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Chapter Text

It was a cold February day in Paris when a young man stepped out of a stagecoach and onto the paving-stones of the rue de Verneuil.

The man was unremarkable in appearance; upon passing him, one might take quick notice of his tall stature, but then continue on their way without taking a second glance. His dark hair was short and curled according to fashion, in a state of disarray that suggested a hat had been recently discarded. He was dressed properly from his waistcoat to his boots, an air of generous wealth about him, though his cravat seemed to have disappeared along with his hat. Overall, he gave the impression of someone who was not particularly bothered.

Despite his lack of presence, this man was noticed before he had taken his third step, by another young man seated patiently against the building facade. This second man stood abruptly.

“Grantaire, I hope?” he greeted, with the familiarity of an old friend.

The man who was indeed Grantaire replied, “So I have been called.”

The slighter man’s countenance brightened at once, and he took Grantaire’s hand firmly without it being offered. “And I thank God for it! Madame Beaufoy told me you’d be arriving today, but I nearly thought I’d be waiting the rest of the night,” he said. “You and I will be sharing quarters, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“I was aware I would be sharing quarters.” Grantaire’s eyes were alight with amusement. “ I’m flattered that you’d anticipated my arrival to the extent of waiting out in the cold.”

The other man humored him with a single short laugh. “It was hardly deliberate. I can’t decide whether it’s rotten luck that I lost my key on a week the hotelier is away, or fortunate that it happened the day of your arrival,” he said brightly. “Let’s go in, I lost feeling in the tips of my fingers around an hour ago.”

Grantaire consented, letting them into the building and allowing the man to lead him up the stairs and to a door labeled with the number 16.

The apartment was dark but spacious, with a generous sitting area already furnished with a sofa and a desk, a fireplace nestled into the far wall and an open doorway leading to the kitchen on the right. On the left were two doors that were likely bedrooms. Grantaire glanced briefly inside the open one, which he presumed to be his, judging by the lack of furnishings.

It was a perfectly decent living area. Grantaire indeed could have had better, and by himself, but his sister had insisted he opt for shared housing. She had claimed it was in hope that being among other students would inspire his productivity. Grantaire knew she was simply uneasy at the thought of him alone.

“It isn’t so terrible. I’ll get a fire going, it warms up quickly,” Grantaire’s roommate said, heading to the hearth and allowing Grantaire time to move his luggage into his room and get a bearing on his surroundings. The room itself was much brighter than the main area, with a large window at the head which overlooked the rue du Bac. Grantaire sat at the edge of the bed and looked out unthinkingly for several long moments, before returning to the room which now contained a crackling fire.

“It occurs to me,” Grantaire said mildly. “That I have no idea who you are.”

The other man stood to attention immediately, his expression sheepish. “Yes, that. Now that I’m no longer preoccupied with cold fingers and the like,” he said, pulling off his hat and revealing a head of far less hair than one would typically have at his age. “I’m called Emile Lesgle. Pleasure.”

“Lesgle,” Grantaire repeated. “Where are you from?”

“Meaux, just a bit east,” Lesgle said. “Though I’ve lived in Paris for just short of ten years now.”

Grantaire hummed, the very edge of his mouth turning up in the hint of a smirk. “Have you perhaps heard of someone by the name of Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet?” he asked innocuously.

Lesgle’s expression fell at once, and he promptly had the appearance of someone who had humored a joke to the point of exhaustion. “I’ve heard of him,” he said flatly.

“He was the bishop of Meaux, if I recall,” Grantaire continued thoughtfully. “They called him something, ah, I can’t remember.”

“L’aigle de Meaux,” Lesgle offered with a hand-wave. The eagle of Meaux.

Grantaire allowed a fully-formed grin. “Lesgle de Meaux!” he said, pleased with his masterful sense of humor. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

“You’re entirely too proud of yourself,” Lesgle said with a sigh of exasperation. “I even sign my name that way, you know.”

“Fine, but surely I was the first to make the observation today,” Grantaire said, amusement undiminished.

“Actually, I think I heard it shouted at me by a stranger on the street this morning,” Lesgle said. “And with far better delivery.”

The two of them spent some time by the fire, and became acquainted rather quickly. Grantaire came to know that Lesgle, like himself, was a law student, but loathed the very thought of becoming a lawyer. He was just a few weeks short of twenty-three, putting him at half a year older than Grantaire. He was bald not by choice, but by the design of the fates whom, he lamented, had cursed him with a lifetime of misfortune. It was in remarkably good spirits that he spoke of his seemingly endless woes.

“Just yesterday I was pick-pocketed for the rest of my allowance, if you can believe it. Well, it’s better that it goes to someone who can’t afford to eat. I’ve paid my rent for the month, anyway, so it’s no matter of yours,” Lesgle was saying, entirely cheerful. “Enough of that, what of you?”

Grantaire had left the brunt of the conversation to his companion. He took a thoughtful pause, noticing that the room had become even darker than before, the irregular glow of the fire the only source of light between them. “I,” he said. “Would like to have a drink.”

Lesgle quickly stood in excitement. “I knew at first glance you and I were of the same spirit,” he said with a hand to his heart. “Every moment spent sober from this point forward is a moment wasted. Do you drink wine?”

Grantaire, who had lived twenty-two years of life in Bordeaux, replied, “I’ve been known to partake.”

The wine-shop was only a short walk from their lodgings, a fact that delighted Grantaire more than anything else in Paris had to that point. The entire day he’d been blanketed by a haze of sorts, much like how one might feel just before coming down with a cold, but the first sip of wine woke him at once. Grantaire was a changed man when holding a bottle; or, perhaps, it was at all other times that he was changed.

“Bossuet!” he exclaimed, with half the wine and double the volume he’d had at the beginning of the hour. “My brother, my dearest friend, I haven’t even told you why I’ve come to Paris.”

Lesgle, with an easy smile that suggested not a care in the world, fixed Grantaire with infallible attention. “By all means,” he said.

“I’ve come here searching for something,” Grantaire continued, deeply serious. He stood from his seat. “Something to rouse this heart in my chest.”

“A woman, then.”

