Chapter Text
“One would have said, to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had already, in some previous state of existence, traversed the revolutionary apocalypse.” – Victor Hugo, Les Misérables
Paris, 1832
Grantaire knows not what gives him the courage to finally approach their charming Leader in Red as he sits in a corner of the Musain, sifting through papers in the flickering candlelight, wearing an expression of utmost concentration. Perhaps it is the rare combination of the two men being the only ones left in the café that night, and Grantaire still riding a high from sitting through an entire Les Amis meeting without being insulted even once. That and, lest we forget, the alcohol still thrumming through his veins.
Whatever the case may be, he now approaches his scornful angel, wine bottle in hand, managing to cross the room almost without bumping into a single table. He comes to a stop before Enjolras and says nothing, admittedly not having thought through his actions past this point. In the meantime, however, he allows himself to appreciate the sight before him: that perfect porcelain skin, like that of a fair young maiden with just a hint of blush on his cheeks… the golden halo of his hair, unstyled, yet falling effortlessly to frame his face… those clever blue eyes – keepers, perhaps, of untold passions – scanning so sharply over the page before them…
And before Grantaire knows what to do with himself, those fathomless eyes have fixed him in their piercing gaze. Enjolras’ eyebrows rise incrementally in lieu of a verbalised question. Knowing not what possesses him to such madness, Grantaire ceremoniously places his bottle on the table before them and speaks: “Drink with me, dear Leader?”
Enjolras only frowns, like a king might scowl at a subject who displeases him. “Grantaire, you fool – you know I do not drink. If you wish to do so, may I suggest the fine establishment across the street? There is much work to be done tonight, and I would prefer that disturbances be avoided.” Only then does Grantaire finally take a look at the papers which have so enraptured his Leader – they appear to be various street maps of Paris, annotated heavily in Enjolras’ elegant script.
The man regards him with impatience now, and Grantaire is left again to wonder how it is he came to be in this situation – spending day after day in a drunken haze, gazing upon a man who sees him as little more than a nuisance, an unwelcome stain on a crisp white shirt. A man who is not a man at all – sometimes a righteous seraph, sometimes a divine hero allowing humanity a rare glimpse into the light of Olympus, but never, never just a man. How foolish Grantaire must be, to so clumsily approach his Apollo tonight, in the feeble hopes that he might experience a flash of that heavenly fire for himself. But the night seems full of surprises, for Grantaire finds himself pulling out a chair and taking a seat opposite his beloved Leader.
Enjolras appears taken aback, but does not object. After a few moments, he returns to his planning and Grantaire watches, taking a slow swig of his wine. Eventually he speaks: “Do you truly believe that your Revolution will succeed?” Grantaire’s tone is not condescending this time, merely curious.
Enjolras sighs, allowing the pages in his hands to fall flat on the table. “I believe that every man has a basic sense of right and wrong, a sense of justice rooted deep inside him; I am willing to bear the costs of fighting for that justice. I believe that when the people see our banners and hear our shouts from the barricades, they will realise that the moment has arrived to take back their country, to take it back for the people. The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of a new Republic. I believe that when the time comes, the people will rise.” He speaks with such conviction, eyes blazing with such an intensity, that Grantaire feels wholly transported into the image he paints, and whilst he can admit to himself its beauty, all the while an immovable wrench sits in his chest.
“Oh Apollo,” he says, “you hail from the province of the Gods, so I forgive your innocence, but you rest too much faith on the people.” Grantaire’s rebuttal holds Enjolras’ attention, as he knew it would, but for once that is not the sole aim of his words. “You are naïve to think they will heed your call. These people have spent their lives trawling the gutter, never an opportunity to think of more than the next meal, stomped upon by any herald of authority – I know, for I am a witness, but I fear you do not understand. They will not rise.”
A flash of holy anger rises in Enjolras now. “If that is truly what you think, then you must believe our enterprise to be doomed. Why, then, do you continue to attend every meeting, continue to argue your point at every turn? Why not return to your proverbial gutter and save yourself the effort?”
Though the words sting, Grantaire does not flinch, for which he surprises himself yet again. His voice remains unexpectedly steady as he replies: “You are right, dear Leader – I do not see the reestablishment of the Republic as you do. As for why I remain… Well, you already know the answer to that, as I believe I have a rather troubling tendency to remind you.” When Enjolras only looks on in confusion, Grantaire sighs and gives clarification: “You, Apollo. I stay for you.”
Enjolras drops his gaze to his folded hands now; if Grantaire did not know better, he would say the man was embarrassed. “Listen to me, Grantaire,” he says, with none of the usual disapproval to be found when he speaks that name, “I am no Apollo, I am no Achilles; I am but a man as any other. As are you. I would not wish for you to champion a cause in which you have no faith merely for my benefit, and I would not wish for you to perish doing so. Do you understand me, my friend? I will not permit you to die for me.” These are sentiments Enjolras would never have expressed in the presence of Les Amis; these are words reserved for Grantaire alone, and he cannot deny that he feels a flutter in his chest at the thought.
