with no car engines audible even as he was still in the street. The house was pretty enough to be drawn, Grantaire had arrived early a couple of times to sit on the back rest of a bench and sketch it. It calmed him down a little before he entered the psychologist’s office, knowing he would face another part of his battles soon.

There was a sticker on her door bell nameplate, a glittery butterfly, directly next to her name, printed in bold letters. Grantaire rang and waited to be buzzed in, making a face at the butterfly for a moment.

Madame Tallien waited for him in the door, hands in the pockets of her colourful woollen cardigan, a bright smile on her lips, ‘Good morning, Grantaire, you didn’t slip on any black ice? Wonderful, do come in, come in.’

‘Morning, Madame T,’ he replied, stepping past her.

Grantaire toed off his shoes at the door, leaving them neatly on the shoe rack Madame Tallien kept there. The old house had floor heating and his feet were warmed immediately as he made his way through to the spacious office. He had liked it from the first session he had gone to with Claquesous by his side for support, the warm, yellow-painted walls, the soft, fuzzy carpets and the comfy chairs and sofas in the treatment area. Grantaire dropped his bag next to an armchair with wide, low armrests and sat down, pulling his legs up to cross them under his body. He wormed his way out of his jacket and pushed it down behind him.

Madame Tallien sat down across from him and motioned to the two cups of tea on the small table in between them, ‘Warm your hands on that, hm? Now, how have you been since our last session?’

Grantaire took one of the cups and sipped a bit of the tea, ‘Well, I still haven’t called my mother. I received a parcel from my dad earlier today though. Christmas presents and a card, requesting I come home some time.’

‘How does that make you feel?’

‘Resigned, mostly,’ he sighed and scratched the back of his neck, ‘used to make me angry why dad couldn’t see how she treated me and made me suffer for mistakes I made in her eyes. Now it’s just, whatever. I would like to tell him again, make him understand but I can’t force him, can I?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ Madame Tallien gave him a sympathetic smile, ‘do you want to keep the door open for him?’

They had talked about doors and what they symbolised. Whenever Grantaire struggled with a person, someone coming back into his life, even if he thought about it, he was to imagine a door, closed. It was up to him to carefully examine the person, and the thoughts and memories that came with it, before deciding to open the door or leave it closed. Madame Tallien had told him it could be difficult to decide at first, comparable to someone putting a foot in the door.

‘I found out I have to clear the studio within days, too, it’s time for a spring inspection,’ Grantaire took the beanie off, smoothed his hair down and put it back on, ‘knocked me off the track for a moment, I have to admit. Joly was there to help me through it, but I don’t want that to happen again. Gavroche is back at our place and if he sees me like that…’

He trailed off, fiddling with the cup. One of the first things Madame Tallien had told him was that names were save in her space, she would note them down to remember where they were to be placed in association with him but only to better follow what he told her. Gavroche’s situation had gotten a cautiously raised eyebrow from here but she had refrained from commenting.

‘It’s always the same, with Gavroche, Bossuet – I think he’ll stop looking at me soon, I get the feeling he doesn’t want to deal with my shit and I can understand him, really I can. It’s just the same, over and over again, I know it’s a process but it’s hard to see how my friends almost recoil when I have such a weak moment,’ Grantaire took his beanie back off, ‘and then there’s the gnawing knowledge that Enjolras won’t look at me, if I saw him now.’

Madame Tallien’s pencil scratched on the sketchpad on her lap. There was no visible reaction from her but Grantaire realised his slip up anyway. He bit down on his lip hard.

‘Forgive my curiosity but that was a name you didn’t mention before. Do you want to tell me who that is? Seems like an emotional connection,’ she smiled encouragingly.

Grantaire weighed the possible outcomes in his head, then he cleared his throat and looked her straight in the eye, ‘I’m gay, Madame Tallien. Always been and it’s only gotten me into trouble. Montparnasse was the first I was with, if you want to call it a relationship. He wrecked me for good, though. Now, there’s someone at the academy, a music student. I first saw him a few months back, got to know him, he’s the reason I could paint something that got the Dean’s Award before Christmas. He’s …passionate, an idealist, absolutely aggravating but he’s also the finest –‘

He cut himself off and swallowed with some difficulty. Madame Tallien did not interrupt him, she made no sound, waiting for him to compose himself, if he wanted to continue.

‘I love him, you know, I think I really do and the only person I ever thought I loved was Montparnasse. It feels different with Enjolras, with him I want to be happy, not just be there for him. He invited me to join him and his family over Christmas, made me come and I went and it was a good time. That was, until I felt one of my episodes coming on,’ his breathing got a bit shaky.

‘You told me about them,’ she nodded, ‘last time we spoke we agreed on them most likely being psychosomatic, how did they influence your relationship with Enjolras?’

‘I ran away,’ Grantaire whispered, hands in his lap, ‘I ran away so he wouldn’t see me all holed up in a room with phantom pain keeping me out of sorts. Maybe, I didn’t leave him an explanation, though? I just went away and now he doesn’t talk to me and I can’t do anything about it anyway because that was on me and my insecurities.’

Madame Tallien followed his words closely, her pencil still scratching on the sketchpad. Grantaire did no longer mind speaking about Enjolras and the way it made him feel that he had supposedly lost any chance of reconciliation with him. Over the course of the session, more spilled out of him and she listened, noted things down and asked when she felt she needed clarification.

‘I’m sorry,’ Grantaire ended with a look into the empty tea cup and the beanie he had in his lap, ‘I keep starting on new topics and problems, we’re not getting around to anything.’

‘Grantaire, there is nothing wrong with getting a good overview over the issues going on. Sometimes, more are added, some are extended, some can be set aside. Don’t worry about opening up about something we haven’t talked about previously, it’s my job to deal with what you tell me and to help you back onto a path that makes you feel comfortable again.’

He set the cup down on the table, ‘Time’s up, isn’t it?’

‘For this week, yes, but there are many sessions ahead of us for you to have another say,’ Madame Tallien set down her pencil, ‘have we asked the right questions today?’

Grantaire pondered her question, ‘I think so.’

‘Good,’ she waited a moment until he had sorted out his beanie again, ‘you know you are welcome to phone me whenever you need to talk to me?’

‘Always, Madame T,’ Grantaire grinned.

Her eyebrow shot up, ‘Grantaire, your mask is up. This is no place for the mask.’

‘Sorry, force of habit,’ he smiled sheepishly, ‘see you next week.’

He put on his boots and wrapped his jacket back around his shoulders and left Madame Tallien’s office again. The sessions took quite a toll on him and he would usually treat himself to something nice to eat afterwards but the prospect of having to clear out his studio had ruined the joy in that.

With plans and thoughts of getting some ice cream of a late night snack, he returned home. The ice rink was still busy when he passed by, of course it was, he had only been gone for little over one hour. Grantaire could see the pink spot that was Jehan dragging someone, probably Bahorel, over the ice. They probably wore a certain pair of sparkly skates they had found in a second hand shop and restored them themselves.

Grantaire walked straight past the loud, joyful group of people at the rink and the kids that tried to sneak onto the river with their skates on. There were enough adults to stop them from it, every year, someone tried and was stopped before something could happen to them.

A year ago, he and Bahorel had tested the ice in the middle of the night, skating on the river on their feet, without skates. It was likely they had been slightly intoxicated, Grantaire did not recall too much of the night. It had probably been only due to Joly’s careful testing beforehand that they had not fallen through. He was too far from drinking even close to what he had drunk back then to try something that stupid again. At least, he hoped he was.

Since he had left the hospital after his last stunt and started the psychologist’s sessions, he had also started a calendar on which he ticked off every day he managed without something to drink and marked when he felt the urge to try and forget something. Madame Tallien had a look at it every session and checked his log-keeping.

He pushed open the doors to the academy building and turned towards his studio. He would spend the rest of the day in there and on the stairs, carrying everything upstairs, into his room. His first priority was to wrap up the pictures and move them since they needed the most space but were easy enough to stack.

There were linen sheets he kept for this reason only, and he wrapped the first paintings up rather quickly, stacking them near the studio door. He was ready to make the first run when a soft knock on the door interrupted him.

‘Hey, can we take those up already?’ Bossuet smiled at him, ‘Joly’s offered to help you in here whilst we carry your things upstairs.’

‘We?’ Grantaire played with the hems of his sleeves, pulling and squeezing them, ‘it’ll take us some time but I guess that’s okay.’

‘Oh come off it, R,’ Joly pushed past his boyfriend and pointed at Grantaire’s painting supplies, ‘I can’t assure you it’s not going to be all over the place but there’s hope. Do you have boxes to put stuff in?’

‘No, unfortunately not, my usual ones got water damaged last year and broke,’ Grantaire worried his lip between his fingers.

‘Only good they called the cavalry,’ Jehan and Courfeyrac came into the studio with folded moving boxes, ‘here you go, you and Joly pack everything up now.’

‘Oh boy,’ Grantaire blinked a few times, ‘thank you. You don’t have to, none of you.’

‘We know we don’t have to, silly,’ Bahorel boomed and slapped him on the shoulder as he came in, Gavroche in tow who held a cup of hot chocolate.

‘We’ll help anyway,’ the next one to come in, wrapped into a worn vintage coat and tripping over his shoelaces but smiling nonetheless, was Feuilly, ‘you would do the same thing for us.’

Grantaire looked at him, standing in his studio with one arm wrapped around himself. He looked lankier and smaller than before Christmas, how he managed that was a riddle to him. Feuilly walked up to him and gave him a hug, squeezing his shoulders a little; he then stepped back a little and looked around.

‘Honestly, getting to see your paintings whilst we take them upstairs? Makes my day even brighter.’

He wanted to look at him and see someone who had snatched something from him. He wanted to only see what his heart tried to push to his awareness. He desperately tried to see Feuilly and hate him, hate him for the simple fact that Enjolras had not held him that night when he had finally gathered the courage to see him, hate him for the attention he got from Enjolras.

He could not hate him for that, he knew that. The only one to blame for the situation was he himself, Feuilly was not at fault for what had happened. Grantaire looked at him and saw nothing but a friend, someone eager to help despite the masses of things that had to be in his own studio.

‘Thank you, Feuilly,’ he mustered a smile, ‘we could make a night of it, continue with your studio afterwards?’

Feuilly’s hand squeezing his arm before opening up the boxes was all he needed to know that at least with him, everything was as before. Grantaire turned around, caught Joly’s encouraging smile and started to direct his friends around the room for things they needed to move.

A few minutes later, Jehan’s voice could be heard from a higher floor, gasping with a sudden afterthought, ‘Has anyone asked R about what he’s doing with that bloody huge divan this year?’

Chapter Text

Jehan flopped down next to him, impact making the sofa cushion bounce. They held a bottle of something fizzy and cold they had found in the fridge and nestled into the pillow they had landed on. Grantaire met their gaze, eyes flickering over from where Joly and Bossuet tried to find a comfortable position in the armchair they had had to move directly in front of the coffee table. Currently, Bossuet’s legs were stuck somewhere over the arm rest whilst Joly had stretched his out onto the sofa. There were boxes everywhere, by far more than there had in the morning.

As promised, Grantaire, Bossuet and Joly had cooked for Jehan and Bahorel who had graciously accepted the offer of food before joining Gavroche to play some game Grantaire was sure the boy was not old enough to play yet. They had made pizza from scratch and handed out pieces to them as they paused briefly to eat something before returning to the game. It left the rest of them in the comfortable position of watching them from the sofa.

Joly nudged him with a foot. Grantaire looked up and cocked his head in question.

‘Have you thought about what you’re gonna do with the whole situation?’ His intonation left no doubt about what he was insinuating.

Grantaire breathed in deeply and grabbed a bowl of crisps from the table. He stuffed a handful in his mouth and felt his teeth chip them into tiny pieces as he bit down hard. It occupied him for another ten seconds before he found himself able to look at Joly again.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Really, Grantaire, the whole evasion show for an ‘I don’t know?’ You must have a faint idea of what you could try to do in order to solve the whole situation.’

‘Why are you pressing for one now?’ Grantaire felt Jehan lean in on his other side to get a look at them.

‘You are historically bad at dissolving situations once they have reached a certain point,’ Joly massaged his temples, ‘believe me, we’ve seen it before and quite a few times with – anyway, if you want it to stay the way it is, it’ll put a strain on you, us, Feuilly, everybody. You don’t deserve that and frankly, neither do we.’

There was no sign of harshness in his words just concern and warm friendship. Grantaire was well aware of the patience he had encountered from his friends. Admittedly, he wanted the matter resolved as well, no longer caring what the result could be like. Either, he continued avoiding Enjolras, stopped attending Les Amis meeting and birthdays, and risked isolating himself further, something Madame Tallien had marked in her notes, or he challenged himself.

‘What are you going to do no? Talk to Enjolras?’ Joly’s elbow hit Bossuet’s ribs a second too late to prevent the question.

Grantaire noticed the way his eyes darkened for a moment, shooting his boyfriend a look. Bossuet just mouthed a ‘what?’ but then his eyes widened and he looked rather guilty.

‘To be honest, that’s probably the last thing I want to tell him. It doesn’t seem like we want to talk at the moment, either. It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway, I panicked and ran away; honestly, I can’t think of anything that would have been worse.’

The living room was left in silence. Grantaire noticed that the game had been paused, Gavroche looked at him with the controller still in his hand, eyes big with questions. Bahorel still looked towards the TV but he seemed to listen to them as well.

‘Grantaire –‘

‘I will talk to him, okay? Give me until after the spring inspection, he’ll be stressed out, anyway.’

‘What about the meeting this week, do you know whether you’ll be able to attend? Gavroche is with Éponine. Isn’t that right, Gav?’

‘Yeah, she’s still trying to find an affordable flat for us. She says we can’t impose on you any longer.’

‘No,’ Grantaire protested, ‘we love to have you around. Of course, you should have a space where you can do your homework without everybody walking through the room. Unfortunately, our demands for cuddles with you don’t overrule your right to learn and educate yourself.’

‘School is stupid, anyway,’ Gavroche started the game again, ‘I don’t get why I need to be there the whole day.’

‘We wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t finished school,’ Joly objected, ‘well, that’s a discussion for Éponine to have with you. I’m tired, goodnight everybody. Are you coming, too, Boss?’

Bossuet followed him to the bedrooms, leaving Grantaire with Gavroche, Bahorel and Jehan who had pulled out their phone and scrolled through some notes.

‘How’s the poetry coming along?’ Grantaire cuddled into them and tried to sneak a glance at what they were working on, ‘is it an epic poem? A sonnet directed to an anonymous admirer?’

‘There is nothing anonymous about Bahorel’s undying love for me,’ Jehan replied lightly, ‘no, this is a play, maybe only a sequence, I don’t know yet. Our group of friends proves the best inspiration yet, I picked a few things Combeferre and Coufeyrac said a few days ago and, as it turns out, that’s all I needed to start writing something new.’

‘You have to make sure to safe me a seat for the premiere,’ Grantaire let his head rest on Jehan’s shoulder, ‘honestly, if I don’t get to sit in the first row like a tragically wealthy widow with a huge hat and too many sparkly stones around my neck, heads will roll.’

‘Sure,’ Jehan typed away on their phone, ‘fight it out with Bahorel.’

‘Speaking of which,’ Bahorel did not turn around to look at him, ‘are you still up for the gym this coming Tuesday?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I’ll join you there after my shift. Just so you know in advance, someone seriously booked a tour at the museum for a child’s birthday and it’s pissing me off already. They are either going to run me ragged or be totally disinterested in everything I can tell them.’

‘I’m sure there must be fun stories about the paintings and painters you could tell them. If anyone memorises them, it’s you.’

‘Yes, okay, true,’ Grantaire rubbed his face, ‘but I can hardly tell children the raunchy, adulterous stories I would get out for a group of adults. I don’t want to be responsible for parents suing the museum after they hear about all the kinky stuff some of those geniuses were up to.’

‘Good call,’ Jehan shook his head, ‘also, this is going to be the moment for me to point out that Gavroche is still awake and sitting right in front of you with droopy eyes.’

‘Spoilsport,’ Gavroche huffed out, ‘what can I do, you’re blocking my bed.’

‘No, you are not making this about me,’ Jehan considered him with a stern look, ‘you’re lucky it’s not a school night.’

Gavroche grabbed a few things out of his bag and disappeared in the bathroom. Grantaire heard him mumble something under his breath that was unlikely to be favourable towards Jehan but he got distracted when he saw Bahorel’s eyes that seemed glued to his partner. He seemed unable to form words but his expression was one Grantaire had seen on him before. It was a sign that Bahorel desperately wanted to kiss them, hug them to his chest and do things he needed to get under control before Gavroche came back.

Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘He had a point. We are blocking the sofa.’

‘Are you kicking us out?’

‘Only, if you’re not leaving on your own accord,’ Grantaire nudged them in the ribs, ‘the boy needs to sleep and I need to lie awake composing three separate lists of pro and contra arguments for the rest of the night.’

‘Sleep is important for your mental recovery, those lists will wait for you until tomorrow. Have a piece of chocolate before going to bed, if you want to. You’re doing well so far.’

‘We moved the entirety of my studio in the span of a few hours. I can’t tell you how grateful I am –‘

‘Then don’t,’ Bahorel switched the TV off, ‘Jehan, are you ready?’

‘Someone wants to go,’ Jehan whispered into his ear, rolling their eyes, ‘goodnight, Grantaire.’

‘Night, Jehan,’ he grinned at Bahorel, ‘see you at the gym, big guy.’

***

Gavroche was nowhere to be found in the morning. By the time Joly and Bossuet came out of their room, Grantaire had already sent messages to all the people he could think of that the boy would probably try and visit. He had taken neither his bag nor his coat, only his phone and the last of Grantaire’s oranges from the fruit bowl in the kitchen, by the look of it.

He had received confused replies from Jehan and Feuilly already when he found the note stuck to the fridge. ‘Marius offered to explain his nerd games to me. See you for lunch.’

Grantaire sighed and sat down on the kitchen counter and started the kettle for a cup of tea. After their most recent grocery run, they now had five different kinds of cereal in the kitchen cupboard and he intended to start his day right: with a bowl of all of them mixed together. Joly emerged from the bedroom, hair in disarray and wrapped in Bossuet’s robe.

‘You sent me a message about Gavroche.’

‘Yes, sorry ‘bout that,’ Grantaire grinned uneasily, ‘turns out, he’s with Marius.’

‘I thought Marius and Cosette were going to be away for the weekend on a much needed couple’s trip,’ Joly grabbed the coffee pot.

‘What?’ Grantaire pushed himself off the counter, his bare feet hitting the tiled floor, ‘Fuck, where did he disappear off to, then?’

He grabbed his keys off the counter, ripped the door open and began the way down the hallway. Joly called out for Bossuet behind him and then his friend’s head appeared in the door.

‘We’ll knock on doors up here. Do you want to check your studio?’

‘My studio is empty!’

‘Still, just check, will you!’

Grantaire ran down the stairs, skipping several steps, slipping on edges and jumping over the landings. He reached the bottom of the stairs and skidded to a halt. The ground floor was empty and silent, as far as he could hear. Not a single sound indicated anyone’s presence around him. Grantaire walked past the closed studio doors until he reached the room they had emptied the day before.

Peering through the small window, he could see nothing but the worn hardwood floor. He opened the door but it brought no new insight. The room was empty safe for himself, Gavroche certainly was not there.

‘Fuck!’ More swears left his mouth as he turned back around and climbed up the stairs again.

He got his phone out and dialled Gavroche’s number, ‘If you don’t answer, you little –‘

‘Morning!’

‘Gavroche! Where the fuck are you, you are not with Marius,’ Gavroche growled.

‘I’m okay, does it matter where I am?’

‘Gavroche –‘

For a moment, there was silence. Then, Grantaire breathed out and pinched the bridge of his nose. He heard the soft sound of music playing in the background, no matter how much Gavroche tried to cover it with noises and sounds.

‘Don’t move or I’ll call Éponine on the work phone,’ he threatened and ended the call and began to walk upstairs, feeling his feet get heavier with every step he took

Gavroche had once before gone behind his back to talk to him, why had he not thought of it before? They had talked about him the evening before and as much as Grantaire had promised himself to challenge himself to solve what weighed down heavy on his mind.

He heard the music before he even reached the music floor, heard what he had caught over the phone as a rather thin, tinny sound evolve into an accusatory melody, clear structured and questioning. The intention behind the piece was obvious, it demanded an answer from the listener in thrilling cadences growing, rolling, and receding like the sea roaring angrily at who dared step too close. Grantaire slipped into the hall as the key changed on what he recognised as Albumblatt in E Minor by Mendelssohn. What had been angry and challenging, proud and assured, changed into softer touches that mourned what the brisk melody had not managed to achieve. A lament took over, the rolling tune, overwhelming as it was no longer threatened to carry the listener away. The soft, careful melody offered a brief peace, a breath in between storm clouds, still firm but kinder to who came closer to them.

Grantaire heard the left hand change keys again, heard the rolling return of the theme as it strode back into the foreground, pushing aside what feeble calm there had been a moment before. For a moment, the right hand lingered, dwelling on what the change had brought before returning to its force and demand. A crescendo ultimately ripped the listener away from all hopes that had managed to claw their way into conscience as the coda concluded.

Grantaire took a breath as he could sense the last note still hanging in the air. He remained hidden behind the door, leaving it between him and the room like a shield. Another moment passed, he heard the pedal spring back into position as a foot was lifted off it.

He knocked on the door, ‘Gavroche, a moment, please.’

Before anyone could open the door, he stepped to the side, using the blind spot the window in the door provided him with. Voices and shuffling were audible before the door opened and Gavroche appeared in the hallway.

‘What’s up?’

‘You, young man, are in trouble. Why did you sneak out like that, with a lie left on the fridge? Joly told me Marius is out of town this weekend and I might not have known without him but it doesn’t change anything about the situation. You lied to me, Gavroche, do you trust me so little?’

