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The first time the founders of Les Amis met, they were simply a handful of fresh-faced U1 students and more strangers than friends. But tie-dyed shirts had always been the great equalizer and it didn't matter that Enjolras was in poli sci, Combeferre in anatomy & cell biology, and Courfeyrac… well, nobody was entirely sure and it didn't seem important to ask. It took nothing more than one question, demanded by Enjolras, (and if it was perhaps too angry a query, who could blame him? They were young and had more righteousness bubbling in their chests than a cauldron of boiling revolutionaries' blood).
"Bernard Drainville?"
The impassioned response was immediate, the first debate began, and the corners of tight lips twitched skyward for the first time that day.
[1]
The newly coined Les Amis de l'ABC are actively recruiting for their activism club- and doing quite well, especially Courf- when the first metaphorical wrench is thrown into their metaphorical gears.
"You know what I think? I think you guys are brilliant," half-slurred a distinctively not-from-around-here Anglophone accent, somehow loud and sharp and sarcastic even through the haze of alcohol-induced incoherency. "I applaud you, truly. Future chairs of MUN. You'll fit right in." He smirked, taking another swig of whatever it was in his plastic cup.
Silence.
Though he has his back turned to the voice, Enjolras is closest. With a deep breath, he rounded on the dark-haired boy.
"Excusez-moi?"
Blue eyes narrow and the room seems to get three degrees colder but the dissenter meets his gaze steadily, a hint of challenge, and of something else.
"Sorry, Apollo, didn't mean to offend. You should really hear yourself though, man. All that French is cool and all, but it's sort of raising the "pretentious" meter to a whole new level." He waved an arm airily as Enjolras bristled. "I admit, you're all quite good at that public speaking thing. If only talking pretty would save the polar bears and end the patriarch and make the government see sense, I would follow you in a heartbeat." He smiled, all teeth.
Enjolras opened his mouth, already forming a biting retort, but the cynic in green had already disappeared into the crowd of densely packed bodies in the strobe lights of the dance floor.
He didn't realise he was still standing, motionless, until a sympathetic hand on his shoulder brought him back to pamphlets and speeches perhaps a little less grand than they were.
[2]
The next time they cross paths light snow was already drifting in the air (though it was not yet October) and Enjolras grabbed his shoulder without thinking.
"You. You were at that bar a month ago," he stated flatly.
"Yeah." The other quirked a brow, looking oddly amused. He had very green eyes and no qualms about sustained staring either, it seemed. Sober, he seemed almost a whole new person. "Apollo. How kind of you to stoop to the level of plain ol' English for me, I'm touched."
Well. Almost.
Enjolras gritted his teeth. "Firstly, you are in Quebec. Please at least attempt to recognise our official language. Secondly, my name is Enjolras and I'd appreciate if you'd refer to me as such. Thirdly, you must know that we don't organise petitions and campaigns and awareness events and protests as a CV builder, we don't take this stuff lightly, and if enough people care as much then yes, things can change, and they can change for the better. Fourthly, since it's clear you don't care for the things me and my associates do, kindly refrain---" His speech was cut off by utterly unabashed hearty laughter.
"By God, you're actually serious aren't you?" He shook his head, scratched it, and looked at Enjolras with something that almost could've been mistaken as admiration if it hadn't been so quickly replaced with an eyeroll.
Enjolras stormed off without a second glance, but (frustratingly) not without hearing the other shouting after him, "It's Grantaire, by the way! Vive la France, dear Apollo!"
[3]
The third time occurs at a protest against austerity. The streets are buzzing with a palpable anger as languages mix and mingle in solidarity against a common cause in typical Quebecer fashion. The moments of deliberate silence are arguably more powerful than when a chant ripples through the masses. It's the dictionary definition of peaceful, but only in technicalities. In spirit, they are at war.
For Enjolras, it's Christmas come early.
He is attempting to talk to a girl holding up a sign that screams " LES PARADIS POUR EUX, POUR NOUS L'ENFER " when he spots Grantaire, leaning against a tree a little ways away, not quite part of the action, scribbling in a sketchpad.