You are willing to die for France, but I cannot die for you? Do you not realise that you are a worthier cause than our Patria will ever be? He almost speaks his thoughts aloud, though it hardly matters whether he does – their honourable Leader in Red cannot be dissuaded, of that he is certain. Enjolras’ idealistic convictions are admirable, but they are something Grantaire can never truly comprehend – perhaps such revelations are reserved for those with moral integrity, a circle from which Grantaire is ever barred. His only conviction is, and shall forever remain, to follow his Apollo to the last.
In the absence of a reply, Enjolras speaks again, almost musing to himself more than he demands an answer: “You are an eternal mystery to me, Grantaire, I will never understand you. How did you come to be this way, I wonder?”
Grantaire chuckles darkly at the question he asks himself every day. “It is all too easy to become cynical in the face of reality; I am perhaps weak in that regard, as I am in many others. It takes much more courage to believe in something better.” He pauses, giving his next sentence a moment of consideration before he speaks, fixing his gaze upon those blue eyes which will remain ever inscrutable: “I hope you are right, for your sake above all, but I’m sorry- I cannot say with sincerity that I find myself able to truly believe it.”
Grantaire wishes so desperately to be mistaken, but when he awakes that fateful morning with the corpses of his friends scattered at his feet, he knows he is not. The people did not rise. Of course not. It is the silence that gets to him more than anything, the quiet of the tomb doing nothing to dull the ache of his head.
And that is when he hears it: “Shoot me.”
Grantaire’s tired eyes finally focus on the scene before him – his beloved Apollo backed into a corner by a dozen National Guardsmen, rifles having already taken aim. But even now he is calm, rosy, his unruffled attire stained with blood that is not his own – a radiant angel who merely smiles in the face of death, righteous eyes glinting with an unspoken taunt: “Don’t you realise? You cannot harm me.”
Just as they did those many nights earlier, Grantaire’s feet carry him across the room, seemingly without need of conscious thought. He gives brief consideration to the notion of escape, but realises quickly that it was never an option.
“Vive la république! I am one of them,” he announces, stepping into the deadly circle. “Vive la république – finish us both.”
The Republic was Enjolras’ dream, never his own – a dream that now draws its final gasping breaths in the face of the King’s firing squad. But Grantaire believes in something of infinitely greater importance: he believes in Enjolras, who is not a god, not an angel – perhaps only a mere mortal after all. But Grantaire recognises that this is his only chance, his single calling to be a part of something greater and better than himself. Besides, what would there possibly be left to live for were Enjolras to be gone? Would that not be a godless existence infinitely worse than death? So, in these few borrowed moments before execution, he looks only to Enjolras, paying no mind to the barrels of a dozen guns which lie in wait, ready to fire.
“Do you permit it?”
Enjolras smiles, joining Grantaire’s hand with his own. That is all he needs.
* * *
R awakes with a start, gunshots still ringing in his head. He brings a hand to his chest to verify the lack of bullet wounds. Just a dream, he sighs, just a really vivid dream… How strange – maybe he should not have had all that extra ice cream before bed.
He drags himself out of bed mechanically, hardly bothering to open his sticky eyes, instead navigating the bedroom by touch alone. He has already halfway buttoned his shirt, toothbrush hanging clumsily out of his mouth and dripping toothpaste onto the floor, before he remembers. Kicking himself mentally, R undoes the few buttons he had managed to complete and throws the shirt back in the closet.
What an idiot, he thinks to himself as he rinses out his mouth, you haven’t had a job for weeks, dumbass. But now that he has been through that entire ordeal, the last of his sleepiness seems to have dissipated. Might as well stay up.
R shuffles his way to the kitchen, briefly considering making toast before deciding he does not have the patience to wait for the toaster and resolving to have cereal instead. As he returns the milk to the fridge, he catches sight of the dozen or so beer bottles sitting in the door. He takes a glance at the microwave clock: 12:03. It’s no longer morning – that’s socially acceptable, right? He tries not to think too much about it as he grabs a bottle and his bowl, and settles himself down on the sofa.
After breakfast, I’ll look at some job listings, he tells himself, today is the day. But he gets terribly engrossed in the old movie playing on the Hallmark channel, and then there is a fascinating documentary on cheese-making, and then they are showing reruns of his favourite childhood cartoon – before he knows it, he is four hours older and three bottles drunker. Shit, he curses himself, how do I always end up here?
