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The first round of drinks takes place at the Musain.
It is a Tuesday evening in late May when Grantaire wanders in, seeking solace from the quietude of his rooms, where his sketchpads and his thoughts torture him in equal measure. He is fully aware that the usual crowd will be scattered to the four winds, pursuing their studies or their romances or whatever it was they did when they were not arguing about politics and fomenting revolution, but that does not matter to Grantaire: all he wants tonight is a place where he can drink some wine and fade into the shabby woodwork and simply forget.
So Grantaire is surprised when he sees a familiar face, sitting by the single window that has not been cleaned in months, even years. He cannot help but notice how the auburn light of the setting sun highlights a single lock of the man’s blond hair that keeps drooping in his eyes, or the elegance of the hand that keeps brushing it away.
It is Combeferre -- and Grantaire somehow feels compelled to approach him, even as unapproachable as he seems in that moment.
Combeferre does not even notice him at first -- his frost blue eyes are locked in a death stare at the pages of his book, his lips pursed as he ponders some obscure theorist. But as Grantaire approaches the table, Combeferre finally looks up at him -- and frowns.
“Good evening,” he says, sounding remarkably formal.
The two men have not talked very much, it is true -- they are two individuals who manage to be friends with the same person but who are not necessarily friends with each other. The normally garrulous Grantaire feels suddenly tongue-tied under the other man’s gaze -- what could he possibly say to the best friend and lieutenant of the man without whom Grantaire would have never even set foot in this building?
So he says the only thing he can possibly think of to say in this moment: “Would you like a drink?” he asks, echoing Combeferre’s formality, which makes his own need for liquid courage feel almost palpable.
Combeferre nods just once -- and wordlessly returns to his book.
When Grantaire arrives with two tankards of wine, he sets one in front of Combeferre and takes a seat opposite him. He lifts the cup to his lips, watching Combeferre carefully as he alternately reads and drinks, his concentration never breaking. For once Grantaire is content to sit in silence and watch him, marveling at how in his passion he resembles Enjolras, but how it manifests itself in such a vastly different way. The two of them are like brothers, he thinks, born into the same family, with a clear resemblance to each other, but each having consciously developed into their own man.
And unlike his brother in arms, when Combeferre finally turns his attention to Grantaire, it is not with barely concealed frustration, but with an appraising look and a calm smile.
“Would you like to accompany me for supper?” he inquires.
Grantaire nods and finishes his drink eagerly, pleased to have been asked.
**
The second round of drinks takes place over supper, at a dining establishment not far from the Musain.
The books have been put away now, and Combeferre is ready to engage -- his pupils are slightly dilated and words are spilling out of his mouth, about entomology and etymology and many other things about which Grantaire, a self-described man of the world, knows nothing. But for a change Grantaire finds himself listening -- not simply pretending to listen while he came up with a witty rejoinder -- as he is fascinated not by the subjects themselves, which hold little interest, but by the way this man’s mind works, the way it grasps an idea and holds on to it for dear life, then hangs it on a string with something completely unrelated.
He realizes he has never really paid a good deal of attention to Combeferre before tonight -- at gatherings of Les Amis, his eyes are always on Enjolras -- but he wishes he had paid attention sooner.
The meal itself is simple, but the wine is of good quality. Grantaire consumes most of the bottle himself, as Combeferre is too busy talking and eating to pause for many sips from his glass. He is a bit of a messy eater, Grantaire notes with amusement -- he dribbles on himself more than once, requiring that he dab at his clothes with a napkin, but it never fazes him as he continues his train of thought.
“Do I speak too much?” Combeferre pauses to ask at one point. “I have been told I have a tendency to monopolize conversations.”
“By whom? By Enjolras? By Courfeyrac? They are guilty of the exact same crime,” Grantaire points out. “And perhaps I am enjoying it,” he adds, his voice just above a mumble.
Upon hearing that Combeferre grins, obviously happy to have found a willing audience.
**
The third round of drinks takes place at yet another drinking establishment, one that is surprisingly unfamiliar to Grantaire, who knows many such places in Paris. Combeferre, though, seems to know it very well, and it suits his personality -- a quiet and unassuming spot tucked away on a tiny street, far away from the Musain in so many ways.
“How did you manage to find this place?” Grantaire asks, genuinely curious, as they take two chairs in the corner and Combeferre beckons for wine.
Combeferre’s face, which has been so animated all night, the drink clearly having gone to his head, suddenly goes completely blank. “I used to come here all the time with--someone,” he replies, softly and elusively. The sudden descent of darkness upon Combeferre’s eyes tells Grantaire that whomever this person was, it did not end particularly well for them -- and that it is still a raw and gaping wound of the same sort Grantaire himself has suffered so many times at the unwitting hands of Enjolras.
The moment of vulnerability passes quickly, but Grantaire now knows he has found a kindred spirit -- and safe in that knowledge, he can finally take his own turn to speak freely.