Gavroche bit his lip. He was still in his pyjama and a jumper, wrapped up but still a bit snotty.

‘You didn’t tell me the whole truth about what happened after Christmas.’

‘I don’t need to tell you, this is my issue, mine and probably Enjolras’s. Why do you think you can just –?’

‘I just asked him for some details that seemed to miss in your story.’

‘It’s not a story,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘Gavroche, can’t you just let this situation rest? ‘

‘No,’ Gavroche kicked the wall with his slippers, ‘I can’t. If you don’t tell me the whole truth, I have to find out myself.’

‘By pestering Enjolras?’

‘He offered,’ Gavroche shrugged, ‘did you know that Enjolras –‘

‘Stop, Gavroche, please,’ Grantaire weaved his hand in his hair, ‘I can’t – not this early in the morning. As far as I’m concerned, you can visit Enjolras for as long as he suffers you. Just don’t lie to me, okay?’

Grantaire pushed himself off the wall he had leaned on. Gavroche followed him for a few steps before taking his hand.

‘Montparnasse sent him a few texts. I don’t know what he said but Enjolras is upset about it. Can’t you talk to him and make him smile again?’

‘It’s a little more complicated,’ Grantaire felt the goose-bumps on his chest when a gust of air blew into the hallway and made him shiver.

He was still barefoot and in his pyjama bottoms, nothing else, ‘Go on, go back in. Listening to Enjolras will only slightly radicalise you, your teachers should be able to take that.’

‘Grantaire?’ Two thin arms wrapped around his waist and he felt Gavroche press his face to his skin, ‘Thank you for not yelling at me.’

‘I would never,’ Grantaire dropped a kiss to his hair, revelling in the knowledge that Gavroche would not protest against it during that moment.

Gavroche slipped out of his grasp and opened the door to Enjolras’ music room again, ‘Can you play another one? The last one was pretty cool, do you know something really amazing?’

Grantaire could not hear Enjolras’s response, the door slipped shut and he was left in the hallway again. His torso still felt cold, especially with the wall in his back but he did not want to move, not yet. Not, when he still had time to find out what Enjolras would choose to play next.

A few timid bars wafted out of the room, worming their way into his ears. The notes pondered, invited thoughts to claim all awareness and mind space. Carefully placed, taken into consideration before being touched, the notes sang of sadness and devastation. They reverberated, lived from one legato to the next, a continued stream of consciousness, almost as if a mind poured out all the darkness and doubt inside it.

‘Lieder ohne Worte, number 6,’ Grantaire whispered into the empty hallway, ‘Mendelssohn again. As if he can read minds.’

He had played it once, it was relatively easy to piece together and the Songs Without Words had been nice enough to him when he actually felt ready to sit down in front of the piano to practise. The way the clear melody captured him in ambitious attempts to overcome what held it back, how the accompaniment struggled to keep it all in place and from bounding off without thought for the consequences, made his stomach clench. The short, flared notes, hitting an octave and a bit higher were pushed back into the melody as the song concluded.

He could hear Gavroche demand something happier, uplifting. He heard Enjolras’s chuckle as sheet music was turned on the stand, an apology made about the lacking repertoire due to the need to clear out the room. Then, fingers ghosted over keys, pressing one or two to make a start.

Uplifting, it was. Cascading, trilling sequences chased each other, made them start, rush and start again, picking up speed as it progressed. In memory, Grantaire could recall other times when Enjolras had played Chopin with him peeping through the window. This time, however, he played the Waltz Op. 64 in D-Flat Major, the “Minute Waltz”. It was a true classic by all standards, a practise of fingers and dexterity as hands played the entire keyboard, bestowing meaning even to the short interludes.

Grantaire saw Gavroche jump around in the music room, dance to the coaxing sound of Enjolras making the keys give up their sweet notes. He left without another word, returned to his flat where Bossuet and Joly awaited his report and, upon hearing Gavroche was with Enjolras, breathed easier.

Grantaire decided to have a shower hot enough to warm up, warm enough to fog up his brain a little and wash away what he did not need to remember before sitting down in the living room with what material he had left unpacked after moving most of his supplies into the living room. He still needed to work on his sketches for the image of the altar he carried around with himself in his mind wherever he went, a sign to keep to it, finish it, he presumed.

So far, any inspiration for the face of either protagonists had eluded him. He had tried reference pictures, photos of his friends, even Bahorel and Jehan the evening before. So far, nothing had fit the sense he got from the painting, as much as he tried to capture it in a few strokes and images. After all the time he spent working on portraits and original themes, it seemed almost like a tasteless insult to him that he could not vary what he knew about realistic painting to come up with a profile and a frontal to accompany the rather impressive work he had made of the stone altar. It had taken him hours of research on museums and stonemasons’ websites to find what he had been looking for and even longer to actually sketch it in a way that added structure to his pencil lines. A whole different job lay ahead of him when it came to copying the image he had roughly shaped into something his mind seemed content with onto actual canvas.

Bossuet challenged Joly to a game in the living room and Grantaire looked up from his lap where he had placed his drawing tray. He watched them shove each other in attempts to distract the other from whatever happened on the screen.

‘How’s Musichetta?’ Grantaire watched as both of his friends stilled at the question for a moment, sharing a smile.

‘The Corinthe is still standing and trading, if that’s what you mean. She might have to hire a new chef though, the old one is going to take time off to be with his new-born kid,’ Joly threatened Bossuet with the controller, ‘don’t you dare, I won that fair and square!’

‘In your dreams,’ Bossuet rolled onto his back, ‘see, I could win this upside down and in my sleep. Musichetta knows exactly what she wants, finding a new chef will be a no brainer for her. Why are you asking, R?’

‘I haven’t seen her being smuggled in here, yet,’ he replied, scratching his neck with the tip of his pencil, ‘you are very discreet about it.’

‘We try our best,’ Joly shrugged and kicked Bossuet in the same motion, ‘I’m probably risking way too much already by letting Boss stay in my room –‘

‘That is way too small for both of you and also not insured, if another accident happens. Better this way than Boss on his own, burning down the town because he left the stove on. We agreed on this even before Boss moved in,’ Grantaire watched his best friends as they tried to avoid each other’s distractions by rolling on the floor, ‘good god, you are like children!’

The door opened and Gavroche joined them, quietly sitting down on the sofa with his knees tucked up towards his chest. He watched the movement on the screen, not saying a single word but visibly unsure about something,

‘What’s the matter, Gavinou?’ Grantaire continued to sketch, not looking up in the hope that he felt more comfortable talking when no one watched him.

‘I’m okay,’ Gavroche said, a little quieter than his usual, ‘just a bit tired, now. Can I do my homework in the kitchen?’

‘Of course,’ Grantaire put down the pencil again, ‘if you need help with anything, give us a shout.’

‘Will do,’ Gavroche shuffled into the kitchen.

‘That was weird,’ Bossuet said from where he had ended up, halfway under the coffee table, Joly’s foot lodged between his shoulder and his ear.

Chapter Text

The spring inspection was nothing anyone at the academy really needed to worry about, if they had not smashed up their place completely or forgotten to take whatever substances they used to get inspired, or for recreational uses, up to the flats where the inspections would happen over the summer months. Every year, someone forgot, and every year, a warning was issued, a notice posted on the black board in the entrance hall, reminding them about dorm rules and substances not allowed within the premises, and every year, no apparent consequence followed the warning. Of course, they were all adults, no one could keep them from drinking or smoking but drugs were something the board of governors did not like to find in their studio spaces.

Still, the few days that comprised the inspection left the dorms almost dead silent. No one seemed to want to risk meeting the inspectors, accompanied by the chairmen, caretakers and the dean. Even Marius stayed in his flat whilst the prying eyes moved from room to room, checked electronics and water pipes, and took notes on the condition of walls, wall paper and floor.

Grantaire spent the days of the inspection at the museum, working long hours with Madame Lacombe and the rest of the team on new concepts for the museum education and tours around the exhibitions. They came up with new routes, different in concentration on different eras and epochs, offering new opportunities for interested parties to book a decentralised tour that opened up new possibilities. Madame Lacombe had voiced interest in structuring the tours around certain topics, aspects and themes.

‘Do some research before you pitch your tours to me,’ she looked around, glasses sitting on her nose, ‘the tours we choose will get you a little bonus.’

She dismissed the group and thumbed through a stack of papers. Grantaire followed the rest of the colleagues he was on a shift with, taking his seat in the Romantics corridor. Once again, he had brought his sketchbook along to work on his temple sketch. If he managed to finish it before the inspection cleared the studios for their return, he would be able to transfer it onto canvas as soon as he had reclaimed his studio and moved everything back into the work space. He looked forward to it.

Enjolras had started a campaign once, to draw attention to the unnecessary work it was to move their work in and out of the studios again and again, only to give the academy an opportunity to show the students their presence around campus. He had called it ‘disruptive authority’ but no one had listened to him back then. Grantaire agreed that the inspections interrupted their creative processes, of course they did. At the same time, however, they got a free check of their studios and whatever repairs were needed were arranged for them.

It seemed like a sacrifice he could get behind.

When he ended his shift and picked up his phone in the break room, he had received a message from Bahorel, reminding him of their planned boxing session at the gym. Grantaire replied with a quick affirmation and got changed. He had not forgotten about the planned training, not really. It had been present enough in his mind for him to pack his bag before leaving for work. The bag sat on his bed, in his dorm, ready to be taken to the gym but not at the museum.

The implications of making it on time, despite having to go home first, scaling the stairs and ending up having to let Gavroche tag along because he got bored over his homework, meant that he was out of breath before he even opened the gym door. Bahorel dropped to the floor from the bar he had done pullups on and turned around.

‘There you are! Hi, Gavroche, do you want to sit with Jehan? They have biscuits, I think. Maybe some are left over. If not, steal their gummy bears,’ he called out with a grin.

Gavroche darted off towards the stands where Jehan waved for him to join them. Grantaire changed as fast as possible, ignoring the whistles he earned from Bahorel. Wrapping his knuckles, he returned to the ring. Bahorel waited for him before returning to his routine, watching Grantaire warming up.

He looked over his shoulder briefly to check on Gavroche but he seemed occupied by the apparent picnic Jehan had produced from their bag. He had buried a hand in a bag of vegetable sticks and held unfolded sandwich paper in his lap. There was a Thermos between them and Jehan held a steaming cup with – Grantaire hoped – tea, rather than cocoa that would have Gavroche scale the walls later on, high on sugar.

Bahorel got closer to him again with a quick nod in his direction, ‘Ready?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire grinned and rolled his shoulders.

They went for a few rounds, exchanging blows and hits, deflecting and blocking, tide turning several times. Bahorel tried to back him into a corner, Grantaire tried to use his leg work to trick him into making an attack he had not thought through, before leaning into it. For a few minutes, it seemed to be nothing but a back and forth.

Then, Grantaire heard Gavroche yell, ‘I don’t want him to know, okay? It’ll hurt him!’

He turned around, worried Jehan might have said something to upset Gavroche, at the same time aware that Jehan would never consciously hurt anyone with words. Bahorel, who had just started to deliver a blow, hit him in the jaw and knocked him on his back before he had any time to react.

Grantaire blinked up at him from the mat.

‘Shit, man, are you okay? I’m so sorry,’ Bahorel held a hand out for him to grab, ‘I couldn’t react fast enough.’

‘I’m fine,’ Grantaire rubbed his chin, ‘is Gavroche alright?’

They turned towards the spectators’ seats where Gavroche and Jehan had jumped out of their chairs when Grantaire went to the ground. The boy’s big eyes glistened with angry tears.

‘What happened?’ Bahorel stepped through the ropes, ‘Gav, is everything okay?’

‘Of course it is,’ seeing Grantaire back on his feet, Gavroche crossed his arms and sat back down, ‘Jehan is treating me like a baby, is all.’

‘Sorry, Gavroche, I know you mean well,’ Jehan rubbed their temples, ‘I just want the best for my friends.’

‘So do I! I want them to be happy just as much as you do, I want them to be talking to each other and do stuff but they can’t because – and you – I told you because you’d understand! There’s no point in telling anybody else, now is there?’

Gavroche’s face turned red with anger as he bolted out of his seat again as if it had been heated under his backside. He dashed across the gym floor and slammed into Grantaire, wrapped his arms around his waist and buried his head in his chest. Grantaire managed to catch him and hugged him tight, not quite understanding what Jehan and Gavroche had talked about but aware enough of the emotional turmoil it had caused in the boy who now tried to stop a sob that threatened to soak through Grantaire’s shirt with tears and snot.

‘Hey, Gavinou,’ he weaved his fingers through Gavroche’s hair, ‘do you want to talk about it? You don’t need to be upset, I’m sure we can find a solution to whatever has happened. Is it something that happened in school? Did someone do something to you?’

Gavroche shook his head, rubbing his face into Grantaire’s belly. His fists now held onto his shirt in the back. Grantaire started stroking his hair. Despite his jaw still throbbing a little from the punch he had caught with it, he rested his chin on Gavroche’s head a moment later to whisper into his ear.

‘Gavinou, you know I am really good at keeping secrets. If there is something that upsets you but you want to get it out of your system, I promise no one will hear about it.’

‘I’m fine,’ Gavroche mumbled into his shirt, voice coming out muffled by tears and cloth, ‘I just don’t want you to be upset again. Éponine said you were so sad you had to go to the hospital!’

‘Oh Éponine,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘she means so well. Listen, Gavinou, I was sad over Christmas, that’s right. But I’m working on getting better now, I promise. You can still talk to me, I won’t break, if you tell me something that stresses you, alright?’

He made a mental note to ask Éponine what exactly she had told her brother but was interrupted in this thought process when Jehan approached them carefully. They held an opened bag of gummy bears in their hands and cleared their throat carefully. Grantaire could feel Gavroche’s hold on his shirt tighten.

‘Gavroche? I’m sorry. I am in no position to pressure you into telling anyone anything. It’s your decision and I threatened to take that from you. Will you forgive me for that?’

Gavroche sniffled and stilled against Grantaire’s chest. Jehan nervously chewed their lip, eyes darting from the back of Gavroche’s head to Grantaire and then Bahorel. Their boyfriend still stared at them with questions written in his face.

‘Jehan?’

‘Yes.’

‘You really meant it?’

‘Yes, Gavroche. Unfortunately, I think it might help with the whole situation,’ Jehan grimaced a little, ‘would you like me to stay here, if you want to tell Grantaire?’

‘Maybe,’ Bahorel cleared his throat, ‘maybe, we should pack up and go home. I find it’s easier to talk about difficult things in a comfortable, safe space. Sweetheart, how about we cook for Grantaire and Gavroche tonight?’

‘Éponine was going to visit tonight,’ Gavroche pulled back a little and wiped his nose on his sleeve, ‘could she come as well?’

‘Of course!’ Jehan held out the bag of gummy bears for him, ‘what would you like for dinner, Gavroche?’

‘The spinach pie thing you make,’ the boy said quietly, ‘it’s really nice. Can you add feta to it?’

‘Always,’ Jehan wrapped an arm around his shoulders, ‘let’s give Grantaire and Bahorel the space to get changed, okay? We’ll wait out front, alright?’

Grantaire waved after them and grabbed his bag from the ground. If he was unlucky, his jaw would bruise a little.

‘Listen, R, I’m sure we have a pack of frozen peas at home that Jehan can part with. Are you really alright?’

‘Baz, you’ve hit me with worse than that wet washcloth of a punch,’ Grantaire laughed and unwrapped his knuckles, ‘If you really hit me, I would let you know or retaliate.’

‘Do you want to get a punch in for free?’

‘Nope, I’m good for today,’ he slipped into his hoodie and pulled the sleeves down over his hands, ‘I’ll text Éponine about the plans for tonight, okay?’

Bahorel held up a thumb from under his hoodie which he currently tried to force over his head. His hair curly with sweat, it frizzled on the cloth and left it static.

They followed Jehan and Gavroche outside. It had started to snow again. Jehan was currently buried to their knees in a snow bank, gathering up as much snow in their arms as possible. Gavroche giggled into the heap of white powdery snow he formed into balls.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Grantaire warned with a raised hand, only to be hit with a snowball in the back, ‘Bahorel, you already punched me in the face, don’t make me tackle you into the – Jehan, I love you dearly but if you throw that snow ball –‘

Jehan giggled and ran off down the street after pelting him with what felt their entire armful of snow.

After chasing Jehan down the street, showering and changing into warm, comfortable clothes, Grantaire found himself on Jehan and Bahorel’s couch with a glass of grape juice in his hand, legs pulled up onto the seat and Gavroche leaning against his legs, fiddling with his phone as he waited for his sister to arrive. Jehan was busy in the kitchen and Bahorel had switched on the radio, music filled the small flat and had made Gavroche roll his eyes when he picked a station that played eighties hits.

Every now and then, he peeked out of the kitchen, showing off dance moves that made Grantaire groan and bury his face in the cushions, ‘Stop it, you’re embarrassing. It’s like watching a dad dance. You have no rhythm whatsoever, no control over your limbs, no grace in your body.’

Bahorel laughed, booming and loud, making the tiny glass trinkets in the living room cabinet clink. Jehan collected them, brought them home from flea markets and antique stores, leaving them around the flat until they were moved into the cabinet once Bahorel threatened to break them accidentally. They still broke, Grantaire had witnessed it once as his friends had been too busy making out against the living room wall after a party they had thrown. Their rather errant movements had led to a frantic kick against the cabinet and some shattered glass frogs and fairy creatures. Grantaire remembered the shocked expression on Jehan’s face when they realised that it had been their foot that connected with the wooden case of the cabinet.

‘Grantaire?’ Gavroche turned around to face him, ‘I want to tell you before Éponine arrives. Jehan knows, too and they were right, you should know. I – I just wasn’t sure what you would do and say.’

‘Believe me, Gavroche, there are a few things I will probably not want to deal with but that doesn’t mean I get to ignore them. If I think I can’t deal with whatever it is you are about to tell me, I will let you know, probably get Jehan here since you already confided in them.’

‘Okay,’ Gavroche nestled himself into the cushions, ‘well, you know I went to see Enjolras. He was really cool about telling me stuff about the music he plays. He wrote a piece and asked me what I thought about it. It sounds amazing, by the way, he really gets emotions, doesn’t he?’

‘That’s why he is the best,’ Grantaire nodded along, ‘you mentioned something about – I stopped you when you tried to tell me, is this what it is?’

He felt the boy exhale against his legs, ‘Yes. I can’t keep it in, it hurts to think that you don’t even know and Enjolras told me, I don’t know why, I just asked why he wasn’t visiting you in your room. He didn’t want to tell me, I think, but then it just spilled out of him. That he had figured you had had enough of him over Christmas and you went away because of that. He got messages from your phone after you were back here and he needed a few days to put together the pieces. He got around to it when all of a sudden, Montparnasse had his number and began texting him.’

Gavroche, for a reason that was beyond Grantaire, looked guilty, ‘Montparnasse must have sent a few messages from your phone and deleted them before you woke up. Then, he copied Enjolras’ number into his phone and since then, he has sent Enjolras several messages. That’s what he told me, at least.’

‘Well,’ Grantaire sighed and raked his fingers through Gavroche’s hair, ‘to be honest, that is to be expected from Montparnasse. He likes to remind people that he is a presence in their lives, a shadow that is still around them, no matter how much they try to get away from it.’

‘You could have a point with that,’ the boy nudged his arm and crawled next to him, burying his face in his t-shirt again, ‘Montparnasse sent Enjolras  some photos. They were kind of what gave away who sent the messages.’

‘Photos?’

‘Photos of you,’ Gavroche nodded.

Grantaire felt cold. He pulled Gavroche closer into his arms, ‘Photos of me. I suppose Enjolras thought I was trying to let him know something.’

‘I don’t think –‘ Gavroche interrupted himself, ‘last year, one of the boy in my class took a photo of Mari-Lou in the changing rooms and sent it to other boys at school. The teachers got all of us together and talked about consent and permission, especially with photos. If Montparnasse took those photos without you knowing or allowing him to do that, it’s not alright! That’s what I told Enjolras, too.’

‘Oh Gavroche,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘you sound older and more mature than most of my friends, certainly more mature than me.’

‘Probably not,’ Gavroche seemed to blush a little, ‘I just happened to be there.’

Grantaire ruffled his hair again and pressed a kiss to his forehead, ‘I’m going to ask Madame Tallien to make some room in our appointments to let me talk about it, okay? Don’t worry about telling me. Between you, Jehan and me, I’ll find a way to make this right.’

Ten minutes later, after Éponine had arrived, hugged them all and sat down at the table, Grantaire still wondered why he remained this calm.

***

Grantaire helped wash the dishes after they had finished their meal, Gavroche still nibbled on his third helping but grinned happily when Bahorel remarked about growing young men and the calorie intake Gavroche faced on a daily basis. Éponine just rolled her eyes but still cuddled her brother into her side, mindful of the plate. Grantaire picked up the last empty dishes and took them to kitchen where Jehan stood over the sink. They looked up as he came in.

‘How have you been faring, hm?’

‘Gavinou told me,’ Grantaire grabbed a dish towel and began to dry off what Jehan set aside, ‘I surprised myself by not freaking out and starting to cry about how unfair it is, how much I hate Montparnasse, how badly abused and mistreated I feel. It’s unlikely I’ll ever do it but right now? I could punch him without looking back.’

Jehan nodded and grabbed the plate they rinsed a little tighter, ‘You know, I told Gav to tell you. I did that for one reason. You need to know, otherwise you wouldn’t know why Enjolras is probably hurting even more, you wouldn’t know, if someone else came up to you because they got the photos, you wouldn’t know what kind of thing Montparnasse spread about you.’

‘True,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘I still don’t think it’s okay.’

‘It’ll never be okay,’ Jehan looked up at him, ‘he took pictures of me, too, when we were together. Bahorel had to promise me not to punch him, if he saw him again. I thought about reporting him to the police, you know?’