Before he can beat himself up too much, however, his phone chimes loudly with a text. It is from Han: ‘bringing someone over in 10 – make yourself decent pls… if that’s even possible for you ;P’. Pfft, I’m always decent, R thinks in a huff, looking down at his boxers-clad, crumb-covered body. Okay, maybe Han has a point.
R resolves to at least put on some clothes, even if it is just a t-shirt and some joggers, and even goes to the effort of combing his curls into something that looks slightly less like a bird’s nest and more like human hair. The things I do for you, Han, he thinks grudgingly. R wonders who they are bringing over – at this time of day it is less likely to be a date and more likely one of his roommate’s hipster poetry club friends. At least R will not be expected to contribute anything to the conversation, in that case.
The apartment’s front door opens mere seconds after R has finally settled himself back on the sofa, immersing himself in the plot of an episode that he has now missed the first half of.
“Hi, R,” Han calls out cheerfully as they enter the dingy flat, keys jingling as they land tossed in the ‘keys and miscellaneous crap’ bowl that they insist on keeping by the entrance. R does not look up from the screen, but offers a ‘hey’ and a friendly wave in the right general vicinity.
R focuses on his TV show as two sets of footsteps make their way across the room. Rather than retreat into Han’s room as he expected, however, they seem to stick around in the kitchen. He chances a glance over and catches Han unloading takeaway boxes from their bag; their guest, who is wearing a plain black hoodie with the hood pulled up, has their back to R. Okay, whatever, he thinks, and returns his attention to his beloved rectangle of procrastination.
As the episode continues, he hears voices from the kitchen, but largely tunes them out. “You have a lovely apartment,” the guest is saying. They have a voice that is neither shrill nor deep, but strangely melodious, and smooth like peanut butter. Wow – maybe I’m drunker than I thought.
After a while, however, the conversation falls quiet, though R is certain he did not hear the two people leave the room. He strains his ears and manages to make out the vague outlines of a whispered discussion. How curious.
“Are you sure this is the man you told me about?” the stranger appears to be saying, “he seems a bit …”
There is a pause in which R assumes Han has responded, and the guest soon replies with “are you sure he can be trusted?” They are talking about him. They must be. R feels a twinge of annoyance.
“Hey guys,” he calls out, loud enough to stop the whispering dead in its tracks, “you do know I can hear you, right?” R finally turns his head to look at the conspirators directly. “Han – this better not be another one of your attempts to set me up with one of your poet friends. I told you I don’t like surprise dates.”
Han at least has the decency to appear absolutely mortified at R’s words – good – but the guest still has their back turned, no indication of any sort about their reaction. After a few seconds, Han breaks eye contact with R, instead glancing over at their friend. Some kind of wordless communication seems to pass between them, with plenty of impassioned eyebrow movements on Han’s part, and after a few moments Han gives a slow nod.
R is about to throw his hands up in frustration and demand someone offer an explanation, when the mysterious guest abruptly turns to face him. Slowly, with as much grandeur as a superhero dropping their mask, the hood is lowered, and R finds himself face to face with a man whom he can describe only as ‘indescribable’, a man of angelic beauty whose eyes glint with deadly conviction. “I assure you, this is not a date,” he speaks, expression inscrutable, “more of a… job opportunity.”
In the silence that follows, R finds himself gaping at the stranger, not because of his attractiveness – well, not entirely – but because that glint in his eyes is not actually all that unfamiliar.
“I had a dream about you.” The absurd words fall from his mouth before he can think any better of them. He is about to apologise, and blame the outpouring of nonsense on the empty beer bottles sitting on the coffee table, but the words die in his throat at the sight of the beautiful stranger’s reaction. It is not confused, as would be reasonable to expect, not even creeped out or mildly disgusted. Instead, he looks rather like someone whose mother has just walked in on them having an intimate moment with a graphic magazine – this is to say, he looks absolutely petrified.
“Um, I mean… I dreamed about someone who kinda looks like you,” R corrects himself a minute too late, and behind their guest, he sees Han silently facepalming and holding back a laugh. He then quickly tacks on: “It wasn’t that kind of dream…” Han now looks physically pained by R’s second-hand embarrassment, but at least the stranger’s expression has regained some semblance of normalcy, carrying only a slight furrow in his brow.
“What you get up to in your night-time fantasies is none of my concern,” the man swerves smoothly away from the topic, “I’m here because I’m looking for someone to do a particular job – an operation, if you will. Something I’ve been planning for a while now that requires a level of… discretion. I mentioned needing a person of certain… skills, and your friend here recommended you. Very enthusiastically, might I add.”