“There is a chasm within me, one that has endured from the day I was born. It will not be filled by food nor drink nor even the dozens of lovely women I have taken to bed,” Grantaire spoke loudly, undeterred. “There is something missing, Bossuet. Mal du siècle, surely you’ve heard of it. Sickness of the century. This disease I am afflicted by has no cure, and it is terminal. The hundreds of women whose company I have kept serve only as temporary treatment, but I awaken and the pain begins anew. Nothing moves me. There is no one event that has made me this way, I fear it is a part of my very nature.”

“How many women was that, again?” Lesgle mused.

Grantaire sat down, dropping character at once, as if he’d suddenly lost all energy to perform. “Pay no mind to the thousands of buxom ladies I’ve entertained, please, they are beside the point of the matter,” he said tiredly. He digressed: “I’ve come to Paris to study under Gros.”

“Not the painter,” Lesgle said. Grantaire hummed without enthusiasm, taking a long pull of wine. Lesgle sat upright. “Studying under Gros! How did you manage that?”

“I’ve been told I have the capacity to be a very good artist.”

Lesgle regarded him thoughtfully. “And you’re hoping to learn to care about art, so that you have something to care about.”

“You were listening after all,” Grantaire said.

“But Gros,” Lesgle said the name with disdain, as if he were speaking the word sewage or taxes. “He’ll have you painting Bonaparte, undoubtedly. Hold, we haven’t spoken of this, are you a Bonapartist?”

“No,” Grantaire said, bored.

Lesgle appeared incredibly relieved. “You’re a republican!”

“No.”

“Surely,” Lesgle said with hesitance. “You’re not a royalist?”

“You can continue to guess, but my answer will remain the same,” Grantaire drawled. “I think nothing of politics.”

“That,” Lesgle said. “Is despicable.”

“This wine is despicable,” Grantaire said with a grimace, finishing his bottle nevertheless. “Shall we move on?”

Back on the streets of Paris, Grantaire felt himself increasingly inflicted by sobriety with each step. By the time their walk brought them to the Pont Neuf, deep melancholy had once again embraced his spirit like an old friend. He stopped to look out over the parapet. The stars could be seen twice: once in the sky, and once reflected upon the black stillness of the Seine.

“Surely this rouses that dead heart of yours,” Lesgle said blissfully, raising his arms as if to embrace Paris itself. “You’ve just arrived at the greatest city in the world.”

Grantaire didn’t respond, but instead watched the stars hanging above Paris until they swam in his vision. He thought, it is the same as any other sky.

Chapter Text

“Yves, your friend is waiting for you in the parlor. Quite impatiently, I might add.”

Yves Combeferre paid these words no mind, regarding the shelf of books before him with great indecision. He tenderly pulled a well-worn tome, Le Génie du christianisme, and gave it brief consideration before adding it to his already overfilled luggage. “He can continue to wait,” he said. “Paris is not going anywhere.”

“Though the carriage may not support the weight of your bags,” the other boy remarked. “I didn’t know Paris was short in supply of books.”

Combeferre ignored him pointedly, turning to the valet who stood in wait. “These are ready for the carriage, Gagné, thank you,” he said. He turned to his looking-glass while his bags were retrieved, taking a long look at the reflection of his bedroom under the guise of straightening up his appearance.

“You’re hesitant,” the boy in the doorway continued with an arch of his brow. “Perhaps you’re thinking of how dearly you’ll miss your brother.”

Combeferre turned, a gentle smile gracing his lips. The other Combeferre was loftier than Yves, and his face held the sharpness and lines of greater age, but otherwise they were remarkably similar in appearance. “Perhaps,” he consented. “Though I suspect you and the new Madame Combeferre will hardly notice my absence.”

“Perish the thought,” the elder said with exaggerated offense. “I shall miss you every day.”

“And I you,” Combeferre replied sincerely. “It is true that I am hesitant to leave Marseille. If I’d only kept less persuasive company.”

The other boy chuckled, glancing toward the doorway. “Indeed that friend of yours could persuade the sun to cease shining,” he agreed. “It is for the best, in any case. You will go and become a fine doctor, and we shall all be very proud of you.”

Combeferre hummed, glancing around his room for a final time. It all appeared rather blurry. “Ah,” he said. “I’ve lost my eyeglasses.”

“They are in your front pocket,” his brother informed him coolly. Combeferre patted his breast, and indeed, there they were. He placed them on his nose, completing his preparations. “Enough delay, now. Let us see you off.”

They descended the grand staircase of the rather lavish home where they’d spent their youth, entering the parlor unceremoniously. The room contained three people in addition to themselves: their mother and father, and Enjolras.

Enjolras, as was always the case, drew the eye promptly. He stood tall and fine as a statue; there seemed a glow about him, as if all the room’s light had redirected itself to reflect on him alone. His hair was flaxen, naturally curled and laid perfectly without pomade, and his strong brows framed a face that held both the delicacy of youth and the fierceness of a man much beyond his twenty years. Combeferre had known this boy all his life, and his presence continued to overwhelm even so.

“There you are,” Enjolras greeted at once. “The carriage has been loaded, have you everything?”

Combeferre nodded, and turned his attention to his parents. His mother’s eyes were rimmed with red, but she was smiling bittersweetly as she moved to embrace him. “You are always welcome back home if Paris does not suit you,” she said.

“Though I am sure it will suit you just fine,” his father added, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You will make a capable student, and one day an even more capable physician.”

Combeferre smiled, feeling quite warm. “Thank you. I shall visit when I can.”

“The care of our Yves is in your hands,” Combeferre’s brother said lightly, addressing Enjolras. “I am sorry about that, it’s rotten work.”

“I will try to endure it,” Enjolras replied, with such grave seriousness that one who didn’t know him well would not recognize it as being in jest. “We are off, then.”

“Yes, alright, lest you die of restlessness,” Combeferre said.

As the two of them crossed the stretch between the Combeferre estate and their stagecoach, Enjolras suddenly paused in his walking. Combeferre understood why at once. “Ah, my cousin has come to say goodbye,” Combeferre said, raising his hand in a wave.

Enjolras pursed his lips and exhaled very slowly through his nose.

Stood near their coach was a young woman, waiting patiently with her hands clasped in front of her skirt. Upon their approach, she turned at once to Enjolras. “I am happy I was able to catch you before your departure, Monsieur Enjolras,” she said.

