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Sometimes, Grantaire dreams of a train that never stops. It has no doors, only windows that reveal the ever-changing backdrop flashing by. Faceless people get on and off, but Grantaire never moves from his seat as the train endlessly speeds on, going nowhere.
He wouldn’t mind that, he thinks, if he were to spend that endless train ride sitting across from this fellow passenger.
The young man on the other side of the aisle is one of Grantaire’s only models on this trip—the compartment is empty but for them and a few others sitting further down—but Grantaire has no complaints. He’s more stunning than any painting or statue Grantaire has ever seen; if he were to pick a model for a portrait of Achilles, this young man would be his first choice. His golden curls fall down into his face, escaping from the messy bun constraining the rest of it; when he reaches up to brush it back, it reveals a solemn, serious expression. Grantaire can’t read the title of his book, but he imagines any number of things—philosophy, perhaps, or history, or one of the classics. By the bookbag at his side, he imagines the young man to be a student.
The young man’s book snaps shut, jolting him from his thoughts, as those blue eyes levy a sharp glare across the aisle. “Is my reading bothering you?”
“Ah,” Grantaire says, for a moment too taken aback at being addressed to respond. The young man huffs and opens his mouth, and Grantaire hurries on before he can really get mad. “Sorry. I was sketching—should’ve asked first. Here.”
He pauses for only a moment before flipping around the sketchpad, showing the afternoon’s work. The little boy who had been playing with a toy train on the station with his mother, the old man who had sold him a sandwich while he waited for the train, a pair of old women who had been giggling together over a raunchy book. And, of course, the young man who he’s been sitting across from all this time, featured in bits and pieces—a hand there, a boot there, a messy bun there.
The young man surveyed the page with a raised eyebrow. Grantaire feels as sweaty as if an art critic were examining his work.
“You have a good eye,” he says at last, opening his book again. “I don’t mind if you continue.”
“Thanks,” Grantaire says. He sets his pencil back to the page, but his mouth moves instead of his hand. “I’m Grantaire, by the way.”
The young man looks up, a bit surprised, but responds. “I’m Enjolras.”
“So, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, rolling the name across his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. It suits him, Enjolras. “Why are you traveling?”
“Don’t people usually ask ‘where’ first?” Enjolras says, as he closes his book and shifts to give Grantaire his full attention.
The weight of Enjolras’ eyes on him is thrilling. “Where is boring,” Grantaire says. “Your destination is already constrained to somewhere along this line or one of the lines you can transfer to. ‘Why’ is much more interesting, and half the time ‘where’ gets answered as part of it.”
The corner of Enjolras’ lips quirks up in a small, amused smile. Grantaire almost presses a hand to his chest in a flair of dramatics— be still, his beating heart!
“I was visiting family during break,” he says. “Now I’m going back home to my friends. What about you?”
“I’m long-distance couch surfing. I was visiting my friend Eponine, and now I’m off to visit some other friends.” Grantaire throws out a hand, as if to gesture to the expanse of the world. “After that, another place, another friend.”
“You must have a lot of friends,” Enjolras says.
“I get around,” Grantaire says, running a thumb against the edge of his sketchbook. “Want to see?”
Enjolras’s eyes move, however, back down to the book in his lap. ”I’d like to finish my book.”
Grantaire nods, already looking back down to his sketchbook. He doesn’t take it personally; it’s not his first rejection, it probably won’t be his last.
But then Enjolras continues, “After that, however, you will have my full attention.”
Grantaire can’t help but grin. “Sure, I can wait. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
Enjolras gives him a brief smile before turning back to his book; he’s close to the end, so depending on how fast he reads, Grantaire estimates he has about an hour of time to kill.
With a sketchbook in his lap, he’s an expert at killing time.
There’s a young woman with an older man—possibly her father, possibly her grandfather; he’s old enough and she’s young enough that it’s hard to say for sure—sitting in one of the booths down the aisle. The old man is asleep, his head dropping down onto his chest as he snores, while the young woman is reading a book. Or, she’s pretending to read, at least; as Grantaire sketches her, she doesn’t flip the page once, her eyes continuously flicking over to a seat a few booths down.
The young man there, to Grantaire’s humor, is doing the same exact thing, nervously fiddling with his phone and glancing over at her, somehow managing to miss every single moment she looks at him.
“That’s very well done.”