‘Yeah,’ Grantaire swallowed, ‘I thought that, too, for a moment. Then I thought. We would have to show these pictures, wouldn’t we? And that sounds like something I definitely don’t want to do, you know? I really don’t want to think about it again, or anyone else to know.’

His voice broke a little as he said it but Jehan nodded, agreeing with what he said. Their arms came around his waist, squeezing him a little as they rested their head against his shoulder.

‘Listen, R, I had hoped so badly that Montparnasse didn’t pull this shit off, and then Gavroche told me that Enj has those pictures, that he sent them to him. I cannot imagine what Enjolras thought of them but doesn’t that chance things a little?’

‘Not really,’ Grantaire held on to them, ‘I could never face him now. This is so degrading, fuck! I hate Montparnasse for what he has done to us. How can he still have control over what we do? How can he still snap with his fingers and I’ll come running? I feel like I’m back at square one, watching Enjolras in the cover of darkness, listening to him playing but this time, this time I could not talk to him. It explains it all, doesn’t it? I ran away and went with Montparnasse instead of sticking with him, with the one person he actively despises, of course, he’s avoiding me now.’

‘Oh Grantaire,’ Jehan raked their hands through his hair, ‘I’m so sorry this happened to you. I know I still struggle with knowing that Montparnasse probably has these pictures of me and I have Bahorel. How much worse must you feel?’

‘Thanks, Jehan, that really made it better,’ Grantaire tried to joke but his voice betrayed him halfway through the statement, ‘I will phone Madame Tallien, and potentially Claquesous.’

‘Can he do something?’

‘I don’t know but he’s morally ambiguous enough to think of something, potentially.’

‘You have a point,’ Jehan nudged his chin with a finger, ‘let me know what he says?’

‘Of course,’ Grantaire caught his hand, ‘I don’t want to live my entire life feeling like I need to be afraid Montparnasse might pop around a corner and snap his fingers at me for me to follow him like I’m hypnotised. I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want to have people have power over me.’

‘Good thing to have in mind,’ Jehan agreed, ‘hey, as soon as your mood changes about the whole thing, you let me know, I’ll get Bahorel to stand in a room and let you punch him until you feel better.’

‘As grateful, as I am for the offer – and I do appreciate it – we have to be able to do something about this ourselves.’

They spent another few minutes in the kitchen, hugging and promising the other to get a grip on their issues with Montparnasse, determined to be believed, to make sense of the situation they were in. Then, Bahorel came in.

‘Hey, no stealing my partner,’ he interrupted and put an arm between them, dragging Grantaire back a couple of steps before hugging him himself, tight enough to make his shoulders crack, ‘not when I can have you to myself, come and claim him, Jehan!’

Jehan roared and followed them into the living room where Éponine and Gavroche were just about fast enough to pull up their feet onto the couch before Bahorel tripped over the carpet and pulled Grantaire and Jehan to the ground with him. They ended up in a pile in front of the sofa, heads pushed into shoulders and hands resting on chests and ribcages.

Jehan sounded winded when they appeared above the table again. Their hair was in a disarray and the blouse they wore had slipped over their shoulder. Bahorel was in a similar state, belt twisted in the loops and hoodie half over his head. Grantaire could only imagine what he looked like with his beanie lost somewhere in the middle of the room and a sock he could feel hanging on by a few threads.

‘That was fighting dirty,’ he gasped and sat up, ‘ouch, whose foot is that in my ribs?’

He tickled the insulting limb and Jehan flinched, throwing his arms around his neck, ‘There is no dirty fighting in this.’

They leaned against the sofa, exhaling deeply. Jehan tangled their hands with Bahorel and Grantaire’s, squeezing both.

‘You need to call me as soon as you hear from Claquesous, okay?’ They looked at him, eyes turmoiled with emotion whilst Gavroche whispered something to his sister, ‘promise?’

‘I promise,’ Grantaire leaned his head on their shoulder, ‘thank you for being my friends.’

Chapter Text

Claquesous had only one message for him after he told him what had happened, conveyed in a simple text message that pinged on his phone the next day, ‘Meet me at the coffee shop tonight. We need to talk.’

Grantaire pocketed his phone after reading the message and continued his way through the supermarket. He had been tasked with the weekly grocery shopping and Joly had equipped him with a shopping list that he had been working through so far. Between the sweets Gavroche had added to the list in what seemed to be a pretty good imitation of Joly’s writing and Bossuet’s tiny scribbles, he already had spent more time looking for a specific type of pasta than he had intended to, and he still needed to get the milk, or whatever plant based supplement Joly had written down for him to get.

He had started to bake after Musichetta had given him a recipe book for Christmas but all the recipes required a variety of ingredients that had never before been found in their kitchen. Grantaire did not complain about coming home to the scent of warm baked goods, Joly had proven surprisingly talented so far and the newest joke amongst them was how useful he would be at Les Amis bake sales now.

Grantaire avoided thinking about bake sales in the near future. So far, he had not been ready to think about going to Les Amis meetings again, and with the next Friday fast approaching, he did not need the additional pressure of thinking about it. Madame Tallien had given him an appointment just before the meeting would start and he had discussed the matter with Jehan who had agreed it should be a spontaneous decision on his behalf, depending on how he felt.

He regretted to admit that he had missed the meetings, the atmosphere amongst the people he had come to call friends, the banter and clashes with Enjolras he had had and the warm corner of the Musain where he had sat with his sketchbooks, almost carving out a regular seat for himself. With most of his friends set on attending, it still felt almost incomprehensible not to go. As he tried to ground himself in the present, it took him longer to face his thoughts on the matter. Claquesous’ message had not made it easier for him to look forward to the evening and what was to lay beyond that.

He finished the grocery run, paid and stored everything in the backpack he had brought along. On the way out of the supermarket, he got jam-filled doughnuts from his favourite bakery, a spontaneous decision for which Éponine would potentially kill him but worth it while the sugar rush they would bring forth in Gavroche lasted in her presence. He finished one of the doughnuts before he reached the dorms.

Once he had unpacked and stored all the things he had bought in the kitchen, he tossed the bag with the remaining doughnuts at Gavroche who sat at the table in the living room, hopefully working on his homework. He looked up when the paper bag hit the table top. For a moment, he seemed confused, then, having opened the bag, his eyes began to sparkle as he looked up at him.

‘Are those for me?’

‘If you don’t share them, yes,’ Grantaire grinned and set his backpack down next to the sofa, ‘how’s the homework coming along?’

‘It’s shit, I need to write a story about a household appliance’s day. I mean, come on, who comes up with rubbish tasks like that?’ Gavroche pointed at his folder where he had written down about ten words before he had started to scribble and sketch stickmen on the margins of the page.

‘Which household appliance did you decide on?’

‘I don’t know, either a hoover in the middle of an existential crisis or a piece of chewing gum stuck to a pavement.’

‘Very creative approaches and ideas,’ Grantaire nodded slowly along, ‘you should show what you came up with to Jehan, they’ll be happy give you advice or help you, if you’re stuck. I’m sure about it.’

‘Do you know if they are in?’

‘They should be,’ Grantaire sat down on the sofa and pulled his laptop closer that he had left on the table in the morning, ‘either, they are at home or you’ll have to bring it along later. We’re going to see Ép at the coffee shop with Claquesous, he might be able to help, too.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t know, he just sent me a message.’

‘No, I meant why would he be able to help?’

‘He’s the one doing all the texting and song writing for Patron-Minette, if someone can help besides Jehan, it’s him, I guess.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Gavroche grinned, ‘yeah, I’ll take it along. Might even keep me busy whilst you do whatever you are doing there. Éponine must be having the time of her life tonight.’

He returned to his homework. Grantaire pulled another chair closer and rested his feet on the seat. Next to his laptop waited the notes he had copied out of several books he had borrowed for one of the assignments he had to hand in. The majority was already written out but he still needed to finish his argumentation and the conclusion. Handing it in would mean a detour to an office far away from everything else associated with the academy. He would also have to send the essay to his lecturer in a digital form but the rules and exam guidelines still required them to hand in a printed version for the archives.

‘That would be something worthy of change,’ he mumbled and found himself halfway into a message to Enjolras before catching himself, shaking his head and sending the message to Combeferre instead.

The response came within minutes, ‘Do you think that’s an appropriate way to make a reappearance? Enjolras would have your head, I doubt he’d see a serious suggestion behind your words. I’ll mention it during the next meeting, promise. Probably better not to mention where the idea came from though, if this really is something you have decided is important.’

Grantaire shoved his phone underneath one of the sofa cushions, ‘What do you say, Gavroche, should we have a cup of tea before we set off for the coffee shop?’

‘Sure,’ Gavroche shrugged, ‘can I have honey with mine?’

‘Depends on the tea you feel like drinking.’

‘Peppermint.’

Grantaire got up to put the kettle on to brew them a cup of tea. Whilst the water still bubbled and the tea steeped, he wrote another few sentences for his paper. It was details, sentences that he added in passing, whenever he had the time for it.

‘Grantaire, your phone is annoying me,’ Gavroche threw it back out on the table, ‘why do you keep it in the sofa?’

‘Didn’t want to keep it close by,’ Grantaire mumbled and unlocked the phone, ‘it’s just Claquesous, letting me know that he’s making his way over.’

‘Should we leave, too?’

‘No rush,’ Grantaire passed Gavroche the cup of tea he had made for him, ‘time enough for this.’

He went to fetch his comfortable jumper from his room. By the time he had dug through the pile of clothes on his desk chair, given Adonis a few well-deserved scratches behind his ears and found his loyalty card for the coffee shop, the living room was empty when he returned, Gavroche’s school bag gone and his coat no longer on the rack.

His scarf, however, was still slung over the back of the chair he had sat on. Grantaire sighed, grabbed it and switched the light off before locking the door.

‘Gavroche, your scarf,’ he shouted down the stairs and followed him, taking several steps at once.

He caught up with him and wrapped the scarf around his neck, laughing loudly at Gavroche’s displeased expression, ‘Come on, it’s still cold outside, you can’t walk into the place your sister works at without being wrapped up properly, she’d have my head.’

‘She’ll have your head for giving me doughnuts,’ Gavroche grinned, ‘it would be a shame if she found out about that, right? I mean, I already ate them, there’s nothing to be done about that. Your livelihood, however –‘

‘Are you really trying to threaten me right now?’

‘Trying? I am way beyond trying to threaten you, Grantaire.’

Gavroche darted off again, Grantaire hot on his heels. They made it to the entrance, sprinting through the entrance hall. The door opened before Gavroche could reach it, still giggling and trying to avoid Grantaire who attempted to grab him in a friendly grapple.

‘Oh hello there, Gavroche, in such a hurry?’

‘Enjolras,’ Gavroche skidded to a halt, ‘hi.’

Grantaire tried to dart off into a different direction, make it seem like he was not there for Gavroche. A hand grabbed his wrist, pulled him in. Gavroche slung his arm around his shoulders, keeping a grip on his wrist as he grinned up at Enjolras who stood in the door, one hand on the door handle, the other behind his back, entangled with Feuilly’s. They both had rosy cheeks, as if they had spent some time outside, there was snow on the woollen hat Enjolras wore down over his ears and Feuilly looked like somebody had shoved him head first into a snow bank.

Gavroche cleared his throat, ‘We’re going to see Éponine at the café. I need to tell her that I had three doughnuts so that she can guillotine Grantaire.’

‘I take it you started talking about the French Revolution in school?’ Feuilly stepped inside, ruffling Gavroche’s hair, ‘Though you probably shouldn’t go around planning to decapitate your friends. Grantaire does not deserve that treatment.’

He winked at Grantaire who responded with a tight smile, less a reaction to Feuilly and more to the situation itself. Gavroche saved him by shrugging and grabbing his hand tighter.

‘Can we go now?’

‘Sure,’ Grantaire averted his gaze just enough to miss them both, ‘Bye.’

‘Have a nice evening,’ Feuilly touched his arm for a moment, ‘will we see you tomorrow evening?’

‘Tomorrow –,‘ Grantaire swallowed, ‘yes, maybe, don’t know yet.’

A moment later, he wished the scoff he got from Enjolras could have been written off as a result of his imagination. Instead, he stared down on his feet and tried to slip out of the door before he could say anything else that was probably ill-advised. That was, until Gavroche piped up again.

‘You know, Grantaire had a few really good ideas for your group, and he is dealing with a lot at the moment, You shouldn’t sneer like that, it’s not his fault Montp-‘

Grantaire grabbed his arm and pushed him out the door, slamming it behind them. He immediately stepped past Gavroche who was beginning to puff up.

‘Why did you stop me? Enjolras was really rude to you, he shouldn’t – he doesn’t know what happened, I mean, he probably thinks Montparnasse and you are boyfriends, now.’

‘I don’t care,’ Grantaire walked down the street, keeping his pace up without looking back, ‘it’s none of his business. None of my business what he does with his life, and I certainly have no part in his life. Not everybody needs to know exactly what happened between Montparnasse and me, and at the moment, Enjolras is the last person I would want to know about this mess I got myself into.’

‘You’re hiding? Chickening out like that?’ Gavroche still followed him as he stomped down the road.

‘Yes, I am chickening out. Newsflash, that’s what adults do when things don’t go the way we want them to,’ Grantaire buried his fists deep in his pockets, keeping his eyes on the dim glow of the coffee shop’s window, casting warm light onto the cold, snowy street.

Gavroche stayed quiet until they reached the café and Grantaire opened the door. He now pushed past him and into the warmth. Grantaire watched him throw a wave at Éponine before slipping into a corner, sitting down at a table and glaring daggers at him.

‘What did you do to him?’ Éponine asked from her spot behind the counter with a grin, ‘Cocoa for him, way too strong coffee for you?’

‘Cappuccino tonight,’ Grantaire sighed, ‘I told him off for blurting people’s business out into the open. He might be cross with me right now, please tell me how many marshmallows I need to add to his order before he forgives me.’

‘Nope, I am not allowing you to put my brother in a sugar coma,’ Éponine raised an eyebrow at him, ‘I know it’s most likely too late for that, anyway, but I will not add insult to injury on my behalf.’

‘You are too responsible,’ Grantaire sighed and got his wallet out, ‘we’re meeting Claquesous here tonight.’

‘Yes,’ Éponine slid a cup onto the counter, ‘I know, he told me.’

‘I forgot you guys knew each other.’

‘Yeah, hard to forget who produced their first album,’ she sighed and tied her hair back in a messy ponytail, ‘that was before the tax evasion and fraud case and the criminal prosecution.’

‘Right, yes, the days when the name Thénardier meant something in the music business,’ Grantaire took the two cups off the counter, ‘I still think your father has all his money in offshore accounts.’

‘Of course he does,’ Éponine checked the clock on the wall, ‘but I will never see or accept a single penny of his laundered money, even, if he offered it to me.’

‘As I said,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘you are more responsible than anybody else I know.’

The door opened again and Claquesous blew in on a gust of wind that made his hair obscure his face despite his hat. He had a bag slung over his shoulder and carried a stack of papers and a notebook in his hands which he set down in front of Gavroche before even acknowledging anyone in the room. Once he turned around, Grantaire could see the black rim of eyeliner around his eyes and marvelled at the rainbow eyeshadow on his lids.

‘Grantaire, you’re staring,’ Éponine supplied helpfully from behind the counter, ‘don’t mind him, he’s had a rough day, I suppose.’

‘Sure,’ Claquesous hugged her across the counter, ‘the others should be here shortly.’

‘The others?’ Grantaire followed him with a panicked gaze.

His stomach coiled in on itself for a moment and the sweat forming on his forehead felt a lot colder than it had a moment earlier. Claquesous simply shrugged and patted his shoulder in passing.

‘They better hurry, I need to lock up so we can have a bit of privacy whilst we discuss this,’ Éponine wiped down the counter, ‘five minutes before we close officially.’

‘Can you just lock up?’ Gavroche asked from his spot in the corner.

‘Yeah, suppose I can,’ his sister replied, ‘that’s part of the news I have for you in a moment.’

‘Huh,’ Gavroche made and pulled his phone out of his coat pocket.

A cold flurry swirled through the coffee shop. The door closed behind Babet, Gueulemer, Jehan and Bahorel with a slam, making the glass panels clink in their frames. All four of them looked rather frozen, even Gueulemer had rosy cheeks which rather hurt his usual unmoved expression.

‘There you are,’ Éponine hurried around the counter and jingled with the keys, ‘sit down, get warm, let me know what you want to drink.’

She locked the door, turned the sign to ‘closed’ and returned behind the counter to make a few more cups of coffee. Grantaire watched her as she moved, the smile on her lips seemed a little strained as she completed her tasks. She did not seem to mind everybody else greeting each other in the back and continued putting cups of coffee on a tray.

Grantaire took it once five cups and saucers were placed on top of it and carried it over to the table where Gavroche now rested his chin in his palms and waited for everyone to settle down. Three thirds of Patron-Minette had squeezed themselves in the corner, Claquesous next to Gavroche who had spread his homework on the table for him to look into it. Jehan and Bahorel sat next to them, hands intertwined and, in case of the former, wobbling with his legs. Grantaire sat down next do Bahorel and pushed a stray strand of hair back under his beanie.

‘Could anyone please tell me why we are all here? I mean, I know why I’m here but –‘

‘Because you’re not the only one,’ Éponine wiped her hands on her apron and pulled up a chair, ‘R, you are here tonight because something needs to happen. We can’t have Montparnasse walk all over us all the time, okay?’

‘What we mean,’ Jehan cleared their throat, ‘is that at this point, Montparnasse has done this to three people, with three different goals, and different effects on our lives.’

‘Three people?’

Across the table, Gavroche sniffled into his cocoa and chewed his lip. Claquesous played with a strand of his hair, wrapping it around his finger into tight curls before letting it spring free. He still hid behind his hair but he seemed somewhat more relaxed than before. Grantaire watched as he jutted his chin forward and cleared his throat.

‘Éponine, Jehan, you. Three people. To make sure he got signed under Thénardier’s label, in order to keep them quiet, to make you feel small and control your life from afar. Three goals. We have discussed as a band – without Montparnasse – and have decided to kick him out,’ it was a lot for Claquesous to say in one got and no one seemed surprised when Babet took over.

‘We didn’t know, at first. Montparnasse announced he had gotten a record deal, he didn’t explain he had stalked the producer’s daughter until she went on a date with her, took photos of her and blackmailed her into nagging her father until letting us sign on. Why would he, we were under the impression he had a boyfriend, judging by the photos he showed us.’

‘Wasn’t until we officially met you through Sous,’ Gueulemer added, ‘that we realised you were very much not in a relationship with Montparnasse and began to question the nature and the process of how those pictures made their way into his possession.’

‘Let’s just say, it was a bit of a giveaway that you were asleep in all of those photos,’ Claquesous nodded in Grantaire’s direction.

‘When we asked Montparnasse about the photos and you – after we met you – he deflected, told us about a breakup, whatever. Then, he had pictures of Jehan and looked at them a few times whilst we were on tour. He told us this whole story to go with it.’

‘It was a good story,’ Gueulemer grinned, ‘inspired Sous and me to write quite a few of our ballads.’

‘And now he had new photos of you,’ Babet continued, ‘it just felt unsavoury.’

Grantaire swallowed against the lump that formed in his throat, ‘You knew?’

‘Dude,’ Claquesous sat up straight, ‘I had no idea he really just takes pictures of people he sleeps with and keeps them, in case he needs dirt on them.’

‘So,’ Babet cut in, ‘we want to kick Montparnasse out of the band. We can’t risk the bad publicity, should it come to light. However, if we kick him out and he goes to harass you three with these photos, we need to be prepared. That’s why you’re here.’

‘We need a battle plan,’ Jehan wrung their hands, ‘I don’t want to throw you under the bus, Grantaire, but I need those pictures to disappear, preferably, without making them public. We would need to be faster than Montparnasse, and more efficient, too.’

‘Why now?’ Grantaire asked, burying his face in his hands, ‘What’s different now?’

‘He’s got your photos,’ Bahorel sighed, ‘verifiably taken two days after Christmas, just before you were admitted into hospital with alcohol poisoning induced dehydration. That was the result of being subjected to Montparnasse again, and it certainly raises the question, whether you were in any condition to give consent.’

‘R,’ Éponine leaned forward, playing with the ring around her middle finger, ‘we are no longer just talking about those photos. Yes, they are a huge thing and should be enough to go to the police and come out with a result. I’m sure it could be possible to start a case against Montparnasse without triggering him immediately. That’s beside the point, though, Grantaire. We are talking about pressing charges against him. If you didn’t give consent, it could be considered rape.’

Someone cracked their knuckles. It took Grantaire a moment to realise it had been Babet.

‘A joined case, is that what you’re talking about?’ He looked up from his shoes.

‘Not just that,’ Jehan leaned forward with a small smile, ‘you are getting therapy. Finally, I might add. You deserve to go forth without having to worry about who might be sent those pictures.’

‘You know how I started a law degree at the university before I decided the academy was a better place for me,’ Bahorel held onto their hand but looked at Grantaire, eyes set firm on his face, ‘I will never be a lawyer but I did long enough to remember a few things. We have due cause, evidence and proof. If we started this, it would be a matter of time.’

‘You are sacrificing your band for this?’ Grantaire looked up at Babet, Claquesous and Gueulemer who exchanged a look before grinning.

‘Fuck, no,’ Babet laughed, ‘we already found a wonderful replacement singer, bit shy but that’s nothing bad.’

‘They are young, have the same range as Montparnasse and play more instruments than him. Also, they write their own songs and sing like an angel,’ Claquesous shrugged but his eyes betrayed the obvious excitement he felt about their addition.

Grantaire had known him long enough to avoid jumping to conclusions. Still, he looked almost excited as he recalled what seemed to be a perfect fit for the band.

‘Okay, you’re mot risking the band,’ he swallowed, hard, ‘why are you doing it, though? Hardly for me and Jehan, I would presume.’

‘Always the pessimist,’ Gueulemer rolled his eyes, ‘Claquesous actually does it for you three. Babet forced me to come but even I have to admit that Montparnasse needs to be stopped before he completely destroys somebody’s livelihood.’