“I am here too,” Combeferre said.

She regarded him with a delicate laugh. “Of course, I will miss you dearly, cousin. I wish the two of you the best of luck in Paris,” she said kindly. “I hope you will think of me while you are gone, monsieur.”

“Thank you for your well-wishes, Elisa,” Enjolras said, bowing detachedly. “We really must be going.”

“Would you take this with you?” Elisa said quickly, bringing forth her handkerchief and holding it out to him daintily. “And bring it back to me when you return?”

Enjolras’s countenance was stone. Combeferre coughed into the sleeve of his overcoat, concealing his laughter. His cousin’s audacity had long since ceased to shock him.

“That is likely to be many years from now,” Enjolras said.

“I am quite patient,” Elisa said, undeterred.

“You will be married by then. Give your handkerchief to that man.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

A grimace lined Enjolras’s perfect face. “If I accept it, may we leave?” he asked coldly.

“I suppose you may,” she said. He grabbed the article from her unceremoniously, and she appeared quite pleased.

In the carriage at last, Combeferre regarded Enjolras with good-humor. “She would make a fine wife,” he mused.

“Alright.”

“Your mother would be glad.”

“I do not set out to make my mother glad.”

Combeferre huffed a laugh through his nose. He spoke without seriousness; he knew, with certainty, that Enjolras would never marry. He did not seem to be aware that there was on earth a thing called woman. Enjolras was in love, and had been for as long as Combeferre was able to remember, but not with a person. It was with ideals that his heart lay: liberty, justice, and revolution.

Combeferre imagined that his friend lay in wake most nights, agonized that he had not been born in time to participate in the storming of the Bastille. As far as Enjolras’s parents were concerned, his departure was for the purpose of studying law, but Combeferre suspected that his true reasoning was indeed so that he would not miss any future insurrections. Combeferre could hardly imagine the other man as an attentive student. He could imagine him as a lawyer even less.

“Enjolras,” he said, continuing his line of thinking aloud. “What is it you intend to do?”

Enjolras looked up from the newspaper he was reading and met Combeferre’s eyes with great intensity. His reply might have sounded childish from elsewhere, but, because it was him, the words rang with power and certainty: “Make a mark upon the world.”

Combeferre nodded, his question answered. He believed that he would.

Chapter Text

When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams — this may be madness. Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all: to see life as it is, and not as it should be.

Jean Prouvaire thought of these words often. They were contained within a novel he had purchased from a peddler in Lyon months ago, and that he had read so many times since that the spine had cracked in four places. He often lamented that he had not lived alongside Monsieur Cervantes; he was certain that the writer would sympathize with his plight.

“Jean,” a voice close to his ear said sternly. “Get out of your head.”

The boy called Jean straightened, and the room sharpened before his eyes, his presence of mind returning with reluctance. He pulled away a strand of tawny hair from where it had fallen across his forehead. It had reached the back of his neck and covered his ears, a length which was entirely out of fashion, as he was often reminded. “Is my physical presence not enough, father?” he asked petulantly. “Must I allow my mind to decay in the presence of such vapid company as well?”

His father pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh, a sight Prouvaire was exceedingly familiar with. “Enough. It draws attention for a young man of your age to be without a dance partner,” he said. “I am going to ask Madame Olivier to introduce you to her daughter.”

“I won’t do it,” Prouvaire said simply. “These traditions of courtship are archaic, and it would debase me to participate.”

“How would you prefer to meet a wife, then?”

Prouvaire thought on it. “A situation in which one of us rescues the other from certain peril, I think,” he said. “And of course there must be some sort of slaying of a beast or monster involved.”

His father did not reply for several long moments. “I am going to speak with the comte,” he said. “If you are asked whether you are my son, there is no need to be honest.”

Prouvaire bowed enthusiastically and returned his gaze to the party, his good spirit undeterred. It was a lovely view at least. He found the clothes and the adornments of the room quite beautiful, but the sort of beauty that should be reserved for paintings and stories, not life. In life, it all seemed rather insincere. There was a pitiful air about at events such as these, the vapid desperation palpable. It disappointed him that such a lively scene could hide such incredible dullness.

He allowed another hour or so of avoiding the eyes of prospective young women before deeming that he had fulfilled his obligations. He scanned the manor for his father, eventually spotting him near the staircase with some politician or other.

“I have come to ask to be excused,” Prouvaire informed him promptly. “I will send the carriage back.”

“Jean,” his father said firmly, eyeing him with disapproval. “Greet Monsieur Vauquelin, he serves with me on the Chamber.”

“Leaving so soon?” the stranger addressed Prouvaire. He chuckled jovially. “Found a wife among these young ladies already, have you?”

Prouvaire offered him a shy smile. “Oh, I am not searching for a wife presently, sir,” he said. “I should allow my elder brother to marry first.”

The man hummed, seemingly satisfied with the response. “Ah, of course, and how is he?” he asked.

“Very well,” Prouvaire replied charmingly. Jean Prouvaire was, indeed, the only child of his mother and father. “I shall be off then, goodnight.”

His father appeared incredibly exasperated, but allowed him to leave without further argument. Prouvaire nearly yelled with relief upon stepping out into the night air.

Were he more bold, he might have taken off to the streets of Paris; despite having visited the city often alongside his father, he had not seen much of her outside the walls of ballrooms and chateaus. As it were, his sense of rebellion was not quite so severe. It was a shame. There was much he longed to see.

Instead, he allowed the coachman to open the door to the carriage and usher him inside. They had barely begun moving when Prouvaire felt the cab dip with weight; the door opened once more, and with a quickness he couldn’t comprehend, a figure had suddenly thrown itself into the seat beside him.

“Evening!” the newcomer said boisterously, leaning forward to pull down the window between them and the driver. “Continue on to the bridge, good man.”

The coachman turned swiftly, and upon the sight of them, became quite pallid. "Monsieur Prouvaire,” he said with great concern.

Prouvaire, slow to fathom the sudden turn of events, turned his gaze to the stranger. His face was severe, from his dark eyes to his heavy brows to the sharp edges of his jaw, but his expression was remarkably calm. He was broad about the shoulders and arms, akin to a blacksmith or a boxer. A boxer more likely.