Grantaire jerks, his pencil scratching a dark line against the page, narrowly missing the sketch of the young man. Enjolras, standing in the aisle, winces. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s alright,” Grantaire says, trading pencil for eraser and rubbing out the line. “I got pretty lost in my head there. You’re, uh, done with your book?”
“I am.” Enjolras gestures towards the seats. “May I . . .”
“Oh—oh, yeah, sure.” Grantaire fumbles for his bag, currently occupying the empty seat beside him. As he dumps it onto the floor at his feet, he realizes that there is a perfectly good seat across from him, which Enjolras would probably prefer; sitting right next to strangers is always a bit awkward.
But Enjolras is already dropping into the seat beside him as if it’s perfectly natural, one leg casually crossed over the other, his body angled towards Grantaire.
“Sorry for making you wait,” he says, as if Grantaire isn’t some stranger on a train, but someone important. The full weight of Enjolras’s attention is a heady thing.
“Don’t worry about it. So, what book was so important it couldn’t wait?” Grantaire says, fishing for a topic of conversation.
“Nothing exciting,” Enjolras says, which Grantaire doubts—Enjolras could probably read from a dictionary and Grantaire would find it exciting right now. “It’s a book about moths.”
“Moths?” Grantaire says. “Like, the bug?”
A small smile turns up the corner of Enjolras’s lips. “Is there another type?”
Of all the things he could have guessed, Grantaire never would have guessed moths. “You’re interested in bugs?”
“Not me, personally, although it was more interesting than I expected,” Enjolras says. “It’s a gift for my friend Combeferre; I was making sure it was well-written before giving it to him.”
“What would you have done if it wasn’t?” Grantaire asks.
“Oh, he would want to read it anyway,” Enjolras says. “But this way we can discuss it together. I have some other books for him as well, so it doesn’t matter if one is a wash.”
“Anything good?” Grantaire asks.
“Most of them,” Enjolras says, nodding. “I liked the one about cryptids.”
That makes him laugh. “Moths and mothman, huh? You have some interesting friends.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Enjolras says. “Maybe I should have bought some about art; I have to admit, I don’t know much about the topic. I have a friend, Feuilly, he’s an artist as well—but he does more handicrafts and such. Painted fans.”
“Painted fans, huh?” Grantaire hums thoughtfully, his pencil tapping an idle rhythm against the paper. “An artist I may be, but I’ve been taught entirely by myself and the internet. You won’t learn anything from me that you can’t learn from Wikipedia.”
“You’re self-taught? That’s even more impressive.” Enjolras says.
“Anyone could do it, with enough effort,” Grantaire says, flipping the pencil towards Enjolras. “Want to try?”
“Only if you don’t mind your portfolio being well and truly spoiled,” Enjolras says. “My artistic talents extend only to writing letters on posters.”
“Hey, I won’t judge. Show me what you’ve got,” Grantaire says.
Enjolras accepts the pencil, after a moment, and props the sketchbook up on one knee as Grantaire slides it over. “Don’t look.”
Grantaire, politely, slides his eyes away, looking past Enjolras. The young man and the young woman a few seats down, have finally made eye contact, although it doesn’t seem like either of them has dared to make conversation yet. Grantaire silently cheers them on; if he can do it, so can they.
“Alright. There.”
Grantaire looks down and can’t suppress the snort that escapes him. The figure on the page is little better than a stick figure, with a round head and curly hair escaping from under something that is probably meant to be a beanie. “Is that me?”
“I told you I wasn’t very good,” Enjolras says, flipping the pencil around to erase it.
Grantaire pulls the sketchbook back before he can. It might be even worse than Gavroche’s art, but he’s going to treasure this little stick figure. “Don’t you dare.”
Enjolras shakes his head, but he’s smiling slightly. “Are you sure? Your own art must be much better.”
Grantaire’s thumb brushes against the edge of the page. “Want to see?”
Enjolras’ eyes, already bright, seem to light up even more. “If you don’t mind.”
“Well, if you showed me yours, the least I can do is return the favor,” Grantaire says, before swallowing his nerves and turning back to the first page. “Let’s see . . . that’s Eponine, from last spring,” he says, recognizing the sketches. “And Gavroche, her little brother. I was helping them move, those are some sketches of their new place. A bit of a fixer-upper, but nice enough.”
He flips through the book slowly. His eyes refuse to stay focused on the page, constantly sliding over to Enjolras’ face to see if he’s still interested, if he’s getting bored, if he’s getting irritated. Enjolras’ eyes, however, remain fixed on the page; Grantaire can’t tell if he’s genuinely interested or just being polite.
