Chapter Text
"Okay, but like, what did you think was going to happen?" Grantaire asks with something akin to genuine curiosity.
Enjolras shrugs weakly. "I thought that maybe if I voiced the thoughts that others were too afraid to think, let alone speak, I could show them how to rise up. How to take a stand. I thought that if I could show them that they weren't alone in wanting more, they'd stand with me. That together, we could free ourselves from the tyranny that dictates everything we do and everything we say, and claw our way up to equal standing."
Grantaire nods sagely. "Yeah, that's not what happened though, was it?"
Enjolras sighs. "Yeah, no. The opposite, really."
Grantaire laughs softly and looks at Enjolras. Even locked in the stocks, there's passion and determination pouring out of him in droves.
"Yeah," he says. "That's one way of putting it."
Grantaire still remembers the day Enjolras moved in. Probably. He didn't meet the man until a few days later, and he's not super sure when exactly the blond from beyond rolled into town, but still, it wasn't that long ago and Grantaire's memory isn't that bad, okay?
He does remember with perfect clarity, though, their first conversation. It was a gorgeous day, and Enjolras' hair was practically gleaming in the sunlight, and all Grantaire could think was, 'I would sell that man the fuck out of some tomatoes.'
And then he was walking over, and Grantaire panicked and tried to make himself look busy by rearranging said stack of tomatoes and, of course, ended up knocking the entire damn display over.
Grantaire had immediately scrambled to recover them, and when he’d reached for a stray tomato that had rolled a fair bit away, he’d felt fingers brush against his. Startled, he’d looked up only to find himself face to face with the beautiful stranger, who’d knelt to help Grantaire pick up his vegetables (well, technically fruits).
“Well, isn’t this is a meet-cute,” was the first thing out of Grantaire’s mouth, because Grantaire was stupid and also hated himself apparently.
But the blond had laughed. “Kind of the opposite, actually,” he’d said, and for a second Grantaire’d wanted to curl up and die. But then the blond had gone on to continue, “This is a veggie-cute, if anything,” and then Grantaire still wanted to die, but for a different reason.
“That’s terrible,” he’d wheezed, now breathless for totally different reasons. “Just the worst, my God, we are going to get along so well. ”
At that, the blond had smiled with something like relief mixed with genuine anticipation. “My name is Enjolras.”
Grantaire grinned. “I’m Grantaire. And believe me, it is a pleasure to meet you.”
It’s the best business Grantaire’s had in years. Something about the young idealist’s youth and idealism really inspires people, definitely not in the way that he wants but in a way that is very much beneficial to Grantaire’s small but suddenly thriving produce cart. He parks his cart right next to where Enjolras kneels in the stocks, the people line up, fruit gets flung, and the real beauty of it all is that he gets to talk to Enjolras the whole time. That’s how he learns that Enjolras was basically chased out of the last town he was living in, some tiny pit stop of a place close to the fringes of the kingdom—”But not before I was able to implement some real change, even if on a small level,” Enjolras says earnestly, “They burned down my house, but not the community garden, you know?”—and that he really, truly believes he was put on this world to change it—”I’m not going to stop until everyone gets, or is even just able to get, the life they deserve; I’ve walked a long way and I’ve met people who’ve been breaking their backs working since they were five and farmers who can’t even afford to eat the food they’re growing“—and that Grantaire is totally, totally a goner—“I’m glad you’re getting some business out of this at least, it makes me feel better to know I’m supporting small businesses. It makes this feel like less of a punishment and more like community service.” “Community service is a punishment, Enjolras.” “Only with that attitude!”
When afternoon fades into evening, a guard comes and unlocks Enjolras from the stocks, lifting a brow in mild amusement at his sorry state but his face otherwise impassive.
Enjolras stands up on shaky legs, rubbing his wrists tenderly. The relief on his face is so profound that Grantaire can't help but laugh fondly.
"Well," Enjolras sighs, "I'll be in the town square tomorrow, giving the same speech. I mean, not the exact same speech. Obviously. But a variation of the speech I gave yesterday, with some edits and new content after I go through it tonight and make some changes based on what the townspeople seemed to react to and what they... pelted me with produce for. So basically, I'll be giving a different speech, albeit with the same core ideas and theme as yesterday's." He laughs a tad self-consciously and looks hopefully at Grantaire. "You should come."
Grantaire stares at him in disbelief. "Really? Again? You've literally still got cabbage in your hair."
The corner of Enjolras' mouth tugs upwards in acknowledgement, and he shakes his hair out in what would be quite a sight to behold if it weren't for all the semi-rotten vegetables flying everywhere. Actually, even so, it's still closer to glorious than Grantaire would like to admit.
"Oh," Enjolras says sheepishly. "I- I think I might've gotten a chunk of tomato on you." He leans forward to wipe it off, so close that Grantaire swears he can count the blue in his eyes. Which, yeah, doesn't make sense, but neither does the fact that Enjolras is this close to him.
"Sorry," Enjolras says, still just as close. "But will you come, tomorrow?"
Grantaire openly stares, then realizes he's openly staring, and then tries to cover up the fact that he's openly staring by running a hand through his hair and cracking a joke.
"Well, by the sound of it, I'll be seeing you right back here again in a matter of hours anyways, so..." Grantaire laughs.