Babet cleared his throat, cutting him off. He leaned forward in the booth and reached into his pocket. When he held it out towards Grantaire again, he could see a couple of photos that he seemed to have kept in his wallet. A little girl with dark blue eyes, rattails wrapped in ribbons and bows, and an incisor-less grin smiled off one of them, hands holding out what seemed to be a baby tooth towards the camera. The other photograph showed Babet with his arm around a woman. There were three children in the picture, one of them the little girl, all of them in the adults’ laps, the smallest one wrapped in a blanket in Babet’s arm. He had the girl on his knees and the third child, a boy, a toddler, sat on his mother’s lap, if Grantaire read the picture correctly. They sat on a white, woollen blanket in front of a professional photographer’s studio blue backdrop, a soft curtain that pooled on the floor.

For a moment, Grantaire was not sure whether he understood what Babet wanted to convey by showing him the photos. Then, something in his mind clicked into place and he felt himself gasp.

‘How old is she?’ he asked quietly as Babet tucked the photos away.

‘Seven. She has got nothing to do with the band, took me years to introduce these two to my family over Christmas. I make sure not to let certain people close. My kids are everything to me, if something happened or I lost them –,’ Babet seemed unable to continue.

Éponine wiped her nose on a tissue Claquesous handed her. Her eyes looked suspiciously wet.

‘Jehan and I – we know what it feels like to live under this shadow,’ she said, sounding choked up, ‘it doesn’t just pass, it sucks and hurts and leaves you broken. It takes time and patience to get better, I have had years to get tougher, ignore, it and ultimately, face it over and over again.’

‘This might just turn into another group project. We’ll need whatever support we can raise and it might not be easy,’ Jehan sighed, their gaze averted but voice strong and firm.

Gavroche perked up in his seat. With a painful sting to his heart, Grantaire realised why he had felt the need to bring Enjolras in the loop earlier, why the whole topic had taken such a toll on the boy. Through everything Grantaire had come to experience, he had most likely seen his sister and what she had suffered. Some things that had happened involving the boy began to make sense to Grantaire as he watched him stir his hot chocolate that had survived longer than any cup Grantaire had ever seen him drink.

‘It’s not easy but we are not alone,’ Éponine’s jaw was set, ‘Grantaire, to be honest, we are going to follow through on this, no matter what you say. This is your chance to be a part of it, rather than the excluded party. We want you safe, as much as possible in this situation but I can’t have him have those photos any longer. For me, there’s too much at stake, now.’

She choked up more and more during what Grantaire could only describe as a passionate speech, eyes welling up and tears pouring down her cheeks. He could see her fingers busy in her lap, pulling on flaps of skin and keeping busy.

‘There’s more, isn’t there?’ he asked, voice quiet.

Éponine met his gaze and nodded, ‘They offered me a position as a manager. This branch or one of the others in the region. Almost like they remembered my business degree, after all. The job comes with a promotion, a pay rise, fewer hours of more intense work and just overall better conditions, regular holiday leave – I fully intend to agree and accept but I can’t risk to have anything out there that might make them rethink and fire me entirely.’

Grantaire nodded, unable to process the news for a moment. Gavroche moved instead, scooting his chair up to his sister to hug her. He buried his face in her shoulder and the sob that escaped Éponine as he held onto her echoed through the coffee shop.

‘Does that mean I can move back in with you? Can we get a flat and I’ll live with you?’

‘Yes, férot,’ she smiled, ‘I’ve had a look around different places already, with three or four rooms, you know? For me, for you, a guest room for the others, if they want to visit.’

By the time she finished her explanation, Gavroche was full-on crying, sobbing into her shoulder but Grantaire was sure it was out of relief and happiness, rather than anything else. It took its toll on everybody there. Jehan sniffled a little and took the tissue Bahorel offered them with glinting eyes that betrayed his careful composure, Claquesous watched intently as Éponine smoothed Gavroche’s hair back with a shaking palm and Babet seemed to not even try and hide that the scene in front of him made him emotional.

‘We’re getting a place together, I promise,’ Éponine whispered, ‘we’ll be our own family. If dad tries to take you away again, I’ll try and get guardianship over you and the small ones. You know mum wouldn’t want to give her babies up, they’ll have to agree to letting me take care of you, if they want me to be quiet and not tell on them. CPS would have a field day with them, of course, but so far, I haven’t had reason to believe they abused them. Not like us, at least. No signs of neglect, so far – well, at least, they didn’t leave town without them to go on vacation or run from prosecution again.’

Gavroche nodded and cuddled closer to his sister who looked slightly uncomfortable in her chair but let him burrow his head in the nape of her neck. Anyone of them, watching as the siblings promised each other a better future, a way out of a situation that had held dominion over them for the longest time. Grantaire watched his friend as she comforted her brother. Their eyes met over the table, she still looked defiant, asking him to tell her she made the wrong choice, challenging him on what she had told him earlier.

Grantaire nodded and gave her a small smile. They all knew there was not much more that needed to be said between them. The small group of conspirators that had come together after closing time sat together for a little longer even after their cups had been emptied and Éponine got up to wash up and clean the coffee machines, discussing possible next steps and what they could do without raising suspicions.

Eventually, Gavroche fell asleep curled up on one of the benches lining the wall. Babet spread his coat out over him in place of a blanket. It was Jehan who moved first, breaking the silence.

‘We have a long way to go, still. Tomorrow evening, I’ll try to get a little more support but right now, I could fall asleep on the spot,’ they stretched their arms out for Bahorel to catch them before they slumped over dramatically.

‘Sleep seems like a pretty good idea,’ Grantaire agreed, ‘can anyone help me get that monkey on my back?’

Gueulemer and Claquesous immediately got up to lift Gavroche off the bench. He stirred in his sleep, smacked his lips and tightened his arms around Grantaire’s neck as if on impulse.

‘You are going to just piggyback him back to the academy?’ Babet fastened Grantaire’s coat around Gavroche’s shoulders in an attempt to keep them both from getting too cold.

‘I can do it,’ Grantaire gave him a reassuring nod, ‘I’ve carried heavier things for longer without having a grip on them.’

‘Do I want to know?’

‘Who do you think moves stuff around at the museum, huh?’ Grantaire waited until Éponine had unlocked the door for them and handed him the bag with Gavroche’s homework, ‘I’ll make sure he’s in school on time and brushes his teeth thoroughly, tomorrow morning, don’t worry. Thank you for everything. You deserve the best.’

‘Off you go, don’t drop my brother. And don’t slip,’ she yelled after them.

Grantaire was tempted to pretend, just to rile her up but was not entirely sure whether he would actually be able to keep his balance so entirely. The risk, however, seemed too big to take it whilst he carried an actual person down the street and up the stairs to their flat.

***

Gavroche was a little grumpier than usually in the morning when he got woken up but Grantaire shrugged off his grouchy remarks and sour mood, reminded him to eat his breakfast cereal and then clean his teeth before sending him off to school and closing the door after him just in time to turn around to see his flatmates as they left their room. He wanted to tell them everything that had happened the evening before but all he managed to tell them that he felt good enough to see Madame Tallien after finishing his classes for the day. There would be a better point in time to let them know about the plan Patron-Minette seemed to have hatched with Éponine and Jehan.

‘We’ll be at the meeting, tonight,’ Joly said with an apologetic smile in his direction, ‘so, uhm, if you want to binge on movies, splurge on sweets and snacks or play games until you fall asleep on the sofa, feel free to do so. We’ll probably be late.‘

‘No need,’ Grantaire gripped his keys a little tighter, letting the bit dig deep into his palm until he felt the tension in his shoulder bleed out through the easy ache and exhaled, steadying his voice, ‘I’ll be there.’

A few minutes later, he slipped out of the door with a smile at Bossuet who seemed to breathe again seeing him grin and move around the kitchen almost relaxed. Grantaire whistled a tune as he all but ran down the stairs, trying to make up time for something he did not know he had lost time with in the first place. He stopped at the entrance, mind threatening to slip for a moment.

‘There’s going to be snow on the pavement, ice in between the cobblestones, cars parked on the kerb and most likely people clinging to their coffee cups. You have three classes today, one of them hands-on which is something you enjoy, Lafayette’s tutorial, and time enough in between to actually eat something before going to see your shrink in the afternoon,’ he took the first step outside the door, letting it fall shut behind him, breathed in and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep them out of the freezing air, ‘let’s do it.’

Chapter Text

Madame Tallien was still busy with another patient when he arrived, so he toed off his shoes after having been buzzed in and tip-toed into the hallway. He took a seat in the waiting area and scrolled through his social media for a few minutes. It was rare for him to actually post anything but when the time came around and he decided to take on commissions, the few slots he offered to interested parties were filled within hours every time. Making people realise that he offered his services and painted something expecting to be paid, however, seemed to go over people’s heads. He was yet to post about taking commissions without someone contacting him who then proved not to be willing to follow the guidelines his posts usually came with. It had led to him putting up a rather salty disclaimer on his Instagram, only to then receive more messages about how he did not deserve to expect payment for his services, in the first way.

The door to the office opened and a young woman stepped out into the hallway, dabbing at her eyes with one of the tissues Madame Tallien kept on the table. She took one look at him looking around, expectantly waiting to be called up, contorted her face and started to howl into the tissue, storming past him with her purse swinging from her arm. Grantaire watched her pass and leave the hallway, closing the door behind herself with a slam.

‘Grantaire, how lovely to have you here already,’ she moved out of the door and waved him in, ‘delightful, really.’

‘I cannot help but notice the sarcasm and passive-aggressive undertone,’ Grantaire grinned and stepped over the threshold, ‘challenging session?’

‘For her more than for me,’ she closed the door behind them, ‘it’s always hard to realise that the man you thought you knew is not who he pretends to be. Anyone can spark a reflective moment once the dam breaks.’

‘I sparked a moment?’ Grantaire sat down and crossed his legs, trying to get comfortable as much as possible, ‘That’s something I can’t claim too often.’

With the nature of their talks, it was hard to concentrate on the content, he knew the sessions with Madame Tallien were supposed to enable him to think and reflect about his thoughts and decisions he had to make but the dread of having to face what he wished to forget stayed. Finding a comfortable position was relative to the situation for him whilst there. He settled for pulling his feet up onto the seat and lounging against the arm rest. Madame Tallien sat down across from him, her note pad resting on her thigh.

‘How have you fared since our last appointment?’

Despite knowing the question would come, he never really managed to prepare an answer in advance. He dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand and cleared his throat to by himself some time. Madame Tallien waited, not moving, not staring, just smiling with the encouragement of somebody who did not want to stress him out.

‘I’ve been quite alright, actually,’ he began, ‘I think. It’s still hard to name a feeling the moment I experience it. I try my best because it helps to know what I am feeling at a certain point. The last few days have been rich in variety. One day, I can’t seem to get out of bed, the next, I find myself in the kitchen at five in the morning, finishing off the tasks left over from the day before. Yesterday, I had a full day of work at the academy and met up with a group of friends in the evening.’

‘How many people?’

‘Eight,’ Grantaire went over the numbers in his head, ‘yes, eight. We were almost like a self-help group, three people who suffered the same things. I didn’t know but Montparnasse has similar photos not only from me but two of my other friends, as well. One of them is Gavroche’s older sister who has been offered a promotion. She doesn’t want potential nudes of her somewhere with an asshole who might just decide to ruin her career with them. Which is a good thing, of course, to decide to change something. Those – those two friends of mine got together with the rest of the band, you know, Claquesous was there. They want to kick him out of the band and want to avoid him lashing out against us, when they do. I know that Montparnasse already sent the pictures to Enjolras, it can’t get worse for me at this point but I would like to spare my father the pain. They want to report Montparnasse to the police, kind of want me to join them because I was the one tried to kill themselves after sleeping with him, again.’

The busy scratching of Madame Tallien’s pen on the note pad stopped. Grantaire ignored the sudden silence and continued.

‘They are going to do it. Telling me was a nod of curtesy to give me the chance to join the movement and not just be thrown under the bus and I admire them for it. I don’t know whether to join, though because I would probably have to look at the pictures, face Montparnasse or – or –‘

Madame Tallien let the clip on her pen snap. The sharp sound made him jump but also brought him back into the room with the soft splashing of the indoor fountain on the windowsill and the birdsong playing over speakers in the corners to ground him.

‘I would like to rewind a little. Whilst I have recognised the struggle this puts you through, there is something I have to speak about with you first, from a professional point,’ Madame Tallien took her glasses off, indicating that she would not write down any notes about what they would discuss next, ‘you said something. Can you imagine what made me listen up?’

‘No,’ Grantaire laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, ‘honestly, Madame T, at this point, you could be speaking in tongues.’

‘Grantaire,’ she smiled cautiously at him, ‘you just said you were the one who tried to kill himself after sleeping with your ex-partner.’

‘Oh,’ he felt like he had stared at him for minutes before finally managing to form sounds again, ‘oh, I guess I did say that.’

‘I have to ask this now,’ Madame Tallien focussed a little more on him, ‘are you experiencing suicidal thoughts?’

Grantaire shook his head, ‘No. No, they were only there for – I don’t – I didn’t plan on it but when I started to feel unwell, I didn’t do anything against it, either. I don’t even know whether that makes sense, I don’t want to not exist anymore, I just want it all to stop and go away, do you understand?’

‘I do,’ Madame Tallien tapped her pen on the note pad.

‘And I know it’s part of what you told me, the only thing we can work on changing is me and my attitude regarding myself, I can wish people were different but as long as they choose to stay a certain way, I have no say in it. I am the only thing I can change.’

‘When you went to hospital, did you already know what your subconscious had tried to make you achieve?’

‘I don’t remember going to hospital. Joly found me and I passed out. Before – before everything went dark, I think I thought Please don’t give up, don’t make your friends witness you die. But then again, I don’t really know, anymore.’

‘Have you had these thoughts after being released from hospital?’

‘No.’

‘Will you tell me, if they return?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire nodded, ‘I don’t think I want to have them.’

‘That is good to know. If I may direct you back to what you told me before,’ she took up her pen again, ‘your friends offered you a potential way out of the situation you are in?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

Madame Tallien made some notes, leaving Grantaire to inspect his fingernails and wait for her to give him a sign that she was back to listening to what he told her. Her stern eyes eventually looked him over once more.

‘You said he sent the pictures to Enjolras? And you were asleep?’

‘Yes.’

‘You did not tell him he could send those photos?’

‘No.’

‘Grantaire, I am going to be frank with you; I am not a lawyer but I have helped more than one of my patients to go to court against somebody who wronged them. So much is clear, no one can take and distribute pictures of you without your consent. It should be straightforward to accomplish what your friends seem after. If you decide to go through with it and feel like you need someone by your side, you can rely on me. Additionally, in a case like this, a psychologist can make a case for you, after testifying to the police, you might not even have to appear in court, if you choose not to. There are regulations in place that protect you from further abuse.’

Grantaire knew he stared at her. Hearing from her, the professional that, no matter the outcome, he would not have to face Montparnasse again seemed too good to be true, something that had not occurred to him before.

‘Madame T,’ he sat up a little bit straighter, just to be able to be able to reliably produce words, ‘sometimes, I can’t believe that the world got to have you here.’

‘Thank you. Now, did you have to make use of any of the techniques we talked about?’

Grantaire tried to remember what he had gone through and what kinds of notes he had written into The Log. He passed it over to Madame Tallien who thumbed through the pages for a moment. She nodded and handed it back. There were no remarks made on it, just acknowledging it.

‘We have talked about photos quite a bit,’ she took a moment to allow him to focus back on her as she continued, ‘I would like to see you gain some confidence in moments you don’t feel your best. We will make a few steps in that direction by adding a new task to your Log.’

Grantaire perked up at the mention of the journal he had stuffed back into his bag. Madame Tallien handed him one of the brightly coloured sticky notes she kept around her desk.

‘I would like you to take a photo of yourself, a selfie, a moment frozen in time. These pictures will probably show you at your worst but I think it might help you see yourself as the person you still are at heart. It will become a journey, something for you to look at and follow your personal growth.’

‘Take photos of myself when I’m down? I can do that. What should I do with them?’

‘There are different approaches. You could save them in a folder on your phone, print them and add them to The Log –‘

‘Make them into an art project?’

‘One possibility,’ Madame Tallien nodded, ‘it is really up to you.’

‘But then again,’ Grantaire pulled out his phone, ‘I have been doing something similar to that already. Probably, with a different intention, though.’

‘What do you mean?’

Grantaire held his phone out for her to look at the photo he had opened, ‘I took these to remind me of how much I had failed. Of how much I failed myself.’

Madame Tallien looked at the selfie he had taken lying in a hospital bed. He had deep shadows under his eyes and the veins on arms and wrists were visible dark lines under pale skin, tube connected to the crook of his arm. In that moment, he had felt awful and hated himself for getting into hospital.

‘Probably not the reason I had in mind but a start nonetheless,’ he got his phone back, ‘next time you take a photo of yourself, think about where you were before and where you want to be, eventually. Seeing the progress, not the struggle.’

***

By the time he left Madame Tallien’s office, it was dark and he could feel the exhaustion and strain of the session settle in his bones. It was not the best idea to push his boundaries in this way, bound to make him irritable and nervous. Maybe, he would have made a better decision returning home and drinking a few cups of tea before doing anything else.

Instead, he made his way through the streets, bag slung over his shoulder and steps echoing between the rows of houses along the cobbled streets. He felt his skin itch under his sleeves but did not stop to scratch even as it grew unbearably strong.

The Musain was well-lit from the outside, some strings of the Christmas fairy light decorations still up, wound around the columns framing the door. He slipped into the bar room and shook his hair out, water drops dripping and flying in all directions before pulling his beanie back over his head to cover the wet mess of his hair. With no more means of stalling any longer, he moved into the space.

Finding his friends on a Friday night at the Musain was as easy as breathing. There was no way to overlook the colourful group of people in the corner, no way to not hear Bahorel’s boom of a laughter and Feuilly’s teasing response. Jehan ran around the tables, delivering notes, grabbing glasses and taking orders for more rounds as Enjolras stood on the opposite side, still bent over his notes for the evening.

Bossuet and Joly spotted him first and waved him over. Grantaire slipped through the shadows in the back of the room to make it to his usual spot without attracting attention.

‘You made it,’ Bossuet grinned and patted the seat, ‘do you want something to eat? Joly ordered the potato wedges but he could definitely share with you.’

‘Hey, if you think R needs food, buy him some yourself,’ Joly had his arm around Bossuet’s shoulder and pinched him in the upper arm, ‘not that I don’t love you but the wedges are mine. I paid them with my own wages.’

‘Careful, don’t mention the w-word this early into the evening, Enjolras is right there,’ Jehan stopped by them and hugged Grantaire, throwing their arms around his shoulders, ‘how are you doing? Was the session okay?’

‘I got a new task for The Log,’ Grantaire mumbled into their shoulder, ‘also, she offered to write me a certificate to keep me out of the witness’ stand. Apparently, it’s possible. She’s supportive of us trying to bring Montparnasse to justice.’

‘That’s good,’ Jehan pulled on his beanie to adjust it, ‘I’m glad to have you by my side for this.’

‘Hey, I love you and I won’t stop being here for you anytime soon. Also, I have a funny feeling I might more supporting than you, sooner rather than later,’ Grantaire let them sit down on the armrest of the chair, ‘won’t your boyfriend miss you?’

‘Too busy arm-wrestling.’

‘Who?’

‘Marius.’

Grantaire felt his eyes widen but did not comment further on the issue. Jehan leaned over to whisper something to Bossuet before crossing their legs over Grantaire’s lap, relaxing into the backrest. Bossuet got up and went to the bar, seemingly ordering more drinks. He returned to them with four glasses balanced on a tray that Joly distributed happily.

‘And one glass of sparkly children’s juice for Grantaire who is allowed a little sugar tonight,’ Bossuet held out the biggest glass for him, ‘Hope lemon is okay.’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire grinned, feeling the cool glass in his warm palm, ‘I’m parched.’

He gulped down the first three mouthfuls in quick succession before setting the glass down on the table in front of him. It refreshed him more than he would have expected, maybe a sign that he had forgotten to drink over the course of the day.

In the front of the room, Enjolras stood up from his chair. Courfeyrac knocked on the table to get everybody’s attention.

‘Good evening and welcome to tonight’ meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC,’ Enjolras began, lifting his notes from the table and shuffling them around, ‘tonight on the agenda are three points we need to discuss. First off, we need to find a date for the academy’s pride event this year to hand in all the paperwork on time. We already have Dean Valjean’s approval for a similar event to what we organised last year which – if you cannot recall what we did – was a Pride Ball that turned out to be a huge success.’

‘Masquerade-themed, this year, maybe?’ Bossuet called out, earning a few laughs and some nods of approval around the room.

Enjolras nodded along slowly, jaw set, ‘If you would like to come onto the organisation board this year, you would definitely get to make it a memorable evening. Before we do that, we should make sure to get everything arranged. Does anyone have a suggestion for a date?’

Combeferre’s arm went up, ‘Do we know when the exams start?’

‘Mid-July, it’s late this year,’ Jehan chipped in, ‘we could easily do it all June without majorly inconveniencing anyone.’

‘Sounds good,’ Enjolras nodded, ‘does anyone want to suggest an actual date?’

‘Thirtieth,’ Jehan suggested.

At the same time, Bahorel shouted, ‘First, don’t mess about, and start right!’

It brought him a slap to the arm from his partner as Jehan practically darted across the room to smack into him, ‘Don’t undermine my proposition like that!’

‘Fifteenth,’ Courfeyrac yelled out to get everyone’s attention back on track, ‘square in the middle.’

‘That’s Cosette’s birthday,’ Marius interjected, ‘the dean wants to take us out to dinner.’

‘How do you know that already, it’s January?’ Grantaire felt the words leave his lips and winced, realising he was no longer covered in the shadows.

