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Enjolras crept carefully down the stairs of his dorm building, cautious not to step too loudly and wake the tired university students around him. It was a beautiful night in October, the kind where the trees sang along with the city and where the moon smiled easy, and Enjolras glanced down at his phone again.
r. grantaire (03:32 AM): coffee?
a. enjolras (03:34 AM): meet you in 5.
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r. grantaire (03:35 AM): omw
Making his way out the door of his building, Enjolras loitered at the corner between his door and Grantaire's apartment and admired the quiet evening.He had always thought campus at night was beautiful - the windows of the dorm building made a yellow and black mosaic that was unique to the night, and the amber lights humming above his head bathed everything in a haze of honey and comfort.
He heard a voice behind him. “Trip down from Olympus alright?”
Enjolras turned. The figure in front of him was distinct despite the thousands dressed in the same unofficial university uniform - hands shoved into a dark sweatshirt, unruly hair in a wild streetlight-gilded halo, dark circles under heavy eyes.
Grantaire was looking at him, eyes crinkling with the start of a smile, lopsided and casual and warm.
“Lovely to see you at this hour, Apollo.”
“You too, Grantaire,” Enjolras smiled, putting his hands in his pocket with his phone as they began walking the few blocks to their favourite coffee shop.
Alright, if Enjolras was being honest with himself, he wasn’t really sure what they were doing. This wasn’t the first time they’d made their way to each other in the dark hours of the AM, but he still wasn’t sure what their late night excursions meant - to Grantaire, to himself, to anyone else. Enjolras wasn’t totally oblivious, despite Courfeyrac’s assertions, and he knew whatever he had with Grantaire didn't feel like just friendship.
A month ago, Enjolras had been out getting coffee at around 2 AM when he had seen Grantaire out of the corner of his eye, along with someone else he didn't recognise - draped across a park bench under the then-August moon. The girl had looked rough and stone-strong but had been laughing with her face pressed into Grantaire’s shoulder, and Enjolras had tightened his grip on his cup and kept walking, praying that he wouldn’t be noticed. But Grantaire had spotted him and waved him over with a smile, and as Enjolras had made his way to where the two of them sat, he had overheard their quick exchange.
“Who is this boy?”
Grantaire had huffed. “He’s a friend of mine. Leader of that activism club I go to sometimes.”
“He’s pretty,” she had started, but Grantaire had jabbed an elbow at her as Enjolras walked up.
“What’s up, Apollo?”
Enjolras didn’t remember much of what they had said after that. He had felt awkward, sitting stiffly as they were languid across the bench. Something about professors and schedules and the bus timetable, with the girl who Enjolras would later find out was Eponine interjecting with sharp and snarky comments. He had barely heard them - his mind had been locked in a loop of He’s a friend of mine. He’s a friend of mine. He’s a friend of mine. Eponine had gone home after a short while, but Grantaire and Enjolras had stayed out almost three hours later.
A couple nights on from that, Enjolras had sent a late night message to the ABC group chat, and Grantaire had texted him privately moments later. Late night snack? He had asked, and the two of them had gotten mediocre french fries and talked about Van Gogh, Klimt, and Keith Haring. The next day, Enjolras sent a polite but strongly worded email to the Introduction to Art History Professor (as he couldn't take Grantaire's advanced courses) and let her know that even though it was over a week into the semester, he would be joining her class.
“So,” Grantaire started, and Enjolras blinked at the words, startled out of his reminiscence. “What keeps the divine Apollo from his slumber? Were you and Combeferre up taking turns reciting Robespierre?”
Enjolras shook his head. “He’s asleep. I was working on a paper for Art History, but it was slow moving. I was about to raid Combeferre’s black tea stash when I got your text.”
They made their way to the small cafe tucked into the corner of a bright plaza. It seemed to smile around the two of them - old brick shone next to new glass, and lights strung across the shops reflected in brightly colored windows. The noise of the campus flowed through the air, students eating and laughing and distinctly alive. They ordered and paid for their drinks, and Enjolras sat down with his coffee at a table in the plaza’s center.
Grantaire pulled the other chair at the table out with a scrape and sat down across from him, and the plaza seemed to smile a little brighter. Then, Grantaire reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out four pens, three pencils, a granola bar, a mandarin orange, a ring of keys, and a straw in a messy handful and plunked it on the table.