His gaze followed the stranger’s arm, which came to an end very near Prouvaire’s clavicle. In his grip was a knife. Prouvaire understood.

“Ah,” he said. “I am being abducted.”

“Just so,” the stranger said ardently. “To the bridge!”

Prouvaire nodded once to the coachman, sure he could do nothing else. His heart was beating hard against the wall of his chest, but peculiarly, he did not think that he was afraid.

The silence was broken only by the clicking of horse-shoes for the majority of their excursion. It was only when he glimpsed the Pont Royal in the distance that Prouvaire was compelled to speak. “And when we arrive to the bridge?” he asked timidly.

The abductor turned his gaze to him, and the thought occurred to Prouvaire that his eyes were uncommonly kind. His racing heart calmed at once. “We will walk the rest of the way,” the man replied simply.

The carriage came to a slow stop, and the coachman sat stiff with anxiety. He glanced about subtly, as if hoping an officer would pass them by. Prouvaire imagined an ending where he was saved, where the abductor was chased off and he finished the night back at the guesthouse after all, and found himself dreading the thought.

The stranger placed a wide arm around Prouvaire’s far slighter shoulders, the knife settling loosely near his jugular. With his other hand, he patted the breast of his coat. “Forgive me if I don’t offer you a tip,” he spoke to the driver, pulling a letter out of his pocket. “Deliver this to the elder Monsieur Prouvaire, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“At what amount have you valued my worth, monsieur?” Prouvaire asked, bold in his strange excitement. “Less than ten-thousand francs and I shall take offense.”

He was given a curious look in response. “I have no interest in money,” the stranger said. “Your ransom will be paid in liberty.”

It wasn’t until the carriage vanished into the distance that Prouvaire was released, the knife safely returned to his abductor’s pocket. Now that they stood side-to-side, the man did not seem so massive; he was only barely taller than Prouvaire, though that was not to say Prouvaire was not quite lofty himself.

They stood near the bridge like that for some time, the stranger squinting into the distance while Prouvaire waited with practiced patience. Prouvaire pushed the long hair from his eyes in defiance of the wind. He had left his hat behind in the carriage.

“Sorry,” the man spoke, turning those intense and gentle eyes back to Prouvaire at last. “Had to make sure we won’t be followed. Are you alright?”

Prouvaire was decidedly unsurprised that the man who had just kidnapped him was asking after his well-being. He had already come to a conclusion about his character, and it was only being verified. “I am well in the sense that I am unharmed,” he said. “Perhaps a bit cold.”

The stranger removed his flat cap at once, revealing a head of thick chestnut hair, and placed it upon Prouvaire. “Are you hungry?” he asked. Prouvaire realized at once that he was. “I will buy you dinner, but only if you consent to come quietly.”

“An indecent exchange. I shall kick and scream unless you buy me dessert as well.”

“Fine. Come on, then,” the taller man said easily, tucking his hands in his pockets and tilting his head to indicate Prouvaire should follow behind.

Prouvaire shifted his gaze between the man, who was no longer paying him any mind, and the bridge behind them. He hesitated only a moment before catching up. “You are a rather poor kidnapper,” he said.

“You are poor at being kidnapped,” the man accused in turn.

“That, I think, is on account of my experience and your lack thereof,” Prouvaire mused. “Quite the pair we make.”

The man fixed him a look from over his shoulder. “You have been abducted before?” he asked.

“There have been attempts. None so successful as yours,” Prouvaire mused. “That considered, perhaps I misspoke; you are not a poor kidnapper, rather a non-traditional one. You claim not to have requested money for ransom. Surely there is something you hope to gain.”

The stranger’s expression became grimly serious. “There is,” he said. “I have told your father that you will be returned to him only after Jacques-Marie Vaugeois is released from prison.”

“I do not know the name.”

“Nor should you. He is a revolutionary, and a friend of mine.”

Excitement spread over Prouvaire’s skin like a chill. Revolutionary. It was a word he had heard only in books and poems. “And you?” he asked. “You are a revolutionary as well?”

“I would love nothing better than to carry the Bourbons to the guillotine myself,” the man agreed earnestly. “Down with the monarchy! Vive la France! And so forth.”

Prouvaire flinched instinctively at the other’s loud volume, scanning the streets for anyone about. He resented his own reaction immediately. If his companion had no fear of repercussions, Prouvaire certainly should not.

“I fear I must inform you,” Prouvaire said once he’d recovered, his pointed shoes clicking against the paving-stones as he darted forward once more to match the other man’s brisk gait. “My father is only a member of the Chamber of Deputies, he does not possess the authority to acquit.”

“I know. In fact, I did not intend to hold you for more than a day or two,” the other man said, undeterred. “What is important is that your father is a member of les Chambres, and he now knows my friend’s name. He knows that we are angry. It is better to do something than nothing.”

Prouvaire had not thought much of politics, but the words were pretty to his ears. He wanted to hear more of them. “What is your name?” he asked.

The man paused, turning to him and offering a deep, exaggerated bow. “I am Jean Bahorel of Carcassonne, liberator of the people and detainer of the spawn of politicians,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I know you are Prouvaire, but I do not know your given name.”

“I am Jean as well,” Prouvaire replied with an exaggerated sigh. “I shall have to change it now.”

They slowed to a stop in front of a building just a short of the Place Saint-Michel. Prouvaire cast a glance at the words engraved upon the signboard.

Le Café Musain

“Tonight, abductor and abductee dine as friends,” Bahorel said, advancing toward the café with familiarity. “Dessert and all.”

Prouvaire, the last of his reservations taken by the winds of Paris, followed close behind.

Chapter Text

Upon the rue de Temple on the rive droite, very near the Hôtel de Saint-Aignan, there sat a fan-maker’s shop.

To see a shop with such a specialty had become progressively rare by 1826. Hand-fans, those adorned with leaves of silk or paper especially, had simply fallen out of fashion at the turn of the century. There did exist, however, a market for brisé fans; these types had no leaves at all, but were rather made entirely of sticks of wood or mother-of-pearl. The shop on the rue de Temple specialized in this variety.