Marius blushed a little, ‘The dean wanted to make sure I was okay with the restaurant choice before making a reservation, allergies, you know.’

‘Great relationship with the in-law,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘good for you, Pontmercy.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Grantaire, since you’re here and voicing your interest in all sorts of things, why don’t you give us some insight into what you think a good date would be, then? Don’t just hide in the shadows, now,’ Enjolras smiled at him, too sweet to mean it, too hard to actually be open for suggestions.

Grantaire felt ready to give him a piece of his mind, felt the heat surge through his veins as anger at the self-righteous words Enjolras had thrown his way. Instead, he copied the smile onto his lips, curling them up into something so sweet, it hurt his muscles. He was going to make it count.

‘Fifth.’

‘June fifth? Why would you suggest that, so early into the month?’

‘Because, Enjolras, the fifth is a Saturday, long enough before the exams to get people to leave their revision for a bit to go out and have fun. It’s early into pride month which means people are not yet fed up with seeing rainbows everywhere, the parade in town isn’t until a week later which means we won’t have competition on the day, and the week after might cut it a little close to the graduation ceremony which would bar us from getting access to the hall for your bloody ball.’

‘How do you know what day the fifth is?’ Enjolras sounded taken aback for a moment, almost baffled as Grantaire sat back again, glass of fizzy drink in his hand.

If it had been meant as a challenge, it got lost in the context. Grantaire almost felt disappointment at the way Enjolras’ voice had wavered. The answer to what the reason for his absolute security concerning the date was explained easily enough, after all.

‘I have a calendar on my phone, Enjolras,’ he replied, voice sweet as molasses, ‘and I have fingers to check it.’

Nothing would get him to admit the real reason he knew what day the fifth was. It was bad enough to admit to himself that he had looked up Enjolras’ birthday the moment he first found out when it was. Knowing that the sixth was a Sunday, and for that reason being able to deduce about the fifth, certainly was the last thing he would voice at a Les Amis meeting.

‘The fifth is a good idea, actually,’ Feuilly nodded towards Grantaire with an encouraging smile, ‘I think we couldn’t ask for a better date for the ball and I can get all the paperwork ready and filled out before the end of the month.’

‘Vote,’ the hard edge in Enjolras’ voice was almost icy, ‘all in favour?’

Grantaire raised his hand, determined to at least stand up for his suggestion, as forced as it had been. He was less surprised to see Jehan, Bossuet and Joly join him than he was when Bahorel, Marius, Feuilly and Combeferre raised their hands as well. Courfeyrac, still busy counting votes exclaimed his own abstention.

‘That’s a majority,’ he announced a moment later, ‘we are going to target the fifth, then, for the Pride Ball.’

Grantaire tried to spot Enjolras as Feuilly added the decision to his minutes. He had bent back down over his notes, jaw working, visibly grinding together.

He leaned over to Joly who met him halfway, ‘Can you see Enjolras? He hates it. He hates the date.’

‘Well, luckily,’ Joly cleared his throat and grabbed his hand, ‘luckily for us all, Les Amis are a democratic society.’

Grantaire felt the support in his words and smiled back at him, nodding cautiously, ‘Thank you.’

At the front of the room, Enjolras got back up, ‘Now that we have decided on a day for the Pride Ball, the next point on the agenda is the Spring Awareness Movement. For the newcomers in our group, we organise an annual event that is supposed to raise awareness for an issue that is big in our society and needs correcting. Last year, we made the academy board aware of the gender inequality around campus and got the governors to agree to ungendered toilettes and suggested a female quota on the governors’ board. Do we have suggestions for topics, at the academy, anywhere? Societal problems that are overlooked in many ways?’

‘Actually,’ Jehan got up and cleared their throat, standing in the middle of the room, ‘we have something to say.’

‘We?’ Enjolras perked up and smiled at Jehan, ‘yeah sure, do you want to come to the front to state your case?’

Jehan looked back into the shadows of the room, waving for someone to come closer, ‘Do you want to join us, guys?’

Grantaire felt their fingers close around his wrist. Jehan pulled him up and towards the front.

‘Hey, you didn’t say I had to join you in front of fucking everybody,’ he felt panic rise in his throat, strangulate and choke him more with every step he took towards where Enjolras and Courfeyrac moved out of the way, both looking confused more than anything else.

Grantaire hoped Enjolras could forgive them the attack on his meeting and the structure he had put into it. When Jehan stopped and turned him around, he could see the others who had followed them. Babet and Claquesous took a stand next to them. For a moment, he felt a hand squeeze his as Claquesous stepped next to him.

‘We all live in a world that is very outspoken. Everything can be art for us, every picture, piece of music, every sculpture, every photo means a lot on a personal level to each of us, and yet, we put them out there for people to see and to hear and to experience. It is our blood, sweat and tears that we pour into our work and we exhibit it to the whole world,’ Jehan’s voice wavered a little but they still stood up straight as they continued, ‘in putting our work into the world, we put ourselves out there and we chose that life when we went into the fine arts. What happens, though, when someone takes our trust – not just ours in this room, at the academy, but anywhere in the world – what, if somebody decided to take our trust, and take the parts we did not want out in the open and puts them into the public eye? What, if somebody used their own predominance in one blink of an eye, the one moment of vulnerability and weakness we allowed us because we thought to be safe with them? What, if that somebody decided to take what we did not permit and grant to be taken and put it out there, for the world to see? What happens, when pictures of us get taken and distributed without our consent? What happens, if that somebody decides to get away with more, put force on us and coerced us into giving them power over us? Pictures, photos taken without consent, or even the knowledge of those affected, stored away until they need them or feel the need to remind the victim of what they possess. They get called ‘revengeporn,’ sometimes, and since it is too risky to address for most victims who don’t know whether the photos will actually be published or distributed, they stay quiet, let themselves get bullied by someone who took their personal rights and trampled on them. It’s not always nudes, it could be any picture that was taken or shared without consent; mostly though, they are pictures that show someone in a vulnerable state. The effect the distribution of these photos can have on a person’s livelihood are huge; many victims suffer from PTSD or psychological neuroses, it strains relationships of any sort and many victims find themselves unable to share their pain.’

Jehan had to take a deep breath and smoothed their hair out of their face. Their stance had strengthened a little, their chin now lifted high and stubborn, taking any reaction had on.

‘I suggest we spread awareness for victims of this issue, point out ways how to deal with revengeporn, if you get threatened by someone, which possibilities you have to stop those pictures from getting out. I suggest it not only because it is an important issue, which it is, without a doubt. I also suggest it because, on a very much personal level, two of our own within Les Amis, and one friend of the group are immediately affected and will try and achieve what many people feel too weak and helpless to achieve in this strength the group gives them. To get the pictures and their rights back and the person who violated them in the first place, convicted.’

For a moment, the Musian was dead silent. No one seemed to want to be the first one to move after Jehan had finished, angry tears now coating the back of their throat, audibly choking the words out of them. Grantaire did not dare to look up. His hands shook, he pulled his jumper sleeves down to his fingertips, hid the way his nails dug into his palms. He was not sure what he would be confronted with and uncertain whether he wanted to know.

‘Jehan,’ Enjolras spoke up first, voice soft, ‘Jehan, I’m sorry to hear what, I assume, concerns you?’

‘Yes, Enjolras, it does,’ Jehan replied, shifting on their feet.

‘Would you mind – do we know who else is affected? Have you got ideas for an event, and – please don’t mind me asking – why have we got half of Patron-Minette here?’

Grantaire stopped a bitter laugh on the tip of his tongue. He fumbled for Jehan’s hand on his right, getting a reassuring squeeze. At the same time, Claquesous wrapped his arm around his shoulder.

‘We are here to support Les Amis in this effort,’ Babet took a small step forward, ‘in this case, me, Claquesous and Gueulemer. We want to offer you whatever help we can give.’

‘Why? Don’t get me wrong but you haven’t been known to take a liking to charitable causes,’ Combeferre raised an eyebrow.

‘Yeah, it kinda changes when one of your friends is concerned,’ Claquesous drawled, digging his fingers into Grantaire’s shoulder, ‘and the fucking arsehole who did that disgusting stuff is one of the people who you work with.’

Again, silence spread through the room. Grantaire felt the tremor in his hand move on to his knees.

‘What Claquesous means,’ Jehan piped back up, expression schooled into a controlled, tight smile, ‘is that for years, Montparnasse has been in possession of pictures of me that he took when we were together for a very short time. I have been fine so far because I have Baz at my side who would, without doubt, break Montparnasse’s hands, if he ever got too close to me again. Others are not as lucky and fortunate and might even have found themselves alone, facing what can only be described as emotional – and in one case physical – abuse. I have permission from her to tell you this; the second person affected by Montparnasse is Éponine. The photos he took of her got him a contract with her father’s label. Now that she moves on from all of this and wants to leave her father and his entanglements behind, she wants to see these pictures gone. We will inform the police and a lawyer and we will try to get this situation dealt with in a clean way. In regard to safety measures, however, we figured it would be a positive effect to see the issue brought into the public mind and understanding, just to try and get rid of the stigma around it. In case anything goes wrong and Montparnasse decides to distribute even more of the pictures in his possession.’

As they spoke, their voice had grown quieter and quieter until it was barely more than a whisper that finished their last sentence. Still, everybody in the room heard it. A chair scraped over the wooden floor, pushed back with some force. Enjolras got up, his face pale and as white as a sheet. Feuilly stared at them with big, dark eyes that expressed the same pain as Courfeyrac and Joly’s. Bahorel watched Jehan, pride and sadness mixed in his hardened expression. Combeferre seemed to be crying but Grantaire could not understand why.

He must have had lifted his eyes from the floor at some point during Jehan’s speech. His breaths were shallow and fast but he hardly noticed it. His knees were weak and threatened to give in underneath him but he did not care. A hand held him steady but he no longer knew whose it was.

Enjolras had returned to the front, eyes full of emotions Grantaire could not tell apart, too many swirling around in glassy ponds, hunting and chasing each other before he could name them. His pale face looked as if carved into marble and the pain written into every line of his face made Grantaire tremble. Then, he opened his mouth again and despite talking to Jehan, it seemed like he addressed him with his question, holding onto it as if it could grant him some sort of relief, despite the blinding rage and anguish thinly veiled by the way he composed his voice to be strong and urgent.

‘Distribute more pictures? How do we know he has done this before? Have we got proof that he already dared to step over the line, expose somebody? What do we know that would make it certain that he has shared photos without consent? Can you give me any more information, you mentioned a third –‘

‘Oh, Apollo,’ Grantaire heard himself sigh, whilst letting go of Jehan and Claquesous by his sides, ‘as if I could ever bring myself to sully your phone and mind with those pictures.’

The silence that followed his words was only interrupted by a faint knock on wood, a sound ever so light, in irregular intervals, as if something soft dropped to the floor. It took Grantaire the better part of a minute and halfway through the hug Enjolras wrapped him into, to realise that it had been his tears, steadily falling from his cheeks.

Chapter Text

There was a knock on his studio door but Grantaire chose to ignore it. He was halfway through another sketched version of the altar he had drawn uncountable times before, coming closer to a result with every try, and did not want to stop focussing on something that finally had begun to look like what he had had in mind when he first had the idea. The statue of the deceased on the altar had a face and an expression, his mourner was bent and hunched in exactly the way he had wanted them, hiding their face in the crook of their elbows. As the end of the month approached, he heard the clock ticking on the project he had to hand in.

He knew he cut it close, had known it since Professor Lafayette sent his reminder email out to all the students in his course. Grantaire still had to put the whole thing on canvas.

The dorms had been re-opened via email and blanket announcement after the Amis meeting and Grantaire had not wasted any time. It had been two in the morning by the time he finished the move back into the studio space and for the time being, he had only moved his colours, brushes and everything he had planned on using for the altar piece.

It had helped him to cool down after a very busy meeting at the Musain. Walking up and downstairs one time after the other, arms heavy with canvas, boxes and supplies, made him focus on every step he took, rather than the big thoughts that wanted to keep him from his work. Instead, he had sorted his studio out, put up the easel and spread out his brushes and colours. By the time Saturday morning had rolled around, he had begun to work on the final sketch, the finest lines still to be implemented. The following days had been divided between his studio and the museum for his shifts as he struggled to keep to his deadline.

A second knock made him look up for a moment, rolling his eyes. Some people at the academy had no concept of deadlines and the need to fulfil them. There was a general understanding amongst them to respect closed doors, most of the times at least, and it was there for a reason.

‘I’m working,’ he yelled back towards the door with some stress to the words.

The door opened nonetheless. Grantaire, taking it that one of his friends had decided to stop by, sighed and resigned, nodding towards the divan, not yet covered in loose papers and sketches. He figured he would need a few days more to recreate the mess and chaos he knew around his workplace, until then, the few visitors he might get would actually have a space to sit in.

‘Joly said you’d be here,’ there was some shuffling behind him as Enjolras sat down, moving the single sketchbook onto the small table, ‘is it okay for me to be here?’

‘Sure, I’ve got the divan, after all,’ Grantaire went over the canvases he had moved back, trying to find a fitting one for what he had planned, ‘can you see my headband anywhere?’

‘This one?’

Enjolras held up his paint-splattered headband, giving him a soft smile. Grantaire nodded, grabbed it and shoved it around his head to keep what he had left of his hair out of his face.

‘What are you working on?’

‘Piece for Lafayette, should have been finished ages ago but I kept pushing it back, didn’t look right. It’s the fifth attempt on canvas now and I only have until tomorrow.’

‘That’s ambitious,’ Enjolras watched as he lifted the canvas onto the easel, ‘what held you back?’

‘Few things,’ Grantaire shrugged and stepped back to check the position of the canvas, ‘emotional stuff. The Spring Inspection, we needed to sort out Gavroche and, well –‘

He could have mentioned his stay in hospital to Enjolras but his reaction after Christmas had been enough to keep him from it in that moment. Instead, he shrugged again and looked through the box of paints and brushes.

‘I understand,’ Enjolras had his phone in his lap and a notebook opened against his knees, ‘I think we should maybe talk.’

‘You think?’

‘Sorry, we have to talk. About everything. I am still under the impression we miscommunicated at some point during the last month or so, at several occasions probably. If you want to tell me anything, if there is anything you feel comfortable sharing with me, I’ll listen.’

‘Are you serious? I’m still a mess, I have no idea what I will spill, if I start talking now,’ Grantaire rubbed his eyes with his palms, ‘do you want my rambling?’

When he looked back over his shoulder, he was tempted to have spotted a hint of a smile on Enjolras’ face. He sniffled, pulled his nose up without reason and turned back around.

‘I don’t care whether it’s rambling or not,’ Enjolras adjusted somewhat on the divan, ‘I feel like for the last month or so, I missed out on one what’s been going on with one of my friends and I could not find an explanation for it myself. At some point, I thought I had crossed some sort of boundary, driven you away. I tried to understand but at the same time, it hurt too much. I care about my friends, I cared about you and you still didn’t trust me enough to let me know when you felt bad.’

Grantaire began the base structure for his painting. The paints were smooth under the bristles, gave way easily as he spread them on the prepared canvas.

‘I trust you,’ he said, ‘easier than most others. A person with principles is easier to trust, they will tell you when you cross their lines. I trust you to tell me when I cross yours, always have. It’s easier to remind myself of a goal if there’s someone pointing me in the right direction.’

Enjolras nodded, deeply understanding, ‘As I said, you can talk to me, just get it out there. In case that helps you.’

Grantaire pushed a stray strand of hair into the hairband around his head, ‘I have a therapist now, a professional one, no more unloading onto my friends. I see her once a week and we are trying to talk through it all, from the very beginning to where I am now. She knows about Montparnasse, about my mother, about everything. I keep a record of thoughts and struggles, of low moments and those that really lift me up. She helps me sort through the thoughts and issues, helps me find the right way through it and maybe even how to improve myself in the process.’

He waited for Enjolras to chip in, say something about his confession. Maybe, he even expected something about seeing a therapist. Then again, it was Enjolras and it was not likely for him to judge what he attempted to do for himself.

‘Enjolras –‘

‘Yes?’ The response came out on a breath, soft and impatient.

Grantaire focussed on the canvas in front of him, taking in the structure of the surface before placing more strokes with careful precision. He needed a moment to compose himself and decide whether to say anything more or what to start with, in the first place.

He took a deep breath and brushed away a non-existent strand of hair from his forehead, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry about Christmas.’

As soon as he had said the six words that had burned in his throat and on his tongue for weeks, he felt a load being taken off his mind. The words were out there, he did not know where to go from this point but trusted Enjolras to be patient enough to let him finish whatever thought he came up with to continue his explanation.

‘I didn’t want you to see the extent of the state I can get in,’ he said, addressing his canvas, rather than Enjolras, sitting behind him, ‘we’re still trying to get to the bottom of it, with therapy, because I’ve struggled with it for years without having an explanation for it. My therapist thinks there’s quite a possibility for it to psychosomatic but that doesn’t make it any less of a problem. It’s episodic, so I don’t feel the constant effects of it but I can feel it happening and approach.’

‘Like chronic illness?’

‘A bit,’ Grantaire mixed pigments on his palette, ‘it’s mostly pain. Every muscle, every sinew hurts, no matter how small the movement. I end up lying in bed for a few days without managing to do much because even when I know it’s about to happen, I don’t always have a chance to get everything ready and into reach for myself to take care of myself. Sometimes, I just lie there, trapped inside my head with nothing else to do but think about all the things I did wrong in the build-up.’

‘How do you know it’s going to happen?’ Enjolras asked, his tone pressing, eager to hear his response.

‘Headaches, muscles pulling as if I’d finished a hard workout, feeling thirsty all the time,’ Grantaire applied another layer of paint on one of the broader spaces to be filled, ‘once all of it comes together, I know.’

‘That happened after Christmas?’

‘Yes. I got the headache on Christmas Eve, tried to ignore it but then the muscle ache started and I couldn’t anymore. I knew I was going to end up basically knocked out sooner or later, and at that stage, I get selfish. I mean, your dad is so strong in all the trials and challenges he faces on a daily basis and I couldn’t even stand the thought of being there, you know, at your home all useless and pathetic.’

He enunciated his feelings with a stroke of dark grey on the canvas, strong and present in the middle of it. The brush shook a little in his hands, nerves not giving him any peace as he tried to continue his painting.

‘I didn’t want you to see me like that,’ he admitted eventually, ‘especially not after I found out about your father and just how strong he is. Meeting him and Thomas meant a lot to me but at the same time, it showed me just how weak I am in comparison. It’s probably an attitude I need to change but as of now, I don’t know how.’

It was something he needed to get out, no matter Enjolras’ response, no matter how self-pitying he sounded. He could hear Enjolras move on the divan but did not look back around to react to him.

‘Remember how I told you that my dad didn’t manage to leave his room for long for months after mum died? It’s a process, getting better, coming to terms with it,’ Enjolras sounded pensive when he began to talk, ‘I’m sorry to hear about the way you struggle with this condition; psychosomatic or not. The pain you feel is valid, the challenges you face are certainly real and as they are, you deserve the support of your friends. I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me but I get it. It’s hard enough to see your own body work against you, I remember the way dad tried to hide it from me, in the beginning. I don’t care whether it’s psychosomatic or not, Grantaire!’

‘Thanks,’ Grantaire did not know what else to say without choking up.

So far, Enjolras had taken it a lot better than he had imagined. After all, his condition seemed to be the root of at least part of the strain he had put on their friendship. He continued his work on the painting, hoping Enjolras would understand.

‘You left early enough to safe yourself from what you saw as a shameful experience. We are so trained to bite and claw our way into this world of art and show business that we tend to forget about the strains we encounter outside of our professional life which means we get overwhelmed with them when we encounter them.’

Grantaire nodded absentmindedly. He got the feeling that something else preyed on his mind, waiting for the right or wrong moment to pop out and ambush them both. Instead of drilling into it, he decided to leave it.

Silence settled between them but it felt relatively comfortable, both of them working on their own projects. He could hear notes being strung together with the tinny sound of an app.

‘Are you composing on your phone?’

‘Just developing ideas. I still have to produce something for Lamarque,’ Enjolras responded, concentration strongly strung into his voice, ‘did I tell you about the theme?’

‘Barricades,’ Grantaire recalled, quick like a shot, ‘you were really excited about that one.’

‘That’s true,’ Enjolras chuckled softly to himself, ‘well, I got quite far with it, it’s definitely going to be ready for the next recital.’

‘When’s that?’ Grantaire switched brushes to a narrow one, stiff tip allowing him to get to the details, ‘I mean, I suppose Les Amis will be there, anyway.’

‘It’s likely,’ Enjolras laughed, ‘Combeferre and Courfeyrac will be performing, maybe Marius and Cosette as well. You never know whether those two will actually show up, after all.’

‘Yeah, couples and their priorities,’ Grantaire grinned and leaned into his canvas a little, ‘must be hard to coordinate.’

‘Feuilly and I manage just fine, thank you very much.’

The brush clattered to the ground, having slipped out of his grasp. Paint splattered the hard-wood floor in a wide arc around the easel, leaving a ray of anthracite and teal in its wake. Grantaire bent down to pick it up, feeling hot under his collar and absolutely positive about his face having turned bright red.

‘Great, got to wash that one out, now,’ he muttered to himself and turned to the small sink on the side.

‘Are you okay?’ Enjolras moved again and a moment later, he joined him by the sink, ‘Grantaire, did something –‘

‘I’m okay, just slipped,’ Grantaire tried not to think about the possibility of having slipped to the extent of leaving a clear mark of it on the canvas, ‘honestly, it’s like actual withdrawal.’

‘Are you –‘

‘Joking, Apollo. I haven’t touched a drop since –,‘ Grantaire trailed off before reminding himself to finish the sentence, ‘since I ended up in hospital.’

