Work Text:
Discovery
“Joly? Have you seen Grantaire around?” Enjolras asks quietly. It’s been three days since the last time Grantaire came to a meeting, and Enjolras is starting to miss his presence. Admittedly, it’s irritating to have someone around who doesn’t believe in their ideals, but Grantaire also brings a certain something to their meetings- Enjolras isn’t sure how to define it, but things aren’t the same with the man absent.
“I haven’t, no,” Joly says, concerned.
Jehan pipes up. “We were supposed to meet for coffee, and he didn’t come.”
“I might stop by his place, then,” Combeferre suggests, shrugging his jacket on. “In case-“
“I’ll come,” Enjolras says.
“Is that wise?”
“Yes.”
“I’m worried- he’s been doing well, not drinking,” Bossuet points out.
“I didn’t know he’d quit,” Enjolras mumbles. “I- I shouldn’t have- look, I feel so terrible that I lost my temper at him like that. I’d really like to go apologize.”
“I’m coming along,” Combeferre insists.
“And me,” Courfeyrac agrees, lacing his fingers with Combeferre’s.
“I should be there, too. Since I’ve known him longest,” Bahorel suggests.
So it’s a group outing. The four of them make their way, in a noisy clump, the few blocks over to Grantaire’s appointment, with Enjolras silent at the front.
He’s thinking about the other night. His temper had so thoroughly gotten away from him—he’s furious at himself, of course. It isn’t usual for him to shout at his friends like that. He knows he has a temper, has a tendency to be cruel, and he tries to stifle it as much as possible. For some reason, Grantaire brings it out in him.
Whereas he’s heard again and again from their mutual friends that he brings out the best in Grantaire.
He’s still thinking about this contradiction when they arrive at Grantaire’s door. Enjolras knocks, but there’s no answer.
“I’ve got the spare key,” Courfeyrac says, looking in his pockets for it. “Oh, shit, I’ve lost-“
“Here it is, love,” Combeferre says, producing the key from his own pocket with a smile.
“Do you really think we ought to break in?” Enjolras asks. “I mean, Grantaire has a right to his privacy.”
Bahorel rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“Um-“
“We all do live in each other’s back pockets, in case you haven’t noticed,” Combeferre points out.
Enjolras sighs. “Do what you need to do.”
Combeferre gets the door open, and the lot of them step inside. Enjolras looks around. He’s never seen the inside of Grantaire’s place before.
The apartment isn’t empty.
The apartment is quite occupied.
Sitting on the living room floor, tucked under a shirt like a blanket, but otherwise apparently naked, is a toddler. He looks about three.
“Hello?” Enjolras says, tentatively. He’s never been good with kids, but this child is evidently in need of help.
The little boy doesn’t look up at him.
Joly approaches a little more closely. “I’m Joly. I’m a doctor. What’s your name?”
“R,” the child mumbles.
“I didn’t know Grantaire has a kid. Did anyone else know that Grantaire has a kid?” Courfeyrac says, sounding slightly panicked.
“That’s me!” the child says, a little more brightly.
“Sorry?” Courfeyrac asks.
“Gran-taire. That’s my name!” He turns to look at Enjolras, and his eyes widen. “Who’re you? Your hair is pretty.”
Enjolras can hear the others stifling laughter as he introduces himself, trying to stay calm.
“Hi, ‘Jowas.”
“Do you live here with your dad?” Enjolras asks, keeping an even tone.
Little R shakes his head. “Papa’s not here.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No. I dunno. I was sleeping, and then I woked up, and I was here.”
“When was that?” Enjolras asks.
“One, two, three days ago. ‘m hungry. I ate the cereal but I couldn’t reach anything else.”
“Enjolras,” Bahorel says, but Enjolras isn’t listening.
“I can’t believe he would do that. He may be irresponsible, but leaving a child, a- how old are you?”
“Three ‘n a half.”
“A three year old to fend for himself- he doesn’t even have any clothes to wear!”
“Enjolras,” Bahorel repeats. “I really think this is important.”
“What?” Enjolras says, turning around to glare at Bahorel.
“That’s not Grantaire’s kid. That’s Grantaire.”
“Honey, what’s your name? Your first name.” Combeferre asks the little boy.
“René.”
“And where do you live?”
“With my Papa and Mama, in Nice.”
“What are your parents named?”
“Papa’s name is Dominic and Mama’s name is Louise.”
While Combeferre is getting this information from the child, Enjolras and Bahorel are conferring in whispers. “How do you know?”
“Because I’ve known Grantaire since pre-school, and unless he had himself cloned, that’s him.”
“Identical?”
“Completely. Down to the eyes, look.”
Just like adult Grantaire, the child has one dark brown eye and one blue. He also has a port-wine birthmark spreading across his cheek—just where Grantaire’s is.
“But how?” Enjolras asks.