"I didn't expect to see you here."
Grantaire blinked up, squinting from the light. "Oh, hey. Y'know, it's usually traditional to greet people when you first see 'em, but I guess you're not one to hold by tradition, are you?" He grinned, shifting his weight and closing the sketchpad.
Enjolras ignored him. "I don't know why you're here if you don't think protest is effective in bringing about change."
"Why does it matter?" Grantaire sighed, running a hand through his curls. "My friend 'Ponine over there," he points a thumb at the girl Enjolras was trying to get through to a minute ago. "Seems to agree with you, though. Excuse my French," he had the audacity to wink, "But her family is shit and she can't afford this. So I'm here for moral support."
"So you don't think it'll work." It was a statement.
"Of course not."
"Then that's exactly why it won't." Enjolras crossed his arms, stony-faced. "We don't need any more cynics, Grantaire. Our parents' generation already filled the quota. The only way to create change is to believe in change."
A moment of charged silence.
Grantaire shook his head.
"You've read the history books," he said simply, and walked away.
[4]
The fourth time, a hockey game is on, the Habs are going against the Leafs and the common room is squeezed tight with agitated bodies as the game entered second overtime with no clear winner.
The tension finally broke into tangible waves of violent anger when the Leafs scored the winning goal in the final twenty-five seconds and an entire roomful of frustrated students dissolved into furious shouts and curses and wall-punching...
Except for one.
Enter Grantaire, who, seemingly just to be contrary, began to cheer.
Before too long, the atmosphere in the room had become downright hostile and Enjolras decided to intervene, yanking Grantaire up and pushing him not quite kindly into the hallway.
"If you're trying to get yourself killed, there are less painful ways."
Grantaire just smiled. You would know, his look said plainly, before he shrugged and strolled out into the snow with his thumbs looped casually in his jeans pockets. Enjolras stares after him, features twisted with a strange combination of disbelief and something that resembled wonder.
[5]
It was during the end of one of their last meetings before finals would start to force them all into the library when they spoke again, for the fifth time (not that Enjolras was counting).
Grantaire had been sitting at the furthest end of the café and Enjolras nearly missed him as he began to walk out.
"Grantaire?" his eyes narrowed, uncertain hope finding its way to him, unbidden. "What are you doing here?"
"Enjoying the view," the other replied with a lazy grin.
Enjolras wanted to punch something. Preferably Grantaire. Or himself, for thinking that maybe something had gotten through to the cynic. "You're drunk."
"I know, Apollo."
"Call me that one more time and you won't live to regret it," Enjolras warned coldly through his teeth, a hot flash of anger ripping through his chest.
Grantaire blinked, confused at the other's sudden anger. "I'm… sorry?"
"No. I'm sorry," he bit out, and stormed away leaving a bewildered Grantaire behind him.
[+1]
They don't see each other again until finals week is well and truly upon them all.
Enjolras is sitting in a pile of textbooks, desperately attempting to commit to memory a few last-minute charters and bills and amendments when Grantaire slides down across from him, The Iliad under his arm.
"Hey."
Enjolras looks up, eyes sunken with exhaustion. He blinks wearily, realising he's never actually bothered to ask what Grantaire was studying. "Hey. I--"
Grantaire holds up a hand to stop him mid-sentence. "Wait. Just let me get this out, okay?" He takes a breath. "I want to apologise for last time. I was… out of line. And I'm not drunk right now, so can we just talk? I don't think we've ever properly talked, all this time, you know? Belated introductions are in order, I think." He sticks out a hand, very formally. It looks odd on him. "I'm Grantaire. Classics major, otherwise known as future Starbucks employee. Pleasure to meet you."
The sincerity in his expression is downright jarring, but Enjolras takes his hand after a beat, going along with the little game. "Enjolras. Polisci with a minor in sociology."
"Well, Enjolras, would you like to grab a coffee with me? An apology, of sorts. God knows we could both use a break from the insanity." He gestures vaguely toward the books.
Enjolras blinks again. And then, as if coming to a decision, nods once and smiles.
That day for the first time, they leave together.
***