‘Right,’ Enjolras’ voice dropped a little, ‘that was – it’s been on my mind for quite some time, I hope you don’t mind me asking, was it because of –‘

‘Montparnasse?’ Grantaire finished for him, looking to his side to spot Enjolras’ hot-red cheeks, ‘Yes, in a way. I’m not good at saying No to him and it just – it was too much, in that moment, to keep going. I ended up trying to just forget it. Turns out that alcohol helps with that for a little while but makes you dehydrate pretty fast, if you don’t drink anything else for long enough.’

‘Joly could have told you that.’

‘Oh, he made sure to tell me, loud and clear. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until after I was in hospital that he got the chance to tell me off,’ Grantaire scrubbed the paint off the brush.

He would not be able to use it in its wet state and he was not quite sure he had another one of the same size. The brush would have to do, if he wanted to finish his assignment before the deadline cut him off.

‘Why though?’

There it was, Grantaire thought, the question Enjolras had been chewing on. He had avoided one awkward topic and skidded right into the next.

‘He was there, suggested to take my mind off things and I desperately wanted to just not think about the whole mess for some time. I didn’t want to happen what eventually happened,’ his jaw worked hard, muscles tensing a little more under the strain he put on them, ‘I need you to know that.’

‘I know.’

‘No, you don’t understand,’ Grantaire knew he sounded desperate, ‘I need you to know that. To really understand it.’

‘I know,’ Enjolras repeated, ‘Jehan told me, Éponine called me after they went to the police. Did you join them?’

Grantaire nodded, wincing at the memory of the afternoon spent at the police station, presenting evidence and recalling the events of their time spent with Montparnasse. He had not enjoyed it and between the three of them, Jehan and Éponine were the ones who would front their attempt to bring Montparnasse down. The police officer recording their complaint had been serious about the whole ordeal, treating them with respect and understanding, waiting whenever they needed a moment to recollect themselves.

‘I was there with them, gave my statement and that should be it for a little while. Who knows whether anything comes from it,’ Grantaire picked a chip of dried paint off the brush.

‘I looked up sentences on the publishing of photos without consent,’ Enjolras cleared his throat, ‘seems like they are a little stronger and harsher when it’s intimate photos.’

‘The officer mentioned something along that line, too,’ Grantaire agreed quietly, ‘vulnerable or delicate content, something like that.’

The room fell silent again and Grantaire returned to the easel, relieved to find that his slip up had left no lasting mark on the painting. Enjolras followed slowly, still pondering what he had said, judging by the looks of things, mostly going by his expression. He sat back down on the divan but began to fiddle with his phone, rather than going back to his composition app.

‘Something else on your mind? You’re nervous, I can’t paint with you thinking so hard I can practically hear it,’ Grantaire smiled a little, ‘just spit it out, I promise not to bite you in retaliation.’

‘I remember what Montparnasse was like as a teenager,’ Enjolras blurted out, blush spreading over his cheeks, ‘he was the cockiest, most self-assured person I ever had to spend time with. There is not a single moment I remember where he wouldn’t try and upstage each and every person in the room. Back then, I did not see it as such but now, now I look back and cannot look past it, anymore. Was he like that with you, too?’

‘Pretty much,’ Grantaire gritted his teeth, ‘I was desperate to have someone pay attention to me. He did just enough to bring me to heel and keep me there. Seems like he never changed his attitude towards me, too.’

‘I remember Joly’s birthday very clearly,’ Enjolras nodded solemnly, ‘there was so much I wanted to say to him when he forced that kiss on you, you know? I think if Combeferre and Courfeyrac had not held me back, I would have punched him.’

‘You were halfway there already,’ Grantaire grinned a little easier, ‘although you probably would have broken your wrist with the kind of hand position you went for.’

‘I keep forgetting you and Bahorel box,’ Enjolras’ voice trailed off a little.

‘Come summer, we’ll be a sort of household guard for Les Amis de l’ABC,’ Grantaire said, focussing on the detail in the face of his fallen hero on the altar, placing one careful brush stroke after another, adding them into the synthesis his artwork was supposed to turn into, ‘you won’t have to worry about counter protestors trying to break your nose.’

‘Oh, Courfeyrac told you about that incident?’

‘I’m sure he’s told everybody he meets,’ Grantaire shrugged, ‘anyway, if you need two blokes standing next to you, looking tough –‘

‘Probably look at the gym for some since my friends are all talk and no trousers,’ Enjolras giggled behind him and Grantaire turned around to face him, ready to give him a piece of his mind.

He deflated the moment he saw Enjolras grin and pat himself on the back for his quip, shaking quietly as he tried to contain the laughter clearly trying to burst out of him. The relaxed expression on his face spoke volumes and Grantaire could only think of the last time he had seen him this way, feeling a faint tug on his heart as he remembered Christmas and the way Enjolras had grinned and smiled, illuminated by the lights and candles everywhere.

‘You might be right in Bahorel’s case,’ he settled on saying, ‘but I’ll have you know that no one would get to you with me by your side.”

Enjolras seemed to be ready for another remark towards him that would probably sting in the best way possible but another knock on the door cut him off. Feuilly poked his head into the studio.

‘There you are, Grantaire,’ he grinned, rushing into the room, ‘listen, I just met Lafayette, he had the most amazing news. The interdisciplinary course and excursion sign up has started and he has three spots for Art.’

‘He wants us to apply for it?’ Grantaire felt his eyebrows rise up a little in surprise, ‘It’s nice of him to think of us when all his other prodigies are just waiting to hand in the biggest, most elaborate pieces.’

‘Yes, yes, I know, there are many people who want to go but think about it! We’d spend less time with lectures and texts, and it’s going to be themed – oh hi, Enjolras,’ he dropped a quick kiss to his boyfriend’s lips in passing before grabbing Grantaire’s shoulders and shaking him roughly, ‘imagine that, a themed endeavour, we get to draw, write, compose and hang out but outside of the academy context. You have to promise me you’ll apply, okay? You could just tell him your assignment piece is also your application, he said to tell you that it counts.’

Grantaire eyed his easel carefully, ‘You think this is enough?’

Feuilly followed his gaze, ‘Oh wow. R, this is amazing, is that your piece on Renaissance and religion? The atmosphere is breath-taking, how do you pull it off so well?’

‘Come on, you must have a beautiful fan in a glass box, already handed in,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘you never leave it that late.’

‘Neither do you, usually,’ Feuilly raised a single eyebrow, ‘what happened, did inspiration avoid you? Did you offend your muse?’

A flash of dark, threatening storm clouds, blond hair and a mysterious, hidden smile before his eyes made Grantaire laugh nervously. He rubbed the back of his head absentmindedly, hearing Enjolras gasp behind him.

‘What? Is everything –‘

He saw Enjolras’ eyes focussed on his neck, heard Feuilly chuckle, and remembered the still teal-covered brush in his hand, ‘Oh boy, I haven’t, have I?’

‘Oh, you certainly have,’ Enjolras giggled, hiding his face behind his hands, ‘goodness, Grantaire, you look ridiculous!’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘if that’s how you want to be, I’ll have to ask you to leave my studio!’

‘I wanted to leave, anyway,’ Enjolras stuck his tongue out at him, ‘thank you for allowing me to be here, though. I know it must be a lot on you, at the moment.’

‘Well, I’ve just proved myself to be a prize-idiot in the last few –‘

‘Months,’ Enjolras chipped in, ‘you could have told me about the condition ages ago. I understand why you didn’t, though. Maybe, we can pick ourselves up again and see where we go from here?’

‘Yeah,’ Grantaire nodded with a careful smile, ‘I’d like that.’

For a moment, after Enjolras got up from the divan, they just started at each other. Then, Feuilly cleared his throat with a wide smile, rolling his eyes at both of them.

‘Oh, just go on and hug, you big idiots!’

Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire, squeezing him tightly and resting his chin on his shoulder for a moment. Grantaire felt his breath hitch a little, not quite sure how long he would survive to suddenly be surrounded by him. The hug, however, did not last long enough for him to settle into it comfortably and when Enjolras pulled back, Grantaire gave him a shy smile, promise enough to put in an effort in the future.

Feuilly hugged him as well, reminding him to apply with Professor Lafayette before tangling his and Enjolras’ fingers together to pull him along, already talking about the painting he had planned to put on some silk next. They left the studio together, waving and smiling back at him. The door fell shut behind them and Grantaire was once again left alone in his studio.

He contemplated what he had produced over the afternoon. The pale marble-like face of the lifeless body over the altar seemed frozen in a moment, beautiful in death, covered with a white linen cloth he had worked on a lot to get their structure right. Similarly, the mourner kneeling in front of the altar had developed into something he was proud of. Their face was hidden but the longer he looked at the slowly drying paint on the canvas, aware that he needed to add more details, the more it seemed to turn into a familiar posture.

He could say the same about the marble figure on the altar, worshipped by the loyal figure at their feet. After all the work he had put into the painting, every brush stroke he had composed into what now sat on the easel, especially after hearing Feuilly quipping about his muse, it was hard for him to deny the similarity between the idealised figure on the canvas and the giggly figure that had spent the afternoon on his divan. The details in the face and the delicate folds of the locks were enough to make out the model Grantaire had unconsciously chosen.

‘R, you bloody idiot,’ he sighed, ‘you really are going to hand in another painting of Enjolras looking like a Greek god, aren’t you?’

Chapter Text

Professor Lafayette seemed pleasantly surprised when he handed in the painting on his way to class the next morning. Grantaire had gotten Bossuet to help him carry it to the academy and towards the offices where he set it down and waited for his tutor to open the door for his morning office hours.

‘Grantaire, what a surprise.’

‘Almost as if I didn’t have to hand in a painting today,’ Grantaire lifted it off the floor and carried it into Lafayette’s office.

‘Well then, you are here with a painting for me. Did you finish the accompanying essay, too?’

‘Not yet,’ Grantaire admitted, ‘but I have a few more days on that one.’

‘I know,’ Professor Lafayette sat down behind the desk, crossing his legs, ‘so, what have you brought for me?’

Grantaire took the sheet off the painting. He stood next to the presentation easel and cleared his throat nervously as Lafayette put on his glasses.

‘Has it got a title?’

Grantaire cleared his throat, ‘The altar to pray and perish at.’

‘Hm, where would I find the divine Renaissance influence in this?’

‘Naturalistic display of the body proportions, influenced by ancient schools. The light is a study on Bellini’s art, the religious imagery of the pieta in the altar, of course, but it could just as well be the display of the ancient legends surrounding Castor and Pollux, Achilles and Patroclus, Alexander and Hephaestion, Apollo and Hyacinth, Dionysus and Ampelus, Heracles and Abderus –‘

‘Ameinias and Narcissus?’ Lafayette raised an eyebrow at him and Grantaire stopped in the middle of his torrent of words.

‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘Ameinias’ love was not requited and he ran himself through with the sword Narcissus gave him for that reason. All the others shared their feelings for each other and achieved some happiness together before disaster and death struck each of them.’

‘You did your research.’

‘I needed to, didn’t I? The essay would be dry and not very convincing, if I did not have the whole thing prepared, wouldn’t it? I think with the imagery we know out of legends and texts, the revival of ancient themes should be covered, too,’ Grantaire looked at the painting on the easel, ‘took me long enough to come up with a topic and reference image.’

‘I can see that in both your face and the painting, Grantaire,’ Lafayette gave him a smile, ‘you put a lot of thought and work into this.’

‘Professor?’

‘Yes, my boy?’

‘Would this been enough to apply for the interdisciplinary excursion?’

‘Ah, there is a meaning beyond the picture, then?’

‘I suppose so.’

Lafayette got up and rounded the desk. He put his glasses back on his nose and stepped closer to the painting. His eyes narrowed a little and he hummed as he followed single lines on the canvas with scrutinising looks. There was a small line that led from his forehead in between his eyebrows. Grantaire knew it, it appeared whenever he decided something more severe than essay marks and whether to have another bowl of the dessert of the day at the refectory. He had watched it appear over Eton mess, brownies and cinnamon buns several times before.

‘Well, lad,’ his tutor looked up smiled at him, ‘given that the assignment had a rather short run time, I think it would be acceptable. Of course, if you finished good work on that trip and got it exhibited with all the other products, it would be proof of your work ethic and talent. It should be enough to prove you deserving of the spot, in the end.’

‘Thank you, Professor Lafayette,’ Grantaire breathed a sigh of relief, ‘thank you, really.’

‘No worries. Do you have classes today?’

‘No?’ Grantaire tried to shift towards the door.

‘Bold-faced lie, I’ll see you in my tutorial after lunch,’ Lafayette shook his head and nodded for him to leave.

Grantaire grinned and darted out the door, feeling a weight lifted off his shoulders as he ran along the corridor and towards the seminar room. He managed to be only a little late and the student assistant taking the class only rolled her eyes at him.

‘Grantaire, you’re late.’

‘Deadline at Professor Lafayette’s office,’ he wheezed out and dropped his bag onto a chair next to Feuilly who smiled up at him, ‘I apologise sincerely, should I bring cake next week?’

‘No, we’ll be fine,’ she continued with her seminar introduction as if no interruption had occurred.

‘Did you hand in your painting?’ Feuilly asked a few minutes later, as one of their fellow-students gave a presentation on light and shade in the Early Modern Age.

It was nothing they had not heard before and a well-known fact that the student in question had a lot of missed classwork to make up for. They were not the only ones that had resorted to having a chat on the side, the student assistant at the desk had her phone out on the table and scrolled through something, and someone in the back row seemed to knit.

‘I did,’ Grantaire replied quietly, ‘he said he would accept it as an application.’

‘That’s good to hear, it’s going to be a Les Amis trip. I think most of the others are applying, too, and probably being sent along, as well.’

‘It would be quite the experience,’ Grantaire nodded in agreement, ‘did Lafayette tell you when we would get further information?’

‘No idea,’ Feuilly shook his head, ‘but I assume we’ll find out at the same time.’

Grantaire grinned and dug through his bag to get his sketchbook out, ‘Have you had any ideas for the Spring Awareness thing? Enjolras gave us a deadline last time, I think but I don’t remember. I was too busy trying not to faint.’

Feuilly opened his diary and thumbed through the pages, ‘We still have until next week.’

‘That’s a relief, I had no idea whatsoever.’

Feuilly watched him as he twiddled with his pencil. There was something in his eyes that made him uneasy, genuine concern mixed with something that went deeper and took hold of him immediately. Grantaire tried to dodge his gaze and hide in his sketchbook but Feuilly kept him engaged in the connection.

‘Grantaire, please,’ he urged him, taking his hand under the table, ‘you’ve been off. It feels weird and I just – I don’t want there to be any weird stuff between us and I don’t know whether it’s because of the Dean’s Award or maybe something happened after Christmas, I don’t know, I’m sorry, if anything happened –‘

‘Feuilly,’ Grantaire interrupted him quietly, ‘it’s not you. It’s nothing you’ve done, or said, or not said. I don’t think you could do anything wrong if you tried to. I have been off, that’s correct but I’m trying to get better now.’

‘What does –‘

‘I’m getting therapy. Jehan, Éponine and I are trying to get our lives back and I think it’s going to work. If I now just got to concentrate on my work and get that degree done so that I can start the inevitability of job hunts and being declined.’

He began a sketch, mapping out outlines and rounds, shaping them into a figure. Adding a nose, eyes and ears, he filled in the spaces in between the scheme and got some shade into the sketch. It was whilst drawing the hair that he realised the sketch changed into Enjolras with every line he added to it.

Grantaire cleared his throat, turned the page and stared at the empty sheet of paper in front of him. Something in his mind had reared up and thrown him off the track. For a moment, his fingers had itched with the urge to commit Enjolras to the paper in the way he had captured him in the past. It seemed disrespectful whilst Feuilly sat next to him, it had been okay with him for as long as he had been working on the painting.

The presentation ended and the student assistant sent them into the lunch break. Feuilly grabbed his belongings and dashed off with a wave.

‘I’m meeting Enjolras for lunch, have a good day, yes?’

‘I will,’ Grantaire responded, ‘see you soon.’

He took a moment longer to store all his things in his bag. With everybody else leaving, he had the room to himself and could breathe easier for a moment.

There was nothing he had to do over the lunch break, except for eating something to get him through the day. He put his earphones in and turned his music up, making his way down the stairs and out of the building. Throughout the morning, the snow on the streets and along the pavements had begun to thaw a little, small puddles had emerged and trickles flowed down the streets as he walked along them, sending brown, grainy slush flying in all directions.

Grantaire tried not to think for a few minutes, just walk and find his way along the familiar streets and past shops he had used to frequent more regularly when his mind still allowed him to stray from the shadows and constraints it placed on him. There were quite a few shops he had not entered since before his condition had worsened drastically a couple of years before. He had not had the time or patience to window-shop or step inside the shops tempting him, now that Christmas decorations had been removed from every surface. Maybe he could find a piece of decorative kitsch for the flat on his way back to the academy.

He found himself in the park, opposite from where he had sketched the moon reflecting on the water, drunk off his ass and without a clue where he would find himself within a few months. Enjolras had been there with him and they had argued, he could not remember what it had been about. In the end, he had produced one of his better paintings, despite the alcohol in his system, fogging up his awareness.

Grantaire found a bench and sat down on the backrest, feet on the seat to get an elevated position. He fumbled for his phone, opened the front camera and took a look at himself. His beanie sat over a stray curl that had advanced down onto his forehead. There were the familiar dark circles around his eyes, witnesses of a night spent working and of perpetual exhaustion. There were pale freckles on his nose that waited for the sun to grow stronger again. There were scars, too, some of which he remembered acquiring, others whose stories he had forgotten or suppressed because the pain was still there, lingering under the surface.

He resisted the urge to adjust anything about his person and snapped a photo of himself. It went straight into the file he had titled ‘Shrink Stuff’, where he kept all the selfies he took for the Log and Madame Tallien. If seriously considered and analysed, some of the pictures in the file would turn out be from before he officially started the documentation of photos but he wanted to keep a memory of what he had looked like at his worst before he had Madame Tallien, before he had his friends.

Grantaire had done what she had asked him to do, sometimes he already caught himself swiping through the photos, regarding them with internal curiosity. It had taken him a moment to resist the urge of quick-swiping them as he would do on a dating app and take the time to inspect single images closer. It was a conscious process of self-reflection and self-evaluation, something he felt he did in his work at the academy and his art but not so much in his free time and without prompting. That had changed and he had found it challenging at first.

He stopped swiping and looked at the photo on his display. It was almost two years old, he remembered. Despite the time that had passed since taking it, he still knew the circumstances and occasion, mostly, because the background showed his old room at his parents’ house. The posters on the back wall, mostly full bookshelves and dried flower crown on the wall above the nightstand were further indicators for a time when he still went home to visit his parents over breaks and holidays. He had spent the morning with his father, accompanying him to work and helping him with a shipment, carrying crates and boxes until lunch, gone to the small restaurant at the end of road where his father was a regular and eaten with him. They had talked about Grantaire’s projects, the way his tutor treated him and many little things more. His father had agreed with him on Lafayette, called him a ‘splendid chap’ and encouraged Grantaire to broaden his horizons, start using other materials than what he was used to.

He remembered having felt amazing after lunch, with his father there, one proud arm around his shoulders. Something about the whole morning had helped him build up something like confidence about the day.

He had been wrong about it, of course. When they returned home after the day, his mother had waited, ready to strike down on him with the righteous fury of the gods. There had been something about him being ungrateful but that was nothing new. She had demanded he at least pretend like he was trying to change subjects and get going on taking music lessons again, despite the fact that she pitied anyone attempting to keep time with him. If his inability to play the piano or the violin or any of the other instruments she had wasted her money and time on were not enough to add insult to injury for her, his softly shaken head had been enough.

Grantaire still remembered the absolute silence they had been in, his father trying to convince his mother to let him decide for himself, that art was a great subject, too, and their son a promising, talented student but falling silent against her raised hand. At first, it had nothing but the muzzle, the silencer on the gun that fired words at him without ever making it to the outside world. His father knew to leave the room at this point and he had done so, ducked out the door like a kicked dog with a last apologetic look back over his shoulder to his son.

It had been a special day, Grantaire remembered, his father had promised him his favourite meal, maybe ice cream after dinner, eaten from the tub on the balcony, overlooking the vast hills and forests around the village. He had not eaten his father’s stuffed zucchini since, felt sick when he smelled zucchini, wanted to throw up and gasp for fresh air in an attempt to cleanse his nose from the smell. He had lost a lot more than a favourite food on that evening as his mother’s hand, raised to keep him from talking back at her, came down, striking him across the face, snapping his head to the side.

She had looked at him with disgust and he had realised his first reaction was to start crying. She did not appreciate him being a cry baby, not when he had been a child with problems hardly worth crying about, and certainly not after he had reached adulthood. The tears ha stained his face and she had been unable to look at him.

Her words were still with him, ‘Look at what you made me do! How could you?’

Grantaire tried to imagine himself telling her she was wrong and that he was not at fault for her ill temper and what could have been treated as domestic violence or physical abuse. He tried to imagine himself telling her all the ways she had been wrong about him from the start and add to it by explaining to her that he was himself and that he did not want to be any other way. She would not understand but he would have told her.

Instead, he had apologised to her, still crying, tears just running down his cheeks, dropping to the ground. He had turned around and gone to his room, closed the door behind himself and dropped onto this bed. For a moment, the pillow had been cool against his cheek but he had still felt the skin pulse warm and strained.

The photo had been a reminder, even back then. He had taken it, stretched out on his bed, not meeting the camera with his eyes, gaze cast down, showing the red cheek more than anything.

When Madame Tallien asked him to start documenting photos of himself, this one had been the first to be sorted into the new file. It was a reminder of a truly low point in his mental health history, and his family as well. He had not returned to visit his parents since that evening.

‘Grantaire? What are you doing here, it’s cold, you’re going to freeze,’ someone tore him out of his thoughts, calling out his name.

‘Same goes for you, Jehan, what on Earth are you wearing? That can’t be weather-appropriate,’ he called back, ‘does Bahorel know you’re out here looking like that because I suspect he would wrap you into a bear hug and not let go before he got you into bed and under some very warm blankets.’