"Maybe," Enjolras admits begrudgingly, but with his head still held high. "But still, you know?"
It had started, innocently enough, with flyers. Hand-painted pamphlets depicting roughly drawn people of varying garbs all united with a rising sun in the backdrop.
Enjolras is all but bouncing up and down eagerly when he hands one to Grantaire with an expectant grin, his hands fluttering about restlessly as he waits for a response.
“What do you think?” he asks after all of five seconds, unable to contain himself. It’s frankly obscenely cute, and Grantaire has to force his eyes back to the pamphlet.
“This is adorable ,” Grantaire coos, grinning fondly. “Did you paint all these yourself? I love it, this is going straight on my room-temperature box that I keep food in.”
Enjolras’s smile falters ever so slightly. “When I asked what you thought, I was hoping you’d maybe mention something about the words inside?”
Grantaire looks down at the pamphlet, skims it over briefly. It’s… something. He has no idea what to say without hurting Enjolras’s feelings.
“Uhhhhh,” he says eloquently, not panicking at all, “I can’t read?”
Enjolras stares at him wide-eyed, somewhere between bemused and amused. “Grantaire,” he says softly, “I highly doubt anyone but you could’ve written that.” And he points to the sign painted on the side of Grantaire’s vegetable cart, announcing in swooping letters: ‘R’s HeaRRRty Vegetables!!! Pick the ones that are freshly picked, or hurl the ones that’d make you hurl!!!!’
“Uhhhhhhhhh,” Grantaire says, eyes flicking between Enjolras and his cart as he curses himself for every decision he’s ever made leading up to this moment, “what’s that say? Vandals tagged it in the night, always wondered what they wrote.”
Enjolras shakes his head with a sad laugh. “It’s that bad?”
Oh God, that look on Enjolras’s face does something terrible and twist-y to Grantaire’s poor, pathetic heart. “No! It’s the most well-written, beautifully crafted call-to-nothing I’ve ever read, I swear!”
“Call-to-nothing?” Enjolras repeats, looking faint. Oh no.
“Look, it’s… it’s so eloquent and effective, Enjolras, but—but you’re just laying out all the problems in society and you’re not saying what they can actually do. You’re just reminding them of how shitty life is, which I think life does for them every day. They can’t just pick up their arms and go fight for the cause, Enjolras. They have no arms. And even if they did, they’re exhausted and have families and can’t afford to lose what little they have,” Grantaire says, almost smacking a potential customer in the face as he waves his arms around making his point.
Enjolras bites his lip, looking thoughtful, but that crestfallen look on his face is gone, at least. “Thank you,” he says finally, and it’s genuine. “I’ll think about that as I’m writing my next one.”
It’s Grantaire’s turn to bite his lip now. He looks at Enjolras, young and beautiful and brilliant and relentless and so, so stupid. “You know,” he says, “I might be able to read, but there’s, um, a large portion of this town that can’t say the same. Well, I mean, they could say it, but they wouldn’t be able to write it.”
Enjolras’s eyes widen, looking sheepish. “Oh God,” he says guiltily. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I hope you don’t think of me as elitist, I just assumed…”
Grantaire laughs loudly at that, and it makes Enjolras start a little. “Enjolras,” Grantaire says fondly, “I think of you as a lot of things, but elitist definitely is not one of them.”
That makes Enjolras’s face break out into a bright smile, and he laughs a little too. It’s a nice little moment. (Grantaire wants to live in it forever.)
“Well,” Enjolras says, “I suppose there’s quite a few ways to make myself more accessible. Anyone and everyone could listen to a speech…”
Grantaire can see the exact moment Enjolras’s face lights up from the prospect of the terrible, terrifying idea.
“Yes, that’s it! A speech, in the middle of the town square at noon, everyone will be there, and I’ll know they hear me and I can see how they react to what I’m saying—that’s so much better than a pamphlet!” Enjolras exclaims ecstatically, taking Grantaire’s hands in his own in his excitement as he continues to babble animatedly. Grantaire can’t really focus on anything except the thrill of Enjolras’s hands gripping his tightly, Enjolras’s enthusiastic eyes looking straight into his.
He mourns the loss immediately when Enjolras breaks away, his eyes still bright and happy.
“I have to go home—I have to write,” Enjolras says passionately, his face flushed. “Tomorrow, I have to do this as soon as possible, so it has to be ready by tomorrow.”
Without the intense distraction of Enjolras’s immediate proximity, the thought occurs in Grantaire’s mind that this is a very bad idea and that he should probably, definitely say so.
“Wait, Enjolras—” he starts, but Enjolras is already moving away with restless hands that seem to be itching for a pen.
“I’ll see you tomorrow!” he shouts over his shoulder, and Grantaire sighs.
“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “I expect you will.”
Well, at least he can expect some business tomorrow.
He walks home that night with Enjolras’s pamphlet still tucked away in his pocket, and he takes it out and places it tenderly on his nightstand. He thinks about Enjolras’s blond hair shining gold against the burning sun, his blue eyes intensified with passion for his cause, his red jacket and redder lips, and he can’t stop thinking about it. At the same moment Enjolras is probably staying up and scribbling out his ideas nonstop, Grantaire stays up painting Enjolras in painful detail, every excruciating feature of his already burned into Grantaire’s memory.