Unlike Combeferre, his talk is not of intellectual pursuits, but more a recounting of his life story -- of the joys and sorrows of his upbringing, of his estranged family, of his life in Paris. Normally it is a tale that would contain substantial bragging about his exploits, about the boxing match he won or the women he successfully courted, but all pretense has now disappeared now; instead he feels compelled to share his deeper thoughts about the people he has loved and lost, although he never mentions Enjolras by name. He soon segues into an account of his work as an artist, about the struggles of draftsmanship, and more crucially, how he cannot seem to locate his inspiration anymore.
He is surprised to find a sympathetic ear to all of his painterly ramblings -- Combeferre nods sagely as he speaks, and offers suggestions here and there, but rather than trying to solve Grantaire’s problems for him, as his other friends would do, he cocks his head and furrows his brow and simply listens.
“Show me what you are working on right now,” Combeferre finally says in response.
And Grantaire rises from the table to lead him home.
**
The fourth round of drinks takes place in Grantaire’s rooms.
The rooms look as if a cyclone has struck them, with papers and clothing everywhere, and for once Grantaire wishes he were neater. But Combeferre laughs and makes an offhand comment about the tidiness of his own spaces, and Grantaire believes it -- he envisions Combeferre in a tiny garret somewhere, surrounded by books and the detritus of medical school life, not especially caring what others may think of how he chooses to maintain his living space.
Without a word, Grantaire finds his own bottle of wine and his single glass, which he wipes on his shirt and fills with wine, offering it to Combeferre. With only one glass on hand, Grantaire drinks it straight from the bottle, as is his custom, and Combeferre kindly ignores the empty bottles that seem to be present on every flat surface. Instead he takes his glass and walks over to the easel in the corner, where Grantaire’s most recent work sits, unfinished.
“Is this what you were referring to?” Combeferre asks, peering at the canvas.
“It is not especially good,” Grantaire says as he comes up behind him. “I feel as if I could be so much better at this--” he trails off, his failures hanging in the air as he watches Combeferre contemplate the work.
Combeferre’s back is ramrod straight as he adjusts his glasses and studies every inch of the canvas, as Grantaire stands perpendicular to him, taking swigs of his wine while he studies every inch of Combeferre. Why could he not fall in love with a man such as this, a man of reason and compassion and intellect, but also a man who wears his very humanity on his sleeve.
“I think it is rather well done,” Combeferre says, interrupting his thoughts, turning to face him. “You have a great talent.”
They are five little words, but they are words Grantaire thinks he has never heard before from anyone -- or at least not that he can remember right now in his modestly drunken state. The words make him wants to throw himself at Combeferre’s feet and thank him for uttering them, but instead he simply embraces him.
And the embrace turns into a kiss.
And the kiss turns into the two of them fumbling toward the bed, trying to touch every inch of each other, stripping off each other’s clothing and baring their physical selves as they have already bared their emotional selves all evening.
The coupling is quick and desperate and leaves them both breathless and lying on Grantaire’s disheveled bed side by side, not daring to look at each other.
There is so much that Grantaire wants to say in that moment, but words are eluding him, a state of being this glib man has experienced very often in his life. Instead he tugs the coverlet over himself and curls himself into a fetal position facing Combeferre, who rolls over on his side to face him, his arm under the pillow, watching Grantaire yet saying nothing.
The wine finally takes its toll on the two men, and Grantaire falls into a deep slumber, deeper than he has slept in months, even years.
When the light of day awakens him he is alone again, save for a note from Combeferre in his hasty scrawl, indicating he has run off to his lectures. But rather than dive back under the covers, Grantaire rises with the dawn, washes and dresses, and makes his way to his easel.
Inspiration, it would seem, has appeared.
**
The fifth round of drinks takes place exactly a week later.
Grantaire is seated at the same table in the Musain, drawn to the pale light that streams through the window, rather than the dark nether reaches of the establishment he usually prefers. He has not spoken to Combeferre the entire week; during the usual weekly gathering of their friends, they remained on opposite sides of the room and never spoke. But Grantaire’s eyes were focused not on Enjolras, who was circulating around the room, but to Combeferre, who spent the entire evening arguing with Courfeyrac, using his long fingers to emphasize every point. He was so caught up in his debate that Grantaire feels confident Combeferre does not even realize he is there.
It was something Grantaire was used to -- spending an evening with someone, then never speaking of it again, feeling as if he were simply jetsam that floated away forgotten.
But the evening with Combeferre had given him one gift: the return of his artistic vision, as expressed on the sketchpad on which he is madly scribbling. He is working against the very rotation of the Earth, trying to capture the dying light, so he draws faster and harder, oblivious to all of the political arguments erupting around him.
Until he is interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Would you like a drink?” asks Combeferre, a ghost of a smile crossing his face, so obviously pleased to see Grantaire -- and even more pleased as he realizes that he is drawing again.
Grantaire nods and returns the slight smile, knowing now that this man will be different.