Enjolras blinked. “Did you forget your record player and hardback trilogy?”
Grantaire nodded importantly. “Had to make room for my kazoo and live mollusk farm.”
A few moments passed in quiet. Enjolras took a sip of his coffee, watching Grantaire do the same, and the thought leaped out of nowhere and planted itself in his mind: there’s nobody he’d rather be quiet with.
“So,” Grantaire said, setting his cup down decisively on the table. “Tell me about your paper. Intro to Art History, right? Greeks and Romans? Byzantine?”
Enjolras nodded. “An analysis on Classical Greco-Roman Sculpture influence. Basically how it shaped the landscape of every other era of…” He gestured vaguely. “Like, everything in art.”
Grantaire was nodding along before Enjolras had even finished, but he didn't cut in. “See, okay, I was assigned The Kiss by Rodin as an example of modern sculpture.” Enjolras continued slowly, toying with the paper insulator around his coffee. “Officially, it was inspired by Dante’s Inferno, but some historians say that it was originally meant to be Apollo and Daphne.”
Grantaire grinned. “Or Orpheus and Eurydice, yeah.”
Enjolras stared. “...Or Orpheus and Eurydice. Do you just know that off the top of your head?”
Grantaire shrugged. “It’s Rodin. He’s pretty well known. I had a class last year where these dudes duked it out over what the actual inspiration was. One of them was like, ‘It’s depicting the moment before Daphne turned into a tree when Apollo was trying to get in her proverbial leaf pants - she laurelifies like the next second.”
Enjolras found himself nodding along as Grantaire continued. “But I don’t think that was it - the masculine figure doesn’t have the traditional markers of divinity that would signify him as a god. So then one of the other dudes in my class was like, ‘No, it’s definitely Orpheus and Eurydice.’ But I don’t think it’s that either. Orpheus is rarely depicted without his lyre, for one. And on top of that, a notable plot point of that story is that they didn’t actually get to be together. It would be weird to depict them in this super romantic position when their capital T Thing was that they lost that.
And then there’s the agreed upon story of Dante - which might be true, but it sucks so much, I choose not to believe it. Officially, it’s this lady and her lover - who’s her husband’s younger brother, I should add, just making out in the inferno.” Grantaire finished, with a delightful expression of exasperation.
Enjolras blinked. It was one thing to hear Grantaire go on about some painter to Jehan in ABC meetings, or to know how many classes he must have taken. It was another to have the context of what Grantaire was talking about for himself - now with Enjolras’ (admittedly very basic) foundation of knowledge, he could further quantify just how knowledgeable Grantaire was.
“So if you’re not a fan of any of those theories, who do you think they are?” Enjolras asked.
Grantaire gave a half smile. “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, it’s pretty generally agreed that they’re from Dante’s Inferno,” he says, which was the least convincing Grantaire had ever been, ever.
“And you agree?” Enjolras asked. “Can’t imagine why I’d think this, but I didn’t peg you as the type to go along with what people were telling you.”
Grantaire laughed and took a sip of his coffee. “I may have other theories. Zero evidence, my speculations slash dreams.”
Enjolras smiled. “That’s the best kind of theory.”
Grantaire picked up the mandarin orange from where it had sat on the table. He pressed a thumbnail into the skin, and Enjolras could almost smell the tang of it in the air. “So Plato had this idea.” He began, and Enjolras had truly no idea where this was going.
He must have made a face that said Grantaire, I Have No Idea Where This Is Going, because Grantaire huffed a smile. “Let me at least begin before you question it all. Plato had this idea.” He continued, peeling back the skin of the orange as he talked.
“I mean, it was less of an idea and more of a concept. He said that when humanity was first created, ages and ages ago, we all had four legs, and four arms, and two heads.”
Grantaire continued his orange peeling, and Enjolras found himself focused on how Grantaire's hands worked as bursts of oil from the peel shot into the air like tiny fireworks.
“We sang with two mouths, we danced with four feet. We fought with four fists. And Plato’s story says that we were strong, and independent, and didn’t need each other or the Gods. And they couldn’t handle that - not only did that mean they weren’t getting libation, but the Gods were scared of us - how we were defiant.” Grantaire had successfully removed the orange peel in one piece, and picked off some of the white strings as he spoke.