“That’s Bahorel, another friend, we box sometimes,” he says. “Maybe I’ll visit him, he lives nearby . . . “
“Who is that?”
Enjolras’ finger hovers above an image of Musichetta. “Why, think she’s pretty?” Grantaire says, unable to stop the teasing words from escaping. “She’s taken.”
Enjolras casts him a disgruntled glare. Grantaire grins apologetically, and that stern expression twitches slightly before disappearing with a shake of Enjolras’ head. “I’m gay. I thought she looked familiar, that’s all. Nevermind—what’s this?”
“Ah,” Grantaire says, momentarily stunned. as Enjolras reaches into his space to flip the page. “Those are ducks.”
Enjolras laughs, and Grantaire feels like his world is cast in light. “Ducks?”
“Hey, I like ducks,” Grantaire says, as he glances at the next page only to find they’ve reached the end of his sketches, apart from the ones Enjolras has already seen. “But—that’s enough about me. I think I know more about your friends than I do about you; what are you interested in?”
“Social justice,” Enjolras says firmly, his expression practically daring Grantaire to say something mocking in response.
Grantaire swallows his initial cynical response. “Go on,” he says, and after a moment, Enjolras does, speaking of the various goals and activities of his group of friends.
Enjolras, with an audience, glows .
Grantaire doesn’t think half of what he’s saying is possible; Enjolras is an idealist, and Grantaire is a realist at the best of times. But he wants to believe in the world Enjolras believes in.
He wishes he could believe in people like Enjolras does.
Enjolras’ speech only trails off as the train rolls to a stop. Grantaire looks outside habitually, even though it hasn’t been nearly enough time for the train to have reached his stop. The gentleman a few booths down jerks awake, startling the young woman, but shuts his eyes again after a glance out the window. The young woman beside him doesn’t even seem to notice they’ve stopped, too busy exchanging glances with the young man on the other side of the aisle—he’d moved seats to be closer to her, although he apparently hadn’t been daring enough to sit at the same booth.
“Well?” Enjolras asks, pink-cheeked. “What do you think?”
Grantaire thinks a lot of things—some of it too cynical for him to want to voice right now. He doesn’t want to risk ruining this moment, with Enjolras sitting beside him, his knee pressing into Grantaire’s, the world outside speeding by.
“Idealistic,” he says, simply.
“Well, someone has to be,” Enjolras says. “How else can we expect to change things for the better?”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Grantaire says.
Idealism suits Enjolras. Already, it’s hard to imagine him without it. With his eyes gleaming and his hair illuminated by the sunlight coming through the window on the far side of the train, he looks the part of an avenging angel, or a righteous god. Apollo, maybe.
Grantaire’s fingers itch for a pencil.
He gives in, twirling the pencil around as he considers where to start. “Don’t mind me,” he says to Enjolras’ curious gaze, as he sketches light lines across the page. “What else do you like to do?”
Enjolras gives this question its due consideration. “Spend time with my friends,” he says at last, decisively.
“Well, we’ve got that in common,” Grantaire says. “Friends—where would we be without ‘em?”
“Not long distance couch-surfing, I should think,” Enjolras says.
“True! Perhaps I should thank my friends for indirectly leading us to meet, then,” Grantaire says teasingly, gratified when Enjolras smiles in return.
“Courfeyrac would be pleased with himself,” he says. “He’s always telling me to meet more people.”
“What, someone as charming as you has trouble meeting people? I don’t believe it,” Grantaire says.
“Apparently, I’m too intimidating .”
His tone says what he thinks of that, but Grantaire can believe it. Even in casual conversation, Enjolras’ eyes are piercingly intense, his beauty an unintentional weapon. He might have been too intimidated or too embarrassed to approach him, if he hadn’t long ago moved past that. Life is too short to waste it pining from afar.
So he grins and says, “I don’t know, I think I like intimidating.”
Enjolras arches an eyebrow at him. “So you do think I’m intimidating.”
“You do have a certain”—Grantaire lifts his pencil from the page to wave his hands through the air, as if to encompass everything that is Enjolras—” presence about you.”
Enjolras hums thoughtfully. “A presence, hm? I could say the same about you.”
Grantaire’s pencil halts moments before touching back to the paper. “What, me?”