The fan-making itself was achieved in the atelier beyond the main store, by a team of three, with a single foreman to oversee them. There were two men and a woman: of the men, there was a stick-carver and a painter, and the woman was an embroiderer. The modest group managed an impressive three fans in a day at their most productive. They were, of course, expected to be at their most productive always.

The painter, a young man by the name of Feuilly, was quite skilled in his trade at only twenty-two years. He had taught himself to paint, to read, to write; everything he knew was self-taught, as it had been some time since he’d had a mother or father to show him anything. He got along on his desire for knowledge and three francs a day only.

He did not mind the work. If he should have liked to go to school, that was a possibility he would consider in a different life.

“Feuilly,” the brusk voice of the foreman breached Feuilly’s concentration, causing him to nearly draw outside the bounds of the carving. He did not exhale, setting down his paintbrush with a steady hand. “I am going out to restock supplies, you will watch the store.”

Madame Paquier tutted under her breath. “It is always him who is allowed a break,” she complained. “It is no trouble to Monsieur Roche if my fingers fall off.”

“When you become young and handsome, I shall permit you to face our customers,” Monsieur Roche replied without concern. “You may direct all further complaints to Cochet.”

“Cochet!” Madame Paquier repeated, turning her sour gaze onto the last among their group. He was carving quietly, unmoved by the display. “Cochet has not heard a thing in thirty years.”

“And he is lucky for it,” Monsieur Roche said with great exasperation. “To the front, Feuilly!”

Feuilly had no objections to being placed in the shop; customers were infrequent, and it allowed him leisure time that he rarely saw otherwise. More often than not he would use the time to read the Courier De l'Europe. He endeavored to keep well-informed on all issues, not only those in Paris or even France, but in the world as a whole. There was no thing more valuable to him than knowing.

He read, in that week, that an agreement had been signed between the Russians and the Ottomans which had secured the autonomy of Serbia, Moldavia, and Wallachia. The news contented him. He held no affection for empires.

Engrossed as he was in his reading, his attention was nonetheless diverted at once by a small movement near the front of the shop. On the opposite side of the street-facing window stood a girl. She was very small and quite unkempt; her hair was long and might have been fair were it clean, her dress tattered and far too large for her petite frame. Feuilly saw such things every day on his walks to and from work, but still it riddled him with deep sadness.

She didn’t seem to have noticed him; her attention was transfixed upon the fans on display in the window, her eyes bright in contrast to her somber appearance. Feuilly took a step from behind the counter, unsure of what he meant to do. He had no money on him to give her, nor could he invite her inside lest Monsieur Roche return, but he felt a pull to act even so. It was in vain, regardless. His movement alerted her to his presence, and she was gone before he could take another step.

Later in the evening, on his walk back to his quarters, he placed one of the three francs he had earned for his day’s work in that upturned hat of an old man asleep on the pavement. That night he slept restlessly.

Not a week had passed before he saw the girl again. On this occasion, he was on his way into the shop, the sun hardly risen in the sky. She appeared even more slatternly without a window between them. Once more, she turned and disappeared the moment she noticed his presence.

It was on the third instance that he managed to catch her. Or, rather, Monsieur Roche did.

“What is all that noise about?” Madame Paquier exclaimed, moving from her station to peer into the front shop. Feuilly joined her, similarly intrigued by the raised voice which had filtered back into the atelier. Monsieur Cochet, of course, did not hear the commotion, and remained seated. “Not looters, I hope.”

There was only a small window between their workstation and the main store, but it was enough for Feuilly to see Monsieur Roche speaking loudly to someone much smaller than him. Feuilly hastened into the shop at once.

“What’s happened?” he asked, alarmed.

“Damn gamine tried to steal from me,” Monsieur Roche said contentiously. “Back to work with you, it’s no matter of yours. I’ll have it sorted out.”

Feuilly was unsurprised to see the young girl in Roche’s grip; he had already known. “Monsieur,” he said, in an effort to keep his composure. “I’ll pay for the fan.”

“Back to work, Feuilly.”

“Monsieur, please,” Feuilly persisted. “I’ll work today for no pay. Let her be, she’s just a child.”

Roche made a grunt of impatience, but consented, releasing the girl from his hold. She remained in place, eyes wide and unsure. “Go on, then. You have been saved,” Monsieur Roche barked. “I had better not see you around here again. Next time I’ll have the police involved.”

The girl did not spare either of them another glance before darting out the door. Feuilly watched her go with great relief.

“If only bread could be bought with compassion,” Madame Paquier taunted once he’d returned to the atelier. Feuilly did not dignify her with a reply.

Feuilly was the last to leave the shop that evening. He locked the door behind him, and then took pause, sensing that he was being watched.

He turned to see two bright eyes fixed upon him from the alley. “Don't spend any more time here,” he warned. “I won't be able to get you out of trouble again.”

The eyes disappeared behind the corner at once, and Feuilly followed them. This time, the girl had not run. She stood small and frail against the bricks, looking up at him as if in awe, a fan clutched tightly in her hands.

Feuilly reached toward her. She hesitated, before placing the fan in his outstretched palm. He knelt to her level, spreading the fan fully and holding it out so that she could see.

He recognized the painting as one he had done several months prior. It depicted three women: Juno, Minerva, and Venus in the center, a golden apple held in her hands. “The Judgement of Paris,” he said. “Do you know it?”

The girl shook her head slowly.

“Well, as the story goes, a man called Paris was asked to choose the fairest of the three goddesses. In the end, he chose Venus, the goddess of love, and she was given a golden apple as her reward,” he explained gently. He folded the fan, handing it back to her. She held his gaze for a long moment, hesitant, before accepting it. “And now I’ve given the apple to you.”

The girl’s eyes brightened at once, and she held the fan close to her chest like a treasure. Feuilly offered her a kind smile. “What’s your name, mademoiselle?”

It seemed for a moment she would not answer, but then she replied in an impossibly small voice: “Mélanie.”

“Mélanie,” he repeated. “My name’s Victor Feuilly. Would you tell me how old you are?”

“I do not know, monsieur.”

Feuilly pursed his lips, standing from his crouched position. She could not have been more than six. “Is there anyone who takes care of you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Maman and Papa are gone,” she said quietly.

Feuilly sighed, sifting a hand through his red hair before nodding resolutely. “Very well. Come on, let’s get you dinner,” he said. “And then we’ll speak to the police and find you somewhere safe to go.”

