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Grantaire sighed, outside in the cold. He’d had to leave the room because their presence was too much, almost overwhelming his senses, suffocating him. Each affecting the way he saw things in their own way. Enjolras with his deep voice that sounded like chocolate, rich and velvety, and could literally make you do whatever he wanted. Literally. Grantaire knew he didn’t mean to, when he got impassioned Enjolras just couldn’t switch it off, but Grantaire could still feel his effect now, like tendrils over his skin leaving goose bumps and his hands itching to act.
Joly had offered to shield him before, as though it was no big deal. “It won’t take much out of me, subconscious protection is much easier than physical” but Grantaire baulked and shook his head without a word. He wasn't some weakling for them to protect, but now he was regretting his pride. Besides, he was sure that Joly had lied to him; his friend had a terrible poker face, he knew that with every power their were several shortcomings to their uses. He continued walking, knowing exactly how far he had to go before he got out of range of Combeferre, who was a mind reader. Grantaire wasn't quite sure to what extent his powers went; but Combeferre seemed to pick up on other's most subconscious and secret thoughts. He never spoke about what he heard though, and for that Grantaire was grateful. He would have nights though, where he’d wake in cold sweats, imagining Combeferre telling all their friends what silly Grantaire things he had heard today. But the more he’d gotten to know the guy, the less frequently these dreams visited him.
The thing was, that his friends (besides Combeferre) really didn't know that he was incapable of doing anything 'special'. He had no unique talent that encompassed his personality. Enjolras had the power to stir you with speech. Combeferre, shrewd and sensitive, could read your thoughts better than you could yourself. Courfeyrac could affect the mood, as well as sense your own, making him the perfect person to turn to if you ever needed to feel better. Feuilly had the power to blend in, sometimes he didn’t even realize he’d do it, and then speak out, his soft voice causing others to jump. Joly was literally a human shield, protector of all his friends, Bahorel had super strength, Jehan had the ability to animate and make organic matter in the form of flora and plants. Lord, even Floreal, the girl he knew from childhood, was a succubus (which explained a lot) whose special power of seduction she swore was only ever used for good. Grantaire though? Grantaire pretended he was a man of mystery. Every week he’d come up with a new tale of exciting exploits, generally stolen from old superhero movies. But nowadays, no one had seen those films. There was no need to, not when your average Joe was literally flying through the air to make their way to work on time. They were Grantaire's favourite genre.
He knew why he was in such a mood, before the meeting had even begun, Bahorel had joked that perhaps Grantaire's special power was to be able to drink twice as much wine as any other person before feeling the effects. Grantaire had laughed, hiding the nerve it touched by lifting up his glass in a mock toast, and taking a hefty gulp. As he set it back on the table though, still laughing alongside Bahorel, his friend had slammed his hand down quite accidentally, smashing the table in two. This was a regular occurrence by now, and made Bahorel laugh all the more. Grantaire felt like crying, because now not only did he have no powers, but he had no more wine. Bahorel's laughter, which always needed a victim, had then chosen Joly, and Grantaire watched with bated breath as Bahorel went to put his hand on Joly's back, laughter driving his hand, and not even notice that Joly had carefully arranged a forcefield to take the force of Bahorel's supernaturally strong hand. This show had made Grantaire sullen, and even with his friends best efforts to lift his spirits, remained that way for most of the night.
He turned another right, slowly losing his way, accidentally on purpose. Past a poster that offered a paid trial of a drug that was meant to give you powers if you didn’t have any. Grantaire teared it down. He’d tried everything, before deciding he was just broken. His father was a megamind. No mathematical equation too difficult for him to solve mentally. He worked with some of the big leagues, conspiring this and that. And his mother too, had the power of a siren, he fondly recalled the times she would sing for him and let him fall asleep when he had nightmares. Genetically, he should have something special about him surely? And yet puberty came and went and still, nothing. There was a time when everyone was like Grantaire, but now the world was split. Roughly eighty percent of the population had some sort of super power. But those like Grantaire? They weren’t super and they weren’t heroes. They had no worth. Grantaire had no worth.
He crossed a road, not even bothering to turn his head to see if there were any cars. He turned down a side road, and then into another smaller alley way, where he came face to face with a new sign. The "police" had been disbanded a long time ago, and a new, more effective team of supers were all that was standing between complete anarchy and a police state. Grantaire wasn't a fan of either option, but at least in anarchy he wouldn't have to bump into the smug faces of these humans who possessed powers even greater than his friends every day. Not that he'd ever let Enjolras hear him say that, because the whole idea was ridiculous and doomed.
He looked at the face of the leader, pale and radiating light. And he scoffed. He knew there was someone more beautiful and far more suitable to being a leader in a pub down the road. His cold hands scrabbled inside of his pockets, pulling out lighters and old receipts until he found his most beloved possession. The permanent marker. He cast a quick look around, but he wasn't too wary. It was dark and cold and the only people who should be in an alleyway such as this right now, were if they were planning something a bit shadier than casual vandalism. So he unscrewed the pen and began to scribble on the shiny paper, a moustache here, a well placed penis there. He had just put the pen to his lips, carefully pondering what inane and childish joke he would write today on top of the sign, when he came aware of a small child staring intently at him.
Grantaire blinked at him.
The small child, who Grantaire supposed was nearing his teens now really. Perhaps about eleven or twelve, narrowed his eyes. His head turning from the sign to the pen near Grantaire's lips. He hastily capped the lid back on, and shoved it in his pockets. "What are you looking at?"
"Are you the one who vandalized the other pieces? The one about a mile from here is my favourite."
Grantaire said nothing, because yes it had been him, but he didn't want to do a Banksy and get himself famous. He was just so angry at everything and nothing, and he had to let it all out somehow. Grantaire just narrowed his eyes further. This was probably the most quiet he had ever been in the presence of another human being. He usually could not keep his mouth shut.
"You know, the one where it has him." The kid referred to the golden boy on the sign, with a haughty glower, "punching that man with his fists of steel or whatever. And someone tagged on it 'super patrol is a joke. and we're the PUNCH line'. Was that you?"
Grantaire shrugged. "When you say it out loud it sounds even worse." he grumbled, cringing at the awful play on words.
"Well mister, you're my hero." The kid smiled, before turning to leave.
Grantaire is left processing his words for a moment, and wonders if he should go after the child and walk him home. But at the end of the day, he is no hero, and should that child come into any trouble, it'll be for Captain DickHead SteelHands to save the day.