Enjolras nods once, firmly. “You’re intriguing.”
“Intriguing,” Grantaire repeats, rolling the word across his tongue. “That’s a first.”
Is it just him, or does Enjolras seem proud of that?
“Well,” he says, “you must not have met many discerning individuals.”
Grantaire laughs; he finds he likes these sharp-tongued moments of his. “I’ve met a few,” he says, thinking of the many friends who have stuck with him through thick and thin. “Always glad to meet another.”
For a moment, they’re just . . . looking at each other. The silence feels comfortable, not awkward, both of them content without speaking.
Enjolras’ eyes are really very blue.
A loud rumbling breaks the silence. “Ah,” Enjolras says awkwardly.
“Didn’t have a chance to grab lunch?” Grantaire says.
“I got caught up in reading, and before I knew it I was almost late for the train,” Enjolras admits sheepishly.
“Well, there’s probably a dining car around here somewhere, even if it’s just sandwiches or something,” Grantaire says, getting to his feet. “Shall we?”
They wander the aisles together until they find, at last, a car serving drinks and sandwiches. There aren’t many people on the train, for whatever reason, so they don’t have long to wait before they get to order. Grantaire isn’t that hungry, but he orders a coffee and a sandwich out of solidarity, so he’s not just awkwardly sitting there while Enjolras eats his lunch.
When they return, the young woman has finally crossed the aisle to sit next to the young man, their heads bent together as they whisper to each other. They jolt apart, pink-cheeked, as the door to the carriage opens to admit Enjolras and Grantaire. Grantaire can’t resist winking at them as he and Enjolras pass by to take their seats.
The food is fine, as far as train food goes, but Grantaire devours it like it’s the best sandwich he’s ever had, eager to return to their conversation. They end up finishing around the same time, left with only their cooling cups of coffee and the empty sandwich wrappings, as the train slows to a stop yet again.
It’s not his stop, thankfully—but the older gentleman jerks awake and, looking out at the station, calls, “Cosette, this is our stop.”
The young woman jumps up, hurrying to follow as he takes their bags and leads the way towards the exit. In the doorway, she pauses for a long moment, looking back at the young man left behind.
“Cosette!”
With a final wave, Cosette leaves. The young man collapses, a marionette with its strings cut, and lets out a low groan of despair.
Grantaire would feel sorry for him, but he’ll probably be in the same situation as him in an hour or so, once they reach the next stop. He pushes that thought out of his mind, resolved to relish this time as much as he can. An hour can feel like a moment or like an eternity—he’d like it to feel like eternity, but time seems to pass doubly fast whenever he so much as looks at Enjolras.
He wishes that this really were a dream—at least then, even if Enjolras were a figment of his imagination, it would never have to end.
The train starts to move.
“So,” Grantaire says. “How are you at cards?”
Enjolras, as it turns out, is terrible at cards. Grantaire knows more card games than most, even plenty for just two people, and Enjolras somehow manages to lose almost every game. It’s cute, though, looking at the crease in his brow as he concentrates on learning the rules, at the stubborn frown whenever he realizes he’s losing.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone lose this badly at War before,” Grantaire comments, when he’s gone though all the skill-based games he knows and resorted to one based purely on luck.
“I suppose I used up all my luck earlier,” Enjolras says.
“Something good happened?” Grantaire guesses.
“I would say so, yes,” Enjolras says, smiling at him.
That smile is a lethal weapon. Grantaire clears his throat, unable to find the words to respond, and flips over his king. Enjolras reveals a queen and sighs as he surrenders his last card.
Grantaire shuffles the cards and considers. How much time have they spent? How much do they have left? Where is he, in the budget of time with Enjolras?
“Which stop is yours?” Enjolras asks, breaching the subject Grantaire hadn’t wanted to think too much about. He’s looking forward to seeing his friends, of course, but now he dreads having to give up this time with Enjolras.
He considers, momentarily, continuing on the line and just taking a train back in the opposite direction after Enjolras gets off. “The next one,” he admits.
“Oh, mine as well,” Enjolras says.
Grantaire blinks at him. “What, seriously?”
“Yes,” Enjolras laughs softly, running a hand through his hair. “What a coincidence.”
“Well, I guess there are only so many stops,” Grantaire says. “But I’m not good enough at math to calculate the exact chances.”
“Combeferre would know,” Enjolras says. “I wonder—maybe you’ve met them, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, my friends. Or perhaps another member of the group . . .”