“They were scared. So they threw down lightning-” He set down the last piece of peel- “- And cut us down the middle.” Grantaire said finitely, and split the orange in half. He handed half to Enjolras, who took it on instinct, head still swimming in the story.
“They made people as we know us now - two arms, two legs, one head.”
Grantaire pulled a section off his half the orange and put it in his mouth.
“They broke us into two people,” He said. “And then they scattered us.” Grantaire looked up with wide eyes.
Enjolras couldn’t figure out his expression - almost wistful, almost wry. He wasn’t sure whether or not he could ask what Grantaire was thinking, or if that would ruin the reverence of the story. He decided instead to eat a slice of orange, and it burst in his mouth, summer-sweet and bright.
“Plato says the gods scattered us to every corner of the Earth. We were weaker, and so we needed the gods. But more than that, we needed each other. We were to spend the rest of our lives trying to find who we’d been split from. Our Alter Idem, our second self. Half our soul, as the poets say.” Grantaire put another slice of orange in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“Plato called them split-aparts.”
Enjolras separated another slice of orange and put it in his mouth.
The story had a certain type of beauty, like a lonely poem to a past lover. But it was also awful - the Gods were cruel and the mortals were lonely, doomed, half-people.
And honestly, this wasn’t the type of story he’d expected from Grantaire. Jehan, maybe, full of whimsy and wonder, but not from their local cynic. This had been a story of star crossed soulmates, complete with thematically relevant fruit.
Enjolras’ mind jumped back to a month ago, before he had encountered Grantaire and Eponine that first night. He had overheard Courfeyac talking to Grantaire on the phone about his recent relationship, and after he had hung up, Courfeyrac had dropped onto the couch next to Enjolras.
“Remind me to buy R a drink next time we’re at the Corinthe. That boy’s romantic streak may kill us all in the end, but damn if that boy doesn’t know his way around a love story.”
Enjolras had had no idea what Courfeyrac was talking about in the moment but after some time of seeing Grantaire, he realized just how much he didn’t know about their supposed local cynic. Maybe Courf had seen this side of Grantaire before, spinning stories with candleflame in his eyes. Maybe everyone in the ABC had, and Enjolras was the only one who was just learning about all the facets of Grantaire - past the paint stains, the bottles, the biting comments.
He ate another slice of his orange and hoped to know Grantaire.
“Split-Aparts,” he said, trying out the word in his mouth. “Your theory is that the lovers in The Kiss are split aparts?”
Grantaire laughed. “God, I don’t know. But - I mean, you’ve seen the statue - they hold each other like they used to be one. I think they’re lovers, like anyone is. They’re Daphne and Apollo, they’re Orpheus and Eurydice, they’re the people making out in Inferno. They’re every pair who doesn’t feel complete without the other.”
Grantaire paused, then continued. “And no matter what we say, no matter what Rodin told people, in actuality, it was probably inspired by his wife. Why create, if not for love?”
Enjolras leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Elaborate,” he said, and placed the last slice of orange in his mouth.
Tomorrow’s sun had risen by the time Enjolras and Grantaire made their way back to their respective homes, mouths and fingers tasting of oranges and heads full of knowing. They had walked and talked, shoulders brushing, all around campus and the nearby city streets until the rosy-fingered dawn had risen.
Enjolras wasn’t half of another person - nor was he anything less than all of himself. But he was blessed to be surrounded by people who he surely wouldn’t feel whole without - people who didn’t complete him, but who had taught him and grown with him all the same.
Enjolras thought back to The Kiss - the lovers who weren’t one person, but two separate people with their separate stories (whatever story that was), together for love. People who clung together as Hell or Hades whirled around them.
He considered what a nine-personed Split-Apart might look like and suppressed a shudder as he and Grantaire approached his dorm building and lingered outside the gate.
They hovered for a moment - Enjolras wasn’t sure what the proper goodby was here - before he hooked his pinky in Grantaire’s. “Thank you - for everything tonight.” He paused. “I’m glad to know you.”
Grantaire smiled softly, his other hand giving a two-fingered salute. “See you later, Apollo.”
Combeferre was still asleep despite the light starting to pour into their room when Enjolras quietly unlocked the door. As he brushed his teeth in the light of dawn, Enjolras pulled out his phone.
a. enjolras (06:39 AM): same time tomorrow 🍊?
r. grantaire (06:41 AM): 🍊 👍