Jehan sat down next to him. Their hands were wrapped around their coffee cup but Grantaire doubted the thermal mug engraved with Bahorel and their initials gave off a lot of warmth, going by the blue tinge to their fingers. They wore their usual flower-printed and flowing clothes, a simple bomber jacket over a very thin, almost transparent-looking shirt and jeans that left their ankles bare. Grantaire tried to spot any sign of warming clothes but his hopes died down before he could get them up.

Jehan sat in the freezing cold without a coat and with nothing but a decidedly pretty but insufficient binder and lengths of filigree necklaces under their shirt. Grantaire sighed and shrugged off his coat. The thick woollen jumper he wore underneath would keep him warm a little longer than Jehan’s clothes ever would. He put it around their shoulders, noting with satisfaction how they drowned in the coat that was a few sizes too big for them.

They pulled it tight around themselves. Grantaire took it as sign enough that they somewhat appreciated the warmth now spreading around them in what looked like a tent around their narrow shoulders. Something about them was off but Grantaire did not want to pry. If there was something on their mind, Jehan would tell him.

Still, it felt like something should be said.

‘How much time before afternoon classes start?’

‘An hour,’ Jehan answered, a soft sigh on the cold air.

‘Still?’

‘When did you come here?’

‘Immediately after the last class ended.’

Jehan did not respond. Grantaire looked to the side, making sure they were still with him. They were known to fall asleep in the cold.

‘Did you know about Feuilly and Enjolras?’

They flinched, ‘No. I didn’t, at least not when you were still in hospital. No one knew until we came back after the Christmas break and something had changed between them when we had the first Amis-meeting.’

‘Something changed?’

‘This is Les Amis-gossip,’ they continued as if they had not heard him, ‘which means it all comes from Courfeyrac. You really ought to talk to him, if you want to know. I’m sure Enjolras would tell you, too, if you asked. Seemed like the two of you had a talk?’

‘We did,’ Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose, ‘Jehan please, I wasn’t there for it and Courf doesn’t know the details, he doesn’t know that –‘

‘That you love Enjolras,’ Jehan nodded, ‘I understand. Does it hurt a lot?’

‘Like a bitch,’ Grantaire admitted, for the first time, out loud, ‘but they both seem happy. I know I hurt Enjolras, after Christmas. Feuilly is amazing, he is caring, sweet, and supportive. I can’t be the person Enjolras needs so I guess I have accepted it now.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ Jehan whispered, ‘relationships aren’t supposed to work in a fixed state and to the best imaginable outcome. If a partner in a relationship has a rough time, it’s still a team effort, not your own sole responsibility to get better just to please your partner. If we all did that, we’d break up every few weeks and get back together after a few days. No, relationships are a team effort.’

Grantaire waited for them to finish their short rant, ‘Anyway. They work well together. I’m sure I’ll learn to see Enjolras as a friend again without thinking of what I could have had if I had not been an idiot.’

‘Hey, no self-deprecation. I’m sure your therapist would agree,’ Jehan nudged him in the side, cushioned by the thick coat still wrapped around them, ‘Enjolras called Feuilly after you left, as far as Courf knows. Feuilly drove down there and spent the rest of the break with Enjolras. When they came back, Enjolras kind of slept at Feuilly’s because Courfeyrac and Combeferre wanted the flat to themselves. It’s because of that Courf now pretends like he set them up but that’s rubbish. Yes, it came out of the blue but Bahorel and I believe it to be genuine affection. Probably not love, yet but who falls in love after a couple of weeks? Even you took months.’

‘Even I?’

‘You know what I mean,’ Jehan cut him off with a wave, ‘it’s not there, I wouldn’t think it was genuine if they went around being all lovey-dovey and kissing each other in every free minute. They are both rather private people, rallies and protests not counting.’

Grantaire chuckled. It seemed what Jehan had wanted to achieve, they leaned back against the bench and sighed.

‘You know you can always talk to me about Enjolras, right?’

‘Thank you,’ Grantaire put an arm around them, ‘you’re a good friend. I should paint something for you some time soon. That kitchen wall of yours needs more random things stuck to it.’

‘Definitely,’ Jehan rested their head on Grantaire’s thigh, ‘you want to know something cool?’

‘Always.’

‘You are out here, on a park bench where we had quite a few moments in the past after which you came away with a headache and hungover, you were here by yourself and you didn’t drink or smoke or anything else.’

‘I never smoked.’

‘You get my point.’

‘Yes.’

‘After all, you are making progress.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m proud of you.’

‘Thank you. I’m proud of you, too.’

‘Why?’

Grantaire placed a hand on Jehan’s soft hair, ‘We are taking steps to take care of our demons, aren’t we? We are getting our lives back together and without you, I wouldn’t even have thought about doing anything towards that goal.’

‘Are we though?’ Jehan’s voice was small and quiet, not much louder than a pebble skipping along and down the path on the other side of the still snow-covered grass, towards the pond where crows gathered to fly off to somewhere in the town centre where more crumbs were bound to fall.

‘What do you mean?’ Grantaire asked, feeling as if he was about to uncover what had been on his friend’s mind all the while as they sat and talked and took his mind off the things he had been preoccupied with.

‘Do you ever wonder whether it’s worth the trouble? Or what happens, if the judge says ‘oh well, you have presented me with this evidence but why are you here, shouldn’t you be amazed that someone as famous as Montparnasse wanted a reminder of you so much he took creepy pictures of you whilst you slept’? What happens, if they drop the case? Montparnasse will find out soon and despite the police knowing about the photos, they will have to seize all copies he has of them, I don’t know whether he’s the type to copy them and I have been thinking about it for some time. I know it would affect Éponine the most, if those pictures came out but even you and I have some stake in this.’

Grantaire let his fingers glide through their hair. They had not yet finished everything they wanted to get out of their system and he decided to give them time enough to work through it. Jehan looked up and met his eyes.

‘Bahorel and I hit a rocky patch over this.’

‘How so?’ He managed to keep his voice even, calm, and continued to stroke their hair.

‘It has triggered something, woke up old memories, things I no longer thought of as a problem or traumatic, you know? There was a time, between Montparnasse and Bahorel when I would shower up to ten times a day, scrub my skin red and raw and cry even more. I also wrote a lot of poems back then, all either furious, sad or longing for something more than being used and cast aside. You know I told you Bahorel found me sitting in a café, sleep-depraved and starved? It was that bad. He offered to call an ambulance and stayed by my side when they admitted me into hospital. He was only supposed to be there for distraction, I had downloaded an app to find just about anyone who wasn’t Montparnasse, Bahorel just happened to be the first match. Yes, we met on the internet, rather than in a really cliché, romantic way,’ Jehan admitted, sounding bitter for a moment, ‘he took care of me without ever really knowing me and made sure I was fine, even in hospital. He literally saved me and could not be any more different from Montparnasse and still –‘

They stopped, burying their face in Grantaire’s leg, ‘He put so much effort into it. I made it so much worse.’

‘No judging yourself,’ Grantaire said softly, ‘what happened, you mentioned a rocky moment?’

‘Bahorel it the sweetest, most romantic soul,’ Jehan sighed, ‘yes, he looks like he just left a smithy and sometimes, that is correct but he is the softest, squishiest –‘

‘You are getting distracted, my dear,’ Grantaire dropped a kiss to their hair.

‘Sorry,’ Jehan sighed again, sounding strained and exhausted, their eyes fluttered shut and Grantaire, unable to tell whether they enjoyed his hands in their hair or tried to avoid his eyes even more, continued his work.

‘Bahorel had planned a really sweet evening. Dinner, movie on the couch, a massage. I mean, we have a healthy relationship, after all. Healthy sex life, too. We do lots of stuff that leads to us sleeping together. I can tell when Bahorel is tense and needs to be – you get the picture.’

Grantaire nodded.

‘He wanted to sleep with me, a few days ago, for the first time after we decided to start the process against Montparnasse. It was all normal, you know and I was happy with it. Bahorel is really good in bed, I’m sure he’s bragged about it to everyone we know after I told him once.’

‘He has,’ Grantaire confirmed, wincing at the memory of boxing sessions spent comparing sexual exploits of which Bahorel had had more and more colourful ones, too, whilst Grantaire had tried to ignore that he was talking about his best friend, ‘something happened?’

‘I couldn’t,’ a breath left Jehan’s lungs deep enough to make them shudder, ‘I wanted to, I really did, he makes me feel great and, honestly, the things he does – but I couldn’t even let him touch me, couldn’t let him kiss me, I don’t know. All of a sudden, I was on the other end of the bed, out of the bedroom, in the living room, locked myself in the bathroom, and started to cry. Bahorel talked to me through the locked door until I could hear his voice, his actual voice. I sent him to bed and he went. I didn’t unlock the door until after I could hear him snore, went into the living room and slept on the couch. In the morning, everything was great, I woke him up with breakfast and a kiss and we went to classes.’

They fumbled with the collar of Grantaire’s coat, ‘He’s changed. Stopped touching me, and I want him to but I think he doesn’t dare to because he doesn’t want me to think he’s Montparnasse again. We talk less, spent less time together and have arguments. That’s not unusual, of course, everybody argues sometimes, but it’s things we never argued about before. Little things, stuff that’s not big enough for an argument. Within days, I think, I ruined my relationship because I couldn’t sleep with Bahorel without thinking about Montparnasse and the way he was with me, and after.’

The new silence was heavy between them. Grantaire had no idea what he could possibly say to reassure them that Bahorel loved them more than anything, that no passing low point could get between them. He had always regarded Bahorel and Jehan as the strongest couple he knew, they were more like a family already than any of his other friends in relationships, they were affectionate towards each other, built each other up and supported their partner’s ambitions and dreams just as much as they followed their own.

He felt Jehan hold on tightly to the hem of his trousers. His hand slipped out of their hair and patted their shoulders as well until he remembered just how thick the coat was his friend still hid underneath. Carefully, he moved their head off his thigh, holding it up as he slid off the backrest. He placed their head in his lap once he sat on the bench the way the town council had planned it to be used and bent over his friend, snaking his arms around them.

Jehan tensed for the fracture of a second before completely relaxing into Grantaire’s arms. They had opened their eyes again after their confession and the way Grantaire shuffled beneath them.

‘What, if I’m broken?’ Their whispered question was barely audible and Grantaire thought it possible he would have missed it if he had not moved, ‘What, if I can’t love Bahorel like before?’

‘Jehan,’ Grantaire said in his softest voice, and when they did not react, ‘Jean Prouvaire!’

They perked up a little bit, folding their hands. Grantaire took them in his, they were still cold but his were warm and he rubbed them together for a moment as he tried to come up with words that would calm and soothe them enough to see the situation more clearly. He was not the best speaker when it came to matters of the heart or issues that needed solving, which was why he had Jehan or Joly around. For his friends, however, he would try and stumble through his words.

‘Jehan, there is no way that Bahorel would think less of you. What you went through was horrible and should never happen to anyone. You are the sweetest, most darling person I know, close enough to my heart that I could not imagine seeing you truly heartbroken. If that is the case for me alone, I don’t want to imagine Bahorel feeling your heartbreak and doubt. Of course, it’s human to feel and to feel bad about things; if you did not feel you would not be able to cope or find a way out of certain situations, merely a robot, no longer the warm and caring friend I know and love. And Bahorel loves you, too. You might hit a rough patch, a dry spell, if you wish but at the end of the day, it’s you and Baz. He loves you and fulfils your every wish without prompting. Yes, he can be loud and demanding, sometimes, the only reason to his stubbornness and pig-headedness would be a good punch but it is within those traits that he is the best version of himself. He is stubborn enough to sit outside your bathroom, your refuge, making sure you’re not alone in a moment of need. He decided not to leave you there, crying, alone, desperate and distraught, but made sure you had stopped crying, were breathing regularly and probably went to sleep sooner than usual to allow you to come out of the bathroom. Bahorel cares about you, even if something strains your relationship. It’s only normal to try and defend yourself, you are doing it by telling him about your boundaries, even if those were new and surprised you. I think he defends himself, too, against disappointment, maybe, or against the pain he feels when he sees you suffer.’

Grantaire pressed another soft kiss to Jehan’s hair, ‘He loves you a lot. I know that because I’m the one that gets to listen to his lovesick rants in between rounds at the gym. Jehan here, Jehan there, Jehan wrote me a love poem, let me recite it to you as I pommel you into the mat. Believe me, love, he is yours with body, soul and heart. He would wait a thousand years for you, if that was the time you needed. One tip, though.’

Jehan turned in his lap, eyes meeting his expectantly. Grantaire grinned and raised his eyebrows.

‘Communication, dear. It’s all so much easier when you talk about your problems. I recently found out that none of my friends are mind readers and ever since I have myself stay true to a promise I gave myself. I talk about my problems, with my therapist, first and foremost, but I also share a few more details with those who are close to me and who I trust. I found out that it actually helps to solve tricky situations, especially the daunting ones. Now, Bahorel already is your boyfriend and would protest strongly against a demotion. Go, find him tonight, tell him about the way you felt when he tried to initiate – well, I don’t want to say it, it’s like talking about my parents’ sex life. Tell him with what you struggle, what reminded you of the other situation. He will understand. If you don’t want him to treat you any different, tell him. If there is anything he could do to make you feel better, tell him. It might not be better overnight but you’ll be in it together and for each other. I think you’ll find that was part of what you told me earlier.’

Grantaire made no effort to try and hide the smirk on his face. Jehan sat up a little, leaning their head on his shoulder.

‘Thank you,’ they whispered, ‘thank you, Grantaire, for being here for me.’

‘Always,’ he wrapped his arm around their shoulder, ‘we should probably head back soon, if you want to make it to your Poetic Speech class and Lafayette would have my head, if I missed his first tutorial after applying for the interdisciplinary trip with the assignment I handed in very last minute this morning.’

Jehan chuckled softly, ‘You are chaos impersonated, R, truly, someone should write about it.’

‘Yeah,’ Grantaire said with a squeeze to their shoulder, pressing them into his side, ‘someone should.’

Chapter Text

‘Did you finish all the kennels?’

Grantaire looked up from the hamster cage he was cleaning out whilst the hamsters were in a different compartment, designed to let them rest or play without needing to come back to the part he tried to freshen up for them. He stood bent over it, jumper sleeves rolled up over his elbows, dust in his hair and hands full of fresh litter he wanted to distribute in the cage. Muriel leaned in the door, her eyes watching him, taking in the work he had done. He wiped over his face with a forearm and checked the grille before stretching his back out for a moment.

‘I have,’ he replied, ‘the pug in seven needs to see Dominique, I think. He limped a little when I let him into the playroom.’

‘She is in today,’ Muriel went through the rota on her phone, ‘vet on duty, along with Angelique. I’ll take him to see her in a moment. How were the kennels, any weird behaviour I need to know about before writing out new introductions for our darlings?’

Grantaire returned to the task at hand, spreading litter around the cage, whilst he thought, ‘Number Five seemed agitated, Twelve barked at me and Nine had a bit of a rough moment. Adonis calmed her down, though.’

‘Bless that cat of yours,’ Muriel sighed, ‘I’m still not sure he’s not some sort of cat god, the way he just gets along with all of the animals is remarkable.’

‘Maybe it’s just his upbringing,’ Grantaire pondered, a grin on his lips, ‘and he just grows up knowing that he is loved and that he should love everybody, too.’

‘A wonderful theory,’ Muriel turned away, regarding him over her shoulder for a moment, ‘only he lives with you.’

‘Hey, I love everybody!’ Grantaire shook his head in playful disbelief as she disappeared towards the office.

‘You love everybody? You must have your hands quite full, then, will you have the prerequisites for playroom duty later on?’ Angelique appeared in the door, a grin spreading over her face.

Grantaire stepped away from the hamster cage and opened his arms in an offer for a hug, ‘Never too busy to play with a few cats and dogs. That’s half of why I’m here.’

‘What’s the other half?’

‘Getting to hang out with my favourite vet student,’ Grantaire grinned and lifted her up in a bear hug, ‘we haven’t been here together since New Year’s!’

‘I’m sure Muriel tried to save herself from our shenanigans,’ Angelique agreed, ‘we’re getting on like a house on fire! Are you here regularly, now?’

‘I try to be,’ Grantaire set her down, shrugged and opened up the entire cage for the hamsters, ‘I still have my classes and work at the museum.’

‘Right, I meant to take a look around there, can you believe I’ve never set a foot in there, despite the free entry? Perks of being a student, I would have seen you there probably, wouldn’t I?’

‘Likely. How have you been since New Year’s?’

‘I just finished my exams for this term, have another clinical internship coming up and I’m still waiting to hear from the university about doing it here. Dominique is all for it, I would love to but working with the machinery of bureaucracy is like tilting at windmills. They insist the shelter doesn’t count as a clinic.’

‘That’s rubbish,’ Grantaire gathered his cleaning supplies and made for the door, ‘everybody knows Dominique runs an independent clinic in here, people come here from all over town to take their pets to the vet, it’s not just the shelter animals.’

‘Yes, everybody knows. Doesn’t mean the university agrees with it.’

‘It’s just like my roommates,’ he locked the supply cupboard once everything was back in place, ‘I was only supposed to have on but Bossuet’s just too clumsy to live by himself so we got him to stay with us. The academy knows but instead of getting Joly and Bossuet their own flat or re-assigning me to somewhere else, they send us reminders once per term that only two students must live in the flat permanently. Everybody knows about the situation, Bossuet’s tutor even got involved and we have tried to get them their own flat or all of us into a three people accommodation but apparently, the academy fares well by letting us stay there, sending passive-aggressive notes about the renting arrangements. They won’t kick us out because we are actually dealing with everything and one of our friends is dating the dean’s daughter but apparently, he has no say in the matter.’

‘Bureaucracy sucks,’ Angelique crossed her arms over her chest and sighed audibly.

Grantaire nodded and took the basket of toys off the shelf in passing as they made their way towards the playroom. The excited barking of several dogs, mixed with a few yelps and thuds welcomed them. A few cats were climbing onto the windowsills, only to jump to the ground again, spooking the dogs close-by. It did not take much to make them jump as it was, some of the dogs had went through trauma enough to make them shiver at the sight of movement, after all. Still, Muriel insisted that being with other animals helped them overcome this fear and made it possible for them to be re-socialised.

He tried to spot his cat in the lively mix of cats and dogs. Adonis had become a feature of his trips to the shelter, enjoying the time with other cats as much as they enjoyed him to be there as a playmate. Muriel had noted his patience with even the scared animals on several occasions and Grantaire was relieved he could leave him to play with the others whilst he took care of whatever required his attention.

There was one place Adonis could always turn to if he got too much of the playing and play fighting, despite his own young age. He returned to the side of the deaf lady he had befriended on New Year’s Eve, whether it was in a quieter corner of the playroom or her kennel. Grantaire had taken note of the way the two seemed to have developed their own language or understanding over a short time and it made him happy to see his cat stand between his friend and any other cat or dog that dared to come too close.

When they entered the playroom and closed the gate behind themselves, they easily spotted Adonis resting next to his friend, curled up against her side. His head was propped up on her front paw and both seemed to sleep, every so often twitching with a sensation unprompted by their surroundings.

‘She has another potential adoption coming up,’ Angelique said quietly, ‘Muriel decided she would try again, after all, she’s not too old just needs a lot of understanding and love. Hopefully this time it’ll be the right place for her.’

‘Do you know how far the process is?’

‘They came to see her once before, Muriel had the talk with them and they took her out for a walk. So far, she hasn’t had one of her panic attacks whilst they were here. It’s a couple, he got on with her very well, she is a bit more reserved but maybe that’s exactly what’ll help our lady here to come and accept her as part of the pack.’

‘Maybe,’ Grantaire tore his gaze off them to get a few toys out and coax those who were not playing and moving into getting a bit of exercise, ‘I hope she’ll find a place where she’s loved and cherished. She deserves it.’

‘Adonis will miss her.’

‘He’ll understand, or find another friend around here,’ Grantaire threw a ball for one of the dogs to fetch, ‘anyway, he’s not only here for her when I bring him along. Anyone in need of a friend seems to turn to Adonis.’

‘Muriel should name him volunteer of the month,’ Angelique joked, letting a cat toy drag over the floor behind her, attracting the attention of three cats that jumped at the opportunity to distract themselves without having to climb onto the windowsill anymore.

‘Sure, because he sits himself down in his transport box, takes the bus and lets himself out again all by himself,’ Grantaire rolled his eyes at her and squeezed another toy to have it make a sound before throwing it for another dog to fetch.

‘He’s a cat of many talents.’

‘If you’re quite finished bickering,’ Muriel called from the door, ‘Grantaire, I just got the call, the couple interested in Number Nine is coming by this evening before we close. Can you give her a thorough wash and make her look presentable?’

Grantaire threw her a salute and gave Angelique and apologetic look. He made his way over to Adonis and his lady friend from kennel number nine. As long as the animals were not yet adopted, the shelter was reluctant to assign names to them. Of course, some of them had been place in their care with all documents attached but some of them, the rescues off the street, were not trained to listen to a name and the new owners would get to choose one. Until that moment, the kennel number was the primary identification they went with.

‘Adonis,’ he beckoned, ‘mind waking her up for me?’

He sat down carefully, a few feet away from the sleeping animals. His tomcat opened his eyes at the sound of his voice and the rustling of his clothes as he slid into a comfortable seat on the ground.

‘Go on, wake her up, hm? We’ll give her a bath to make her pretty for her new family.’

Adonis stood up, yawned and stretched his limbs. He looked at Grantaire with slight annoyance in his eyes, as if he wanted to tell him he did not approve of either waking his friend up or the subsequent bath.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t bathe you,’ Grantaire chuckled, ‘I’m not that stupid. Or suicidal, for that matter. Just wake her up for me, okay?’