“I don’t think I know a Combeferre or a Courfeyrac,” Grantaire says. “It’s been a little while since I’ve been in town, though. I hope my old haunts are still around. You might know—the Musain? The Corinthe?”
“Oh, I know them,” Enjolras says, wrinkling his nose. “The Corinthe, really?”
“It used to be good, believe it or not, but at least it’s still cheap,” Grantaire says.
“I know. Courfeyrac likes it there, for some reason. I prefer the Cafe Musain,” Enjolras says.
“And I prefer the Corinthe, so there we have it,” Grantaire says. “You spend most of your time at the Cafe Musain, and I, mine, at the Corinthe. We must have missed each other on the occasions we switched it up. Certainly, if we were ever at the same place at the same time, I wouldn’t have missed someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” Enjolras asks.
“Fishing for compliments?” Grantaire teases. Enjolras laughs again—another win for Grantaire.
“It’s funny, how we’ve apparently been visiting the same places, and yet somehow managed to miss each other,” Enjolras remarks.
It is a little strange to think about it like that. Maybe he and Enjolras have sat at the same table, separated by mere hours. Maybe Enjolras has seen the napkins Grantaire leaves behind, filled with idle sketches of idle customers. Maybe Enjolras has seen the table in the very back where he scratched his initials, once, in an ill-advised fit of boredom.
“Have you seen my posters?” Enjolras asks.
“Posters? Maybe.” Grantaire thinks back to Cafe Musain, with the bulletin board on the wall filled with advertisements for art fairs and music festivals and protests and demonstrations. “I think so.”
Enjolras nods proudly. “I come up with the words, Combeferre does the editing and lettering, and Courfeyrac decorates them.”
“They’re certainly eye-catching,” Grantaire says, recalling a few particularly vibrant examples.
There’s something else about those posters, something that escapes him at the moment—hadn’t Bossuet and Joly said something about them to him, once?
“Hey, Enjolras, do you know—”
The train jerks. Outside, the scenery is slowing to a stop as the train pulls into a station. The young man down the aisle, his expression a picture of pure misery, is slowly gathering up a collection of shabby luggage.
“I suppose this is our stop,” Enjolras says.
“Yeah. I guess so,” Grantaire agrees.
Still, neither of them move until the train comes to a complete stop, lingering over their luggage until the last possible moment, squeezing out each second of time they can spend in each other’s company.
The train has to move on, however, so they eventually have to take their leave.
As Grantaire steps off the train, he turns towards Enjolras, several potential invitations rising to the tip of his tongue—
“Grantaire!”
“Enjolras!”
Grantaire turns towards the sound of his name as Enjolras does the same, only briefly catching a glimpse of the two men waving at Enjolras from one end of the platform. On the other end, Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are all waiting for him.
“So,” Grantaire says, motioning over his shoulder. “That’s my ride.”
Enjolras motions towards his friends. “And that’s mine.”
“Yeah.”
Something hangs in the air between them, heavy with anticipation—and Grantaire fumbles it. “So, uh, nice meeting you,” slips from his mouth, before he can think of something better to say.
Enjolras hesitates a moment before saying, “You as well,” and holding out his hand.
They shake hands once, twice, and then Enjolras’ hand is slipping out of his as he turns away, towards his friends.
Enjolras’ back is to him, steadily getting further away, when it hits him: he might never see him again.
Before he can think better of it, Grantaire is rushing forward. “Wait, you forgot something!”
Enjorlas turns, confusion rising to his face as he looks down at the phone in Grantaire’s outstretched hand. “That’s not mine.”
“You forgot to give me your number,” Grantaire says, heart in his throat.
He waits for Enjolras to turn around and keep going. But instead, with a laugh, that confusion melts into a smile that takes Grantaire’s breath away as Enjolras reaches out and types something into the phone.
“I’ll see you,” he says, like a promise, before catching up to his friends.
Grantaire stares down at the phone in his hands long after Enjorlas is gone.
Maybe he had only pretended to enter something—but when he looks, there’s Enjolras’ name, with a number listed with it.
It could be a fake number.
His hand shakes as he taps on the number and holds the phone up to his ear. He wets his lips a few times, nervous, half-expecting an even stranger stranger or a prank line.
The voice that greets him, though, is undoubtedly Enjolras. “Hello?”
“Hi,” Grantaire says, breathless. “So . . . what are you doing tomorrow?”