Mélanie closed in on herself at once, looking quite frightened. She stared up at him with wide, betrayed eyes.

“No,” she said, a crack in her voice. “The police are no good, monsieur.”

Feuilly closed his eyes, feeling at once quite overwhelmed. “Okay,” he said. “No matter. I’ll find you somewhere myself.”

Feuilly took her hand gently, and led her to the market, where he bought her bread with his last ten sous. That night he did not sleep at all.

Chapter Text

Grantaire was a peculiar fellow.

Lesgle had known it from the first, and had no resentment for the fact, as he knew himself to be peculiar as well. They made quite the pair, the two of them. Grantaire with his wealth and his talent and his profound, inconsolable sadness. Lesgle with his misfortune and his hardships and his great enthusiasm for life. They were quick friends.

They had gone out drinking together again the night after that first, and the night after, and a bulk of the nights since. Lesgle loved to drink, and Grantaire needed to. Grantaire sober was rather quiet and thoughtful, but when drunk, all of those thoughts came to the surface loudly and en masse. He was quickly becoming known for the uproarious speeches he would deliver at the witness of entire taverns; tirades which varied widely in topic, but all seemed to share the common theme of his disdain for the human race. Lesgle could be counted on to commend these sermons with applause and a good-natured “hear, hear!”

Neither of them attended classes often. Grantaire put in more of an effort than Lesgle, if barely; at the least, he remained dutifully under the tutelage of Antoine-Jean Gros, despite his growing lack of enthusiasm for it. “Painting is without value,” he would say disdainfully. “A way to pass the time at best, but Gros speaks of it as if it is the reason the world turns, as if we can all be saved by a brush against canvas. Pah. I shall only continue with it until I become entirely too bored.” It seemed a shame to Lesgle. He had only seen sketches, but that alone was enough to inform him that his friend was a masterful artist.

The area in which they most differed was politics.

It was not a case of them having opposing beliefs, but rather a case of Lesgle having beliefs, and Grantaire resolutely not having them. He thought both monarchy and revolution a waste of time. He argued points only to be the devil’s advocate, entirely without loyalty to his words. Lesgle, on the other hand, was a patriot through-and-through, in thought if not in action. He was not one to attend riots or give speeches, but he thought fondly of a world without kings when he found the time.

“I ask you this, Bossuet,” Grantaire told him loudly in the midst of one of their debates. They were seated at a table in the back corner of a low-lit pub, keeping to themselves on this particular night. Lesgle was in a fine mood; it was one of the rare occasions when he had surpassed Grantaire in inebriety. “You say this country should be run by its people, but who are these people you speak of? Would you trust me, for instance, with the well-being of your beloved France?”

“I would not trust you with the well-being of a cat,” Lesgle replied.

“Then, I say, it is better to have a king. If God will not come down from heaven to rule over us, we must trust those who He has appointed to do the job instead,” Grantaire ranted.

Lesgle rolled his eyes and took a long drink. “Humanity needs to be put into order, for it is evil and ugly. The first thing a newborn does upon entering the world is beg for food. He does not think of his mother, weak and exhausted from the trial of childbirth, but thinks only of himself. Selfishness is our natural state. It cannot ever be fully unlearned.”

“So you are a royalist today?” Lesgle asked dimly.

Grantaire wrinkled his nose distastefully. “Of course not. I am only speaking,” he said. Lesgle had suspected as much. “Whether the monarchy stays or goes, it is of no concern to me. Though I do imagine royalists will have a much easier time of it.”

Lesgle slammed his bottle upon the table. “It is not about what is easy,” he said, suddenly impassioned. “It is about what is right.”

“Nothing is right,” Grantaire said with a yawn. “We are in hell already.”

It was not long before they agreed to leave. Lesgle came to realize the extent of his drunkenness only upon standing. He felt a pleasant numbness all throughout, and he found himself stumbling a bit as he followed Grantaire out into the alley.

They were not alone; at least three other men inhabited the dark alleyway, their faces obscured to Lesgle’s wavering vision. Grantaire was quickly distracted by conversation with the strangers. Lesgle leaned against the cool bricks and closed his eyes, no longer in a state for festivities.

After what may have been a few moments or quite some time, Lesgle became aware of an air of hostility about the small area. He was certain at once that Grantaire had instigated whatever it was that was occurring. He opened his eyes reluctantly, approaching his friend with every intention of hauling him home if necessary.

Lesgle couldn’t be entirely sure what occurred next. One moment he was reaching for Grantaire, the next, Grantaire was ducking to the side, allowing room for Lesgle to receive a hard blow to the face.

“Oh, now you’ve done it!” Lesgle heard an unfamiliar voice squawk. It took him a moment to realize that he was now on his back, his gaze fixed upon the stars. “You’ve gone and killed someone!”

“It was not meant for him!” came the retort.

Grantaire’s face suddenly filled Lesgle’s view. “You haven’t died, have you?” he asked a bit sheepishly.

“Don’t think so,” Lesgle muttered in reply. “I might like to kill you.”

Grantaire grinned, pulling him up into a seated position and leaning him back against the alley wall. “Your blame is wrongly placed,” he said. “I merely dodged a fist coming toward my face, a feat you failed to accomplish.”

“What have you done?” Lesgle asked dazedly.

Grantaire shrugged. “Could have been anything,” he said. “I possess a remarkable talent for being disliked.”

They were interrupted, suddenly, by a figure kneeling near Lesgle’s other side. Lesgle squinted at the newcomer through swimming vision. “Are you alright?” the stranger asked in near-frantic concern, pulling his handkerchief out of his jacket promptly. Lesgle recognized the voice as the one that had spoken earlier. “Here, to stop the bleeding.”

Lesgle reached up, discovering at once that there was indeed blood coating much of his mouth and chin, as well as a decent amount down the front of his shirt. He held the handkerchief to his nose graciously.

“I am sorry about my friend,” the newcomer continued. “Acquaintance, really. He’s already run off. Here, let me check you for a head injury, you hit the ground rather hard.”

“Are you a doctor?” Grantaire asked skeptically.

“Might be, one day,” the stranger said, paying him no mind. He held a single finger before Lesgle’s face. “Follow my movements, please.”