Bahorel shrugs. “Beats me. But look, if that is Grantaire, and he got—I don’t know, changed somehow—“
“But he doesn’t have that birthmark over his eye. You know, the little round one,” Enjolras points out.
“That’s not a birthmark,” Bahorel says quietly.
“What?”
Combeferre interrupts. “It’s a burn mark, Enjolras.”
“How did he-“ Enjolras shakes his head. Now isn’t the time. “How did you get here?”
“Woke up. A while ago. Don’t know how long. I was hidin’ from Papa and I think I fell asleep and I woke up here.”
“Were you playing hide and seek?” Combeferre asks, cheerfully.
“No,” Grantaire answers. That’s all he says on the subject.
As Enjolras and Combeferre begin whispering to each other, contrasting the fact that this child has Grantaire’s face and first name and parents’ names with the fact that it’s impossible for a twenty-six year old man to become a three and a half year old instantly, Courfeyrac comes over to the child and scoops him into his arms.
“You must be hungry, buddy,” Courfeyrac says.
“Courf!” Combeferre starts to protest.
“What? I’m not going to let a little boy starve because we don’t know who he is. If this is R, he’s been on his own as a little kid for three days. Even if he hasn’t, he looks exhausted and half-starved.”
Bahorel pipes up. “I’m going ‘round the corner to buy him something to wear from the dollar store. And a diaper, if you need one-“
Little Grantaire shakes his head. “I can use the potty.”
“What do you want to eat?” Courfeyrac asks. “It looks like we have—“ he opens Grantaire’s fridge. “A whole lot of beer. Oh, and here’s some milk, and if I know him—yep. Mac and cheese in the pantry. Want me to make you some?”
“Mac and cheese!” the little boy trills, and it’s pretty obvious that they’re all pretty thrown by the weirdness of this situation but it’s still heart-warming to watch that grin spread across his face.
While Courfeyrac cooks the mac and cheese, Combeferre asks the child, “Do you know your parents’ phone number?”
“Yes!” He rattles it off cheerfully, and Combeferre dials the number on his cell phone.
There are three rings, and then someone picks up. “Hello?”
The voice is gruff and doesn’t belong to Grantaire, at least not the Grantaire they know.
“Hello? M. Grantaire?”
“Yeah?”
“My name is Combeferre. I’m a friend of your son’s.”
“The fuck would I care? I haven’t seen that useless shit since he was sixteen.”
“So you only have one son?’
“Yes.”
“René Grantaire? Who is—twenty-four years old?”
“Yeah. Why the hell are you calling me?” The line goes dead.
Combeferre looks over at Enjolras. “M. Dominic Grantaire has one son. Twenty-four year old René Grantaire.”
“No,” little R says. “Not four. ‘m three ‘n a half!” He apparently didn’t eavesdrop early enough to get the initial twenty.
Bahorel returns soon after. “Sorry. The dollar store was short on clothes that I thought would fit him. This is all I could have, I know it’s kind of silly.”
It’s a onesie in bright green, with a hood and little eyes on it—a frog onesie.
Little R’s eyes widen. “Fwoggie,” he says, wonderingly.
“Do you want to put this on, buddy?”
The child leaps up, leaving behind the old t-shirt of Grantaire’s that had been all that was covering him, and lets Bahorel help him dress in the onesie. He looks down at himself in delight. “I’ma fwog!” he exclaims, and then starts hopping from side to side, ribbiting and laughing.
He’s too cute for the anxiety of the situation to remain for long. Combeferre starts telling him something about frog biology, while he watches, wide-eyed and absorbed in the story.
Soon after, Courfeyrac serves up the Mac and cheese, scooping Grantaire into one of the chairs at the table so he can eat (they’re too high for him to climb into alone). Little R devours his portion. The poor thing must, indeed, have been starving.
“Good?”
“Yum,” the child proclaims, followed immediately by, “Sleepy.”
“Okay. Where’s your bed?” Combeferre asks.
He shrugs. “I don’ live here.”
“Have you been sleeping on the floor?”
“Yeah.”
“How many nights?”
“I think three. Not sure.” He looks over at Enjolras. “Down?” he asks, needing a hand to get out of the chair. Enjolras picks him up, and little R tucks one hand around the back of Enjolras’ neck and clings onto a lock of Enjolras’ long hair with the other chubby fist.
Enjolras starts to carry him over to the couch, figuring that’s probably the best place for him to sleep for a bit while they try and figure out what they’re going to do with this child, where he came from, and where he belongs. By the time they get there, though, little R’s head is resting on his chest and he’s fast asleep.
Combeferre starts to say, “Wake him up, so we can get-“ but Enjolras cuts him off with a look.
“He needs sleep. You can start trying to figure this out. I’ll stay here with him.”
And Enjolras looks down at the child, fast asleep in his arms, with an expression of gentleness like nothing Combeferre has ever seen on his face before.
“Enjolras—“ Combeferre begins.
“I’m all right,” Enjolras assures him. “I’ve got him.”