With the repeated beckoning, Adonis began to purr softly, pressing his body against the dog. He nudged her with his nose, burying his head in the long fur of her throat, rubbing himself against her. The gradual increase in contact and sensory stimulus made her wake up eventually, blinking her eyes open to see Adonis next to her where he had been when she fell asleep.

Grantaire shifted a little and began to tap his fingers on the ground. The reverberations caught her attention and she looked over to where he sat, legs crossed, still tapping to show her that he had been the source of the soft knocks against her body on the ground.

She got up carefully, shaking herself to get rid of the sleepiness in her bones. Grantaire held his hand out in a request to join him. Slowly, she began to move, coming closer to him in her own time, Adonis by her side.

‘Good girl,’ Grantaire whispered, not moving otherwise, ‘you’re doing well, waking up without spooking at the sight of things moving. Well done coming here, too.’

She reached him and rested her head on his knee. He met her in the touch, rubbing circles into the fur on her neck, testing the area around the ears where she was more sensitive but she seemed content in the way he allowed her to get comfortable around him again. It was a game they played every time he visited the shelter since he could not call out for her and did not want to overwhelm her with his sudden presence in her space.

‘We are going to give you a bath and make you more presentable to the people who are interested in taking you in,’ he explained, despite knowing she was not able to hear him, ‘not that you need it, you are beautiful as you are.’

He brought his second hand to carefully rub her muzzle before getting up slowly. She tilted her head a little, watching his every move. Grantaire patted his thigh on the side, indicating her to follow him. Adonis jumped off the ground, clawed at his jumper and climbed onto his shoulders, sinking his claws into the cloth and a little bit into his skin before finding a position around his neck where he stayed.

Grantaire led the way to the small shower room where he helped the dog climb into the basin. He missed the way Muriel looked after him as he walked past the office, his cat around his neck, the dog following him without hesitation, eyes trained on him.

***

He was soaked from head to toe when he left the shelter after he finished bathing Adonis’ special friend. His cat had insisted on staying on his shoulders during the whole undertaking but had not agreed with spray water hitting him once Grantaire had really started to wash soap out of the dog’s fur which she had enjoyed tremendously to the point where she splashed around in the basin. He had started to claw and scrambled to get off his shoulders, leaving Grantaire with scratch marks around his neck and throat. A moment later, Adonis had darted out of the room, leaving Grantaire wincing at the feeling of scratches against the collar of his jumper.

Muriel had only been able to offer him a small hand towel to dry himself off after the dog in the basin had decided to cool him off once Adonis had disappeared. She liked her baths, as much was known to the volunteers at the shelter but so far, Grantaire had escaped the wet spray she shook off every so often. He had finished up quickly and returned her to the kennel after a thorough brushing.

The journey home proved to be little better since he took the bus with Adonis in his transport box, who probably still did not trust him not to be doused with water again. Grantaire had received a few strange looks directed at him for the way he looked but took it all with a smile, knowing he had once again helped Muriel to better the lives of her charges.

When he got off the bus and walked the remaining distance to the academy buildings, he still felt ready for a warm shower and some dinner before curling up in bed with his laptop and the movie he had started the night before. Adonis meowed and protested about still being in his transport box but Grantaire wanted to stop by the studio to pick up a sketch he had been working on.

‘Be quiet,’ he said into the vastness of the room and Adonis actually fell silent for a moment, ‘I am literally only grabbing this sheet of paper and one pencil that is not yet broken.’

He returned to the box he had set on the divan, waving the sketch in front of the lattice. There was only a small response from Adonis, nothing more than a quiet huff as he picked up the transport box and left his studio again. There was a little ruckus in the box as he reached the last landing, as if Adonis knew exactly how close they were to home. He probably did.

‘I’m home,’ he yelled into the flat, ‘releasing the beast, now.’

He opened the transport box, Adonis shot out of it and disappeared into the living room. Grantaire took his coat off and toed his shoes off in the hallway, stored the transport box away and followed his cat. Adonis had already found his food bowl and gnawed on his dinner. The faint smell of something tasty still hung in the kitchen.

‘Did you have dinner?’ Grantaire rounded the corner, grabbing a towel from the bathroom in passing.

‘Yes, there’s some left, though, Chetta made a broccoli bake,’ Joly smiled up at him out of the nest he sat in, mostly made up of Bossuet and Musichetta wo were wrapped around him, ‘how was your day?’

‘The classes were boring.’

‘I don’t think he meant the classes,’ Musichetta smiled, ‘do you have any pet photos? New ones?’

‘No, sorry,’ Grantaire sat down in an armchair, rubbing at his hair, ‘too busy getting drenched whilst bathing a deaf mutt. Unfortunately, I did not take photos or videos of the scene.’

‘Aw,’ Musichetta pouted at him, ‘I would pay good money for material of that.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes, ‘Yeah, I bet. You would sell those videos just to embarrass me.’

His phone buzzed with a new message. He ignored Bossuet’s raised eyebrows and unlocked the display to a message from Jehan. It only read ‘HELP’ and Grantaire sighed, ruffled his hair with the towel and gave them a call back.

He could see Joly shake his head with a smile as he lifted his phone to his ear, ‘Jehan?’

‘It’s Grantaire, I have to take this, be back in a minute, honey,’ he heard them say into another direction, away from the phone and then, quieter, ‘R, thank you.’

‘Oh, Jehan, you have to come over, it is an emergency,’ Grantaire sighed into the phone unenthusiastically, ‘why am I doing the first date-rescue manoeuvre?’

‘I’ll be a minute,’ Jehan hung up.

‘Fuck,’ Grantaire scratched his neck, ‘I think Jehan is going to come over now. They might be running away from a talk they should have with Baz.’

‘Anything we can help with?’ Bossuet looked at him expectantly, ‘you must know what is going on, if they are calling you.’

A knock on the door prevented Grantaire from saying anything. He got up and crossed the room, opened the door and stepped to the side. Jehan threw themselves into his arms, burying their face in the crook of his neck.

‘I’m sorry,’ they whispered, ‘Bahorel wanted to watch a movie and hugged me really tight – and I panicked. He doesn’t deserve that, I’m an idiot, what am I doing?’

‘I can see that,’ Grantaire breathed in and stroked their hair, ‘come in, I might have an idea who to allow the two of you some downtime without you freaking out about it.’

He closed the door behind them and led them into the living room. Jehan sat down and Grantaire pulled his phone out. One text later, he turned towards the kitchen.

Joly, Jehan and Bossuet watched him for a moment, then, they reached for their own phones that had made sounds. Joly was the first to react to what he read, ‘R, why did you invite to a movie night at our flat?’

‘Because Jehan is running away from their problems,’ Grantaire opened the cupboard to take an inventory of their snacks, ‘and I think it would probably help if there were more people around, at the moment.’

‘Do you really think – oh, there was a reply,’ Bossuet unlocked his phone and read the new messages in the group chat, ‘Courf and Ferre are in. They offered to bring gummy bears.’

‘Bahorel, too,’ Jehan whispered, ‘R, are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ he got glasses and plates out of the cupboard, ‘we are here for you, I’ll always be here for you but you’re not being honest to Bahorel. He deserves the truth, especially since you two are just perfect together and it would break my heart to see you drift apart gradually.’

‘You’re not forcing us to talk?’

‘I’m trying to give you an atmosphere that might make you feel more comfortable. If you decide to talk to Bahorel tonight, I will support you, every step of the way, you know that.’

‘That’s Marius and Cosette, they’ll come by later on the way back from the dean’s house. Dinner with Valjean, again,’ Bossuet chipped in, ‘Jehan, I have no idea what happened but if you don’t want to be alone with Bahorel at the moment, but don’t feel like you should isolate yourself, a movie night isn’t the worst idea.’

‘See?’ Grantaire hugged Jehan quickly, pressing his face into their hair, ‘we’ll have a nice evening together and you get to enjoy some friendly faces. You call the shots, here. Bahorel will be here, you are here, I am here but you decide. In the end, this is about you feeling comfortable around people, around a man who loves you very much and will understand.’

‘Thank you,’ Jehan whispered into his ear, ‘I’m sorry I used you as a cover. Again.’

‘That was part of the deal when we made it,’ Grantaire assured them, ‘I just didn’t know I would end up getting you out of a date with your long term partner who I know you love a lot more than you allow yourself to realise right now.’

There was another knock on the door. Grantaire got up and walked towards the hallway, patting Bossuet on the shoulder in passing.

‘Welcome to the den of misfits, leave your soul at the threshold, nothing can save you now that you’ve come here,’ he opened the door and grinned at the new arrivals.

‘I’m sure I pawned it off for some sort of deal with the devil to gain a political goal but I can try to leave you with some kind of payment like an ancient ferryman for the dead.’

‘Enjolras,’ Grantaire breathed and let his hand fall off the door handle, ‘you’re here?’

‘Well, you posted in the group chat and we had an evening off, Ferre said they would come over, and we brought crisps!’ Enjolras held his hand out, a grin splitting his face, and handed Grantaire a few bags of crisps and snacks, ‘I hope it’s okay, we didn’t send a message.’

‘Yeah, of course,’ Grantaire opened the door even more when he saw Combeferre, Bahorel and Feuilly arrive behind Enjolras who still stood in front of him, now without the bags of crisps and his smile a little off as he awaited Grantaire’s answer, ‘come in, everybody, we’ll discuss the matter of actually finding a movie in a moment or two.’

‘Courf’s coming later, he insisted on getting more crisps,’ Combeferre shook his hand before entering and taking his shoes off, hopping on one foot in the hallway for a moment, ‘as if Enjolras’ secret stash hadn’t been enough.’

‘This is your stash?’ Grantaire gawked at Enjolras whose cheeks turned a little pink, ‘Wow, that’s a lot.’

Enjolras sputtered something about stress-eating but Combeferre only patted his shoulder in passing before dragging him along, deeper into the flat. Bahorel stopped in front of him, a worried look on his face.

‘Is everything okay? You called Jehan.’

‘Yes, just had a minor issue. It’s resolved for now, they are in the living room,’ Grantaire felt uneasy about lying to his friend but Jehan deserved to talk to their partner themselves, without him meddling beforehand.

‘Thank you,’ Bahorel squeezed his shoulder and disappeared as well.

‘Is that all of us?’ Feuilly caught a packet of crisps that slipped out of Grantaire’s grasp, ‘Except for Courfeyrac, that is?’

‘I think so. Do you want to join the others in finding a movie for tonight? I need to take care of this,’ he motioned to the bags in his arms.

Feuilly squeezed past him with a comforting smile. Grantaire took a moment to breathe before he felt like he had collected himself enough to actually prepare the night’s snacks in the kitchen. Bossuet and Joly kept enough drinks in the fridge at any time to allow for a comfortable evening with their friends and he himself had taken to filling available space with soft drinks in order to tame the need to fill empty slots with bottles of whatever cheap booze he walked past when they got groceries.

He could hear the beginnings of an argument from the living room but could not distinguish which movies were up for debate. Joly had left his breakfast tray in the kitchen which came in handy once he began to fill several bowls for all of them. It would be a tight squeeze on their sofa, anyway, no need to make it worse by only having one bowl crisps to go around for everybody.

When Grantaire joined his friends in the living room, he barely held in a sigh. Bossuet and Bahorel seemed to wrestle over an armchair whilst Joly, Musichetta and Jehan watched, sitting on the sofa with enough space between them for either of the wrestlers to sit between them. Combeferre had secured one of the armchairs and seemed slightly dishevelled, probably a result of Enjolras climbing over his lap to sprawl out over both armrests. He hung upside-down and grinned at Combeferre who tried to hold him in place, lest his heels stop digging in his thigh. Between all this, Feuilly stood in front of the TV, three DVDs in his hands and close to a nervous meltdown, as it seemed.

‘I know this is a hard decision because R has all these weird, nerdy movies but there must be one we can agree on,’ he sighed, letting his hands fall to his sides, ‘we have ruled out the major movie companies and there is not much else to go from now, Enjolras.’

Enjolras perked up as his name was called but he remained in Combeferre’s lap, blinking at his boyfriend, ‘What did you say the possibilities were?’

Feuilly sighed and looked back at the DVD cases, ‘Third Star, Amélie or you could, I don’t know, have a look through yourself? R really has enough movies to choose from, why am I reading single titles out to you? I think he even has those animated ones that you like so much. Also plenty of Disney but you ruled out –‘

‘They are a leeching, devouring machinery of capitalistic greed and ruin smaller companies until they can buy them into their monopoly,’ Enjolras pushed himself off the armchair, making Combeferre wince slightly in the process.’

‘Might be,’ Grantaire stepped forward and set down the tray, ‘but the movies are good. You watched several of them with Gavroche and me without complaining one second.’

Enjolras huffed out a breath but allowed Feuilly to direct his gaze towards Grantaire’s movie collection on the wall behind the TV. For a moment, he scanned the backs of the shiny cases that had accumulated over time, then, he seemed to light up as he reached out for one boxset Grantaire was especially proud of.

‘You have the Studio Ghibli movies?’

‘I do,’ Grantaire looked up from the bowls of crisps, ‘why, are they a movie-making, soul sucking kraken as well?’

‘No,’ Enjolras’ face lit up in a smile, ‘they are brilliant. Have you got Howl’s Moving Castle?’

‘What sort of question is that?’ Grantaire grinned and pointed past Enjolras’ head, ‘that’s my favourite movie.’

His response got a small sound from Enjolras, as if he tried to hold in something bigger. Grantaire watched as his fingers slipped along the DVDs until he found the movie in question and held it up for everybody to see.

‘All in favour?’

By the time the movie had been started and even Enjolras managed to sit down on his own backside, Grantaire had almost forgotten what had prompted the spontaneous gathering. It was only when he met Jehan’s eyes over a bowl of sour worms that he remembered. They mouthed a ‘Thank you’ and grabbed a handful of sweets to share with their boyfriend.

Grantaire found himself watching his friends just as much as the movie which he could recite in his sleep. Enjolras, it seemed, moved his lips in time with the dialogue just as Grantaire would have done, if not for the interesting display on the other side of the TV screen. Jehan and Bahorel had claimed the armchair for themselves whilst Bossuet had moved onto the sofa with Joly and Musichetta. Combeferre now had the armchair for himself and seemed to enjoy every moment since it was nothing more than a matter of time until Courfeyrac would join them.

On the screen, Sophie met the scarecrow. Enjolras giggled into Feuilly’s arm over his chest and Grantaire felt a smile return to his expression as he looked back to the TV where one of his favourite scenes began to develop. More on reflex than anything else, he began to whisper the dialogue as it unfolded.

Feuilly snorted, loud enough to make them all look away and to him. Immediately, he blushed, cheeks turning pink under the sudden attention that was on him.

‘What’s the matter?’ Jehan leaned forward to hand Bahorel more sour worms, ‘the funny bit is just about to start.’

‘No, it’s just,’ Feuilly took his arm off Enjolras’ shoulder, ‘those two, did you not see it?’

‘What, Grantaire and Enjolras?’ Joly cocked his head, ‘Are they being their usual selves? Are they cursing each other with the evil eye? Threatening each other with obscure art-related, non-verbal punishments?’

‘No,’ Feuilly laughed, relaxing again, ‘they are both acting out the whole movie by themselves. Do you two really know the whole movie by heart?’

Grantaire felt his face heat up and if Enjolras’ guarded expression was anything to go by, he experienced something similar. Bahorel barked out a laugh, slapping his thighs.

‘Nerds,’ he coughed out, ‘the two of you, one worse than the other!’

‘Get a room,’ Combeferre quipped, pulling out his phone with a careful look around after checking the display, ‘and hide, if you want to avoid the whirlwind.’

‘Courf’s on his way back?’ Jehan got up and took Bahorel’s hand, ‘will you be okay with sharing an armchair, Ferre?’

‘Sure,’ Combeferre smiled, ‘he might need a hand with the shopping, going from what he just messaged me.’

‘Count on Courfeyrac to go overboard with anything,’ Bossuet sighed and paused the movie, ‘bathroom break and regroup in a few minutes?’

‘Copy that,’ Feuilly yawned and wriggled free from underneath Enjolras, ‘I think your elbow dug into my bladder for most of that.’

‘Sorry,’ Enjolras grinned at him, embarrassment tinting his skin in the darkening room, ‘let me make it up to you later?’

Feuilly nodded and left the room. Jehan grabbed a bottle of the fizzy drink Joly had bought but never opened and dragged Bahorel off towards the back of the flat. Bossuet and Joly followed them with looks but Grantaire shook his head.

‘I think they need to talk,’ he explained, as his own door was shut, ‘and as long as they do just that, I am happy for them to use my room.’

‘Talk? About what?’ Enjolras set his feet back on the ground, got up and stretched his arms out over his head.

‘Don’t know,’ Grantaire counted the clusters in the ingrain wallpaper next to the TV, ‘but I’m happy they talk. Good thing for a relationship to have communication.’

‘True,’ Enjolras agreed softly, still stretching his limbs, disregarding the way his t-shirt rode up, ‘where would we end, if we didn’t talk.’

He winked at Grantaire who promptly choked on a breath he had held when Enjolras’ midriff had been all but bare in front of his eyes. Joly leaned forward and patted his back.

‘Are you sure you’re fine on the ground there? We have got the space for you up here.’

‘I’m okay,’ Grantaire waved a hand in his direction, ‘just had to work through Enjolras stripping in the middle of my living room.’

He dodged the hand playfully aiming for the back of his head and scooted to the side, making some room as Enjolras indicated his intent to sit down next to him. His knees cracked when he stretched them out and rested his arm on Grantaire’s shoulder.

‘In your dreams, R, in your dreams.’

Grantaire found himself unable to retort anything and settled on an indignant squeak that made his friends laugh and Enjolras take his arm back. They watched the screen saver come on on the TV and waited for Combeferre to return after he had opened the door for his boyfriend.

Courfeyrac entered the room with bottles of fizzy drinks and more sweets. He wore a pair of turquoise, sequined trousers and a faux fur coat that was of a bright red, his hair was tousled into a nest and from the looks of it, he wore little else underneath the coat. Grantaire waited for him to hug all the others before plastering his grin back on his face.

‘Rehearsals started up again?’

‘How do you know?’

‘You went home with half of the costume again.’

‘This?’ Courfeyrac looked down to his shoes, ‘no, this is all mine.’

‘It’s a thing,’ Enjolras rolled his eyes, ‘at the moment, Courfeyrac makes a point of wearing the first thing he pulls out of the wardrobe in the morning.’

‘Sounds like half of an art project,’ Grantaire grinned, ‘I like it.’

‘Clothing is so addictive,’ Courfeyrac sat down next to Combeferre, ‘I just cannot walk past some things and then I end up wearing it once or twice because it doesn’t fit the fashion trend anymore so I decided to just wear it.’

‘Who knows, you might turn into a trendsetter, after all,’ Joly grinned, ‘it is one of the better things to be addicted to, I suppose.’

‘It was either that or cocaine,’ Courfeyrac cuddled into his boyfriend’s side, ‘and I could never smoke, not with Ferre and Enjolras around. We couldn’t risk Enjolras starting again.’

He threw his friend a stern look. Enjolras squirmed for a moment and ducked in front of Grantaire to reach a bowl of salt and vinegar bowls to pull towards them. Grantaire felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to find Courfeyrac’s toes in dangerously close proximity.

‘How are you doing? Found a new addiction yet?’

‘A new –‘

‘Can’t have you drinking, now can we?’ Courfeyrac continued, his eyes sparkling with interest, ‘have you found anything to turn to when you feel ready for a drink?’

‘Courf –‘

‘Weird teas?’

‘Courf –‘

‘Have you started drinking unnatural amounts of coffee like others in this room?’

‘Courf, shut –‘

‘Oh, you could become addicted to memes, we need someone to share more memes in the group chat!’

‘Courfeyrac, I swear –‘

‘Jehan would probably enjoy you starting a sky twitter. Like, every time you see a nice cloud or an interesting colour in the sky you take a picture and upload it.’

‘Courf – oh, that’s not too bad, actually,’ Enjolras stopped his attempts to get Courfeyrac’s attention, his jaw had hit the floor and his exasperated expression seemed to lag behind as his mind worked.

Grantaire pointed towards his bag by the door, ‘All these suggestions are pretty good, Courf, but I’m afraid my coping mechanisms are almost disappointing, compared to your ideas.’

He carefully extracted himself out of Enjolras proximity and got up to fetch his bag. Maybe, he thought, sharing this part of his recovery with his friends would help him in the long run. They would not have to ask separately, one after the other when he brought out The Log.

‘This is what my therapist and I work on,’ he showed the notebook he used, already looking used and worn from being carried around in different bags all day, there were slips of paper between the pages, some receipts, some scraps on which he had noted something, ‘this is The Log. I use it to write down whatever is on my mind whether I felt the urge to drink, to forget or whether something happened that I want to keep as motivation for my recovery. The newest part is that she asked me to take selfies in moments that either make me feel really bad or really good.’

‘That sounds good, actually,’ Courfeyrac nodded, ‘I’m glad you’re doing something to make you feel better. How does it help you?’

The interest in his voice was genuine and Grantaire felt good enough to indulge him, as long as Feuilly, Jehan and Bahorel had not returned, ‘The main point is to have something documenting my recovers with all dark moments, all set-backs, all triggers that might come up. At the same time, however, it’s also about having an anchor in this mess. There are days when I don’t know what I’m supposed to think, of myself or others and this helps.’

He opened a page towards the front and revealed a photo he had taken off Les Amis-Facebook page. All of his friends sat in their corner at the Musain, smiling for the camera. He had drawn lines and written their names down, almost like an anatomical study in a school book.

It was the first time he volunteered information out of The Log and he felt the others lean in to catch a glance. Joly seemed confused as he read the collection of words connected to his face in the picture. His eyebrows knitted together, he looked at Grantaire, as if hoping for an explanation.

‘Joly. You love him, make sure to pay attention to his leg and help?’

‘Combeferre. Ask him. He’ll understand.’

‘Bossuet. Be prepared for loud noises and accidents. He is great.’

‘Enjolras. You think he is –‘