Lesgle attempted to follow the instruction, but he was distracted, willing his uncooperative eyesight to give him a clear view of the man’s face. “I know you,” he stated. “You are called Joly, I have seen you here before.”

“I am,” Joly agreed distractedly. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Lesgle.”

“And your friend’s?”

“Grantaire.”

“And the sum of twenty-nine and thirty-six?”

Lesgle squinted, but did not respond. Joly hummed thoughtfully, checking his eyes again with great care.

“Well,” Grantaire said. “Have you determined that he is brain-dead?”

Joly leaned away. “I have determined,” he said. “That he is very drunk. It is no use, you had better have someone check on him in the morning.”

“It should be you,” Lesgle said, unsure exactly why he was speaking. “I only have Grantaire, and he will let me die.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I have warranted such accusations,” he said.

“Me?” Joly said, paying Grantaire no mind. “I hardly do home visits, I’m only a student.”

It did not matter what was said, the idea had already made its way into Lesgle’s mind, and now he would not relent until he saw it done. This phenomenon was not unusual for the highly intoxicated. “It is best you come home with us tonight and decide my welfare in the morning,” Lesgle urged. “We do not live far from here.”

Joly’s brows furrowed contemplatively. Lesgle was perfectly prepared to argue, anticipating references to the fact that they did not know each other, or that Joly had come with other friends, or that he was not eager to abruptly stay the night in a stranger’s home. “Well, alright,” Joly said instead. “I will go tell my friends, wait here.”

Grantaire’s expression was perplexed. “What is that about?” he asked.

“It is fun to have guests,” Lesgle replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

“You might have consulted me before offering our home to a stranger,” Grantaire drawled.

Lesgle waved him away. “You are just jealous,” he said. “That I make friends while you only make enemies.” Grantaire laughed dryly in response.

Joly came back a moment later, now holding a cane and wearing a top hat upon his brick-colored hair. “I shall follow where you lead, monsieurs,” he declared.

Lesgle had to be mostly-carried by Grantaire the entirety of the way home, and once inside, fell face-first onto his mattress immediately. The next time he opened his eyes, his room was bathed in morning sunlight.

He stumbled into the main room. Seated on the sofa, where he had presumably slept, was Joly, his attention to one of the many books from Grantaire’s shelf. He looked up and waved upon Lesgle’s entrance, as if it were nothing for two strangers to encounter each other in such a way. “Good morning!” he said. His eyes moved down Lesgle’s torso. “You look dreadful.”

Lesgle glanced down to see he was still wearing his blood-covered waistcoat. Judging by the dry, unpleasant feeling around his nose and mouth, his face was in no better state. “Is Grantaire asleep still?” Lesgle asked, attempting to remove some of the crusted blood with his sleeve.

“No, he was gone quite early,” Joly said. “It is nearly mid-day you know.”

Lesgle blinked. “You are still here,” he pointed out, a bit incredulously.

“Of course, I had promised to check the state of your brain,” Joly replied simply. He patted the seat beside him on the sofa. “Come.”

Lesgle obliged, sitting still as Joly once more moved his finger before his eyes. It was far easier for him to follow this time. “What is your diagnosis, Docteur Joly?” he asked.

Joly hummed thoughtfully. “What is the current year?” he asked.

“Eighteen twenty-six.”

“What was the day of the week yesterday?”

“Tuesday.”

“What is the king’s name?”

“Tyrannical bastard.”

Joly snorted, his nose wrinkling with his laughter. Lesgle grinned in return. “It seems to me that your head is on right,” Joly concluded. “As far as treatment, I recommend drinking less and avoiding men who are throwing their fists about.”

“I can make you no promises,” Lesgle assured.

Joly stood, returning his book to the shelf and retrieving his coat. “I would suggest we have lunch, but regrettably I have a class to attend,” he said, touching his cane to the tip of his nose thoughtfully. “Perhaps I will see you out again?”

“I am certain I shall be in the same place tonight as last night,” Lesgle said.

Joly grinned. “Then I shall look for you,” he said. “I do hope I will recognize you with a clean face.”

“I suppose I must abstain from cleaning up until then,” Lesgle said lamentably.

Joly snorted once more, and Lesgle found himself quite charmed. “Goodbye, Monsieur Lesgle,” he said, departing with a final wave.

Lesgle spent most of the afternoon cleaning blood from himself in high spirits. He felt, quite assuredly, that he had come upon a good friend.

Chapter Text

Combeferre had taken to school as well as he’d expected to.

Having just begun studying medicine, he was not yet learning to become a doctor, but rather attended basic classes: arithmetic, logic, literature, and so forth. Even so, he found the work enjoyable. Learning had always come easily to him. With knowledge came understanding, and with understanding came empathy, an attribute he valued above all else.

Enjolras was a dreadful student. This, too, came as no surprise.

It had taken no more than two weeks upon arriving in Paris for Enjolras to determine law school a waste of his time. He attended classes only often enough to remain a student, and even then Combeferre suspected he paid no attention. His mind’s quota of things to care about had long ago been filled. There was no room for anything as tedious as becoming a lawyer.

That was not to say the trip had been wasted on Enjolras, however. In fact, from the moment they stepped out of their stagecoach, Combeferre had watched his friend fall in love. Paris was everything Enjolras had idealized; it was, after all, the beating heart of France, the country to which he was so passionately devoted. Enjolras was even more radiant under Paris’s sun.

“This city is the well from which the entire country draws its water,” Enjolras had told him once, bold and impassioned as he was wont to be. “But the well has been poisoned. It is from here that we must deliver the antidote, otherwise, the sickness of greed and tyranny will spread throughout France undeterred.”

Combeferre had asked in return, because truly, he cared: “And what is this antidote?”

Enjolras had not hesitated. “Blood,” he’d replied.

Enjolras spoke often of blood. It was the part of him that Combeferre embraced with the least enthusiasm. Combeferre tended toward pacifism; he dreamed of peace, where Enjolras only dreamed of war.

In spite of their differences, however, their passion was shared. Combeferre could no longer be certain whether his love for France and longing for the republic was organic or a result of years of Enjolras’s influence, but it truly did not matter. If there were a revolution tomorrow, Combeferre would fight for it. He would die for it. He only wished to see another way.