R understands the words coming from the stranger’s mouth, but they do nothing to clarify the situation in any way. “Look, man,” he says, “you’re gonna have to be more specific. ‘Cause right now it just sounds like you want me to film a sextape with you or something.” The man’s eyes widen at that and he goes visibly whiter despite his already pale skin. Interesting… definitely not a sextape, then. Although let’s be real – if he asked, I’d probably say yes.
Han, thankfully, chooses at that moment to step in. They reach forward to place a hand on the man’s shoulder in reassurance. “It’s okay, E – just tell him. I told you, you can trust him.”
“Can everyone stop being so cryptic for a second and just explain what the fuck is going on?!” R almost yells. His head is starting to hurt.
“Sorry, R.” Han offers an apologetic smile while the man – E – remains stony-faced. “So… remember a few weeks ago, when there was that security breach at the D.P.S.I. that caused a big ruffle?”
R thinks back to the time Han is speaking of with a cringe. “Oh, you mean the one that launched a big internal investigation that ended up getting me fired for ‘idleness and inappropriate behaviour’? How could I forget…”
“That was me,” E chimes in before R gets the chance to start a rant. His statement is so glib, his tone so calm, that R almost does not realise what it means for a second. “Well, rather it was we,” he continues after the briefest pause, gesturing vaguely in evocation of his supposed co-conspirators. “Over the past few months, I’ve discovered some… discrepancies in the claims and numbers published by the D.P.S.I. in their compulsory public reports. Although it’s foolish to speculate too far at this juncture, I believe them to be hiding something… dangerous, potentially. And I also believe that it’s the right of the people to know what their government is up to – hence, where you come in. Han claims that you’re a software engineer of remarkable skill, and that you have employment history with the D.P.S.I.. So, would you be interested?” E extends the offer with a curt smile, though his eyes still blaze with a rather disconcerting intensity.
“Shit…” comes R’s eloquent response, “you’re hackers.”
“Yes…” E confirms with an amused quirk to his lips, “how observant of you to realise.”
“Right. So. Uh – E, is it? – what’s up with this whole ‘Mr Anonymous’ look, then?” R waggles his finger at the all-black ensemble in front of him, as if anyone needed the clarification. Jesus, this guy must think I’m either a huge dick or a complete idiot, at this point. The truth is, the combination of E’s intense gaze and his painfully good looks is rather impairing R’s ability to think straight. The beer might also have something to do with it.
For all of R’s ridiculousness, E only tilts his head in mild curiosity, as someone might regard an odd specimen in a history museum, and proceeds to answer the question sincerely: “The outfit is a bit on the nose, I admit, but I’d rather remain unseen and unnoticed as far as possible. Cameras are always watching, after all, and based on my history, I’m sure there are multiple organisations out there who would rather like to know my whereabouts.” R frowns at that, and E sighs. “Look, I understand if you’re not comfortable doing this – not everyone’s willing to go to the same lengths as I am, and that’s completely fair. But if that is the case, I only ask you this: please don’t tell anyone about this – about me, the mission, anything.”
When R fails to respond immediately, E quickly turns to Han with a worried crease in his forehead. “Okay, first of all,” R speaks to get his attention back, “you can trust me. I know Han told you that, and they’re right. Second of all, I get that what you’re trying to do here is all… morally righteous, or whatever, but I dunno… I’m not usually one to say this – Han can vouch – but this seems kinda risky. Hacking a government agency? They just fired me for pretty much nothing, and maybe it’s just me, but I don’t particularly wanna go to jail, you know?”
E purses his lips, lowering his gaze solemnly to the creaky floorboards and not saying a word. Although everything R expressed is perfectly reasonable, he feels an unsolicited pang of guilt at being the cause of this beautiful stranger’s disappointment. So, he adds in a decidedly gentler tone: “Why are you doing this, anyway?”
E does not look up as he answers, thankfully sparing R the palpitations elicited by his intent stare. “Our government preaches freedom and justice,” he says, “that’s what they teach us from the moment we’re able to speak. But it’s a lie. They have no integrity. Our economy is on the brink of collapse, our people on the brink of famine and epidemic, our planet on the brink of catastrophe. You think that’s an eventuality? That it couldn’t be avoided? No. Those we have elected to lead us are lying to us, so corrupted they are by promises of wealth from greedy corporations that will happily feed on our corpses until there’s nothing left but dust. The people deserve the truth.”
E has to take a moment to breathe, to calm himself. R cannot see his face from this angle and almost wonders if he is crying, but when E suddenly looks up, his eyes hold nothing but divine rage. “It’s your choice whether to join me or not – I would never force you – but this is a chance to be a part of something greater and better than yourself.”
Something greater and better than myself. R almost shudders again at the thought of those gunshots, the bodies… But they are all too quickly replaced with the image of a smiling angel, the touch of a warm hand. “I believe the people will rise…”
“Alright,” R says before he can regret it, “I’ll do it.”