That all being as it was, Combeferre suspected another reason for Enjolras’s disinterest in his education: the politics of attending a public university. Curriculum beneath the reign of a monarch was, of course, tendentious in nature. Combeferre strove to avoid confrontation where he could, but even he often struggled to stay quiet in a setting where that which he scorned was framed as the objective truth.

His composure endured two months. Enjolras would have disdained his patience.

“Following the reign of Napoleon in 1814, the Bourbon dynasty was returned to the throne and the monarchy restored,” the slow-voiced professor, Ollier, projected to the modest group of students. Combeferre was taking notes, a way to pass time if nothing else. He was reasonably certain that there was nothing that could be taught on this subject that he did not know already. “Can anyone explain how this current monarchy differs from the Ancien Régime?”

There was no response. Combeferre did not bother, it was better to keep quiet when it came to such topics. “Monsieur de Courfeyrac?” Ollier continued after the beat of silence, calling attention to one student in particular.

The student in question lifted his head from where it had leaned against his hand; it was possible that he had been sleeping. Combeferre knew him, of course. He had regarded the de of nobility in the fellow student’s name with curiosity upon their first class meeting, and had discovered thereafter that he was indeed the son of the Comte de Courfeyrac. Combeferre disliked him on principle.

“The difference?” Courfeyrac clarified, crossing his arms across his chest and looking rather bored. “The difference is that the state of France is far worse than before that damned revolution.”

Combeferre was nearly startled into laughter. Of all the disappointing responses he had expected from a noble, conservativeness to the extent of even opposing the current monarchy was not among his predictions.

“How do you mean?” Ollier asked with obvious reluctance. A hint of perspiration had gathered on his brow.

Courfeyrac sighed and turned his gaze to the window, as if he couldn’t be bothered to give the conversation his full attention. “The power of the king was absolute under the Ancien Régime,” he said. “Now, it has been limited to appease the whining of the opposition, putting the rest of us at risk. The king represents the people and its needs. If he wavers in his authority, it weakens the state as a whole, and there is no point in having a monarch to begin with.”

Combeferre could not contain it. “Mind yourself, you’ve accidentally said something intelligent,” he said mildly.

Courfeyrac craned his neck to see behind him, and Combeferre was at once locked into his ice-blue gaze. “What?” he asked sharply. There was a tense muttering from the surrounding students.

“There is no point in having a monarch to begin with,” Combeferre repeated. “As to how this regime differs, the only acceptable answer would be not nearly enough. Whether the sovereign power is limited by constitution or not, meaningful change will only be achieved by the abolition of royalty entirely.”

An unpleasant hush had fallen over the class. Courfeyrac scoffed dismissively, turning his head away once more. “What you describe is anarchy,” he said. “You republicans would trade away the comfort of our daily lives for the sake of the fanciful world that exists only in your head.”

“Whose comfort do you refer to?” Combeferre drawled. “The poor who sleep in alleyways and beg each day for even a bite of bread do not have comfort, nor does the working man whose hands degrade under the weight of six days’ hard labor a week just to barely survive. I imagine it is difficult for you that the privileges of nobility have been abolished, as your father’s title now exists only as a boasting right, but having to attend school with the bourgeoisie is hardly the greatest inconvenience a person can face.”

Courfeyrac attempted to maintain his air of carelessness, but his face had become quite purple. “I have said nothing of myself or my father,” he said darkly. “You will do well to do the same.”

“The both of you will mind your words,” Ollier interjected suddenly, his countenance pale. He was glancing anxiously toward the door, as if expecting the king himself to enter at any moment. “At this school, we honor King Charles and the House of Bourbon. It is not a debate to be had in this classroom, understood?”

Combeferre found himself mostly amused by the interaction. The idea of someone his own age spouting ultra-royalist ideals was so absurd that he could not find it within him to be provoked. Combeferre did not know the Comte de Courfeyrac, but if presented with a wager as to whether he had been the originator of every word that had come out of the younger Courfeyrac’s mouth that day, Combeferre would bet everything he had. It was something to be pitied, really.

He relayed as much to Enjolras. Enjolras did not find it so endearing.

“That is outrageous,” he said irritably, pouring over the parchment in front of him even as he spoke. Combeferre did not even know what it was he spent his time writing. Declarations of independence, perhaps. “To support the crown is one thing, but to support the Ancien Régime in current times should be an executable offense.”

Combeferre huffed a laugh through his nose, ladling the soup he had prepared into two bowls. “He was born into a family of nobles whose privileges were revoked by the revolution,” he said mildly. “One can easily imagine how the ideas entered his head.”

“Hardly an excuse,” Enjolras muttered. He paused, tapping his quill against the ink pot thoughtfully. “I would like to meet him.”

“That,” Combeferre said as he set the table. “Is a terrible idea. Come eat.”

Enjolras ignored him, his quill scratching fervently against the parchment once more. “If I am here for anything, it is to inform those who are ignorant,” he said.

“I was under the impression you were here to attend law school,” Combeferre said. Enjolras did not appear amused. “You will make a scene of it.”

“I will do my best not to embarrass you.”

Combeferre sighed. “I only mean that you tend to reach for aggression before you reach for understanding,” he said. “But if you are so set on it, I will introduce you.”

Enjolras hummed in response, seeming to have already moved on from the conversation as he immersed himself in his work. Combeferre sighed once more, grabbing Enjolras’s bowl of soup from the table and placing it on the desk in front of him. He was certain his friend had convinced himself that ambition could sustain him in the place of food.

Combeferre could not shed the feeling that subjecting Courfeyrac to Enjolras was a sort of moral offense.

It was like introducing a rabbit to a fox, a piece of parchment to an open flame. Combeferre had never known Enjolras to direct his fervor onto a single person; he had a habit of seeing only the collective, rarely the individual. Combeferre was not sure that one could survive the full weight of Enjolras’s passion. Courfeyrac was only a man, where Enjolras was a hurricane, a force of nature.

But Combeferre could not refuse Enjolras anything. He had known this for a long time now.

It was the next week, after their shared history class, that Combeferre called for Courfeyrac’s attention. Enjolras was with him; he had waited at the school for the sole purpose of being present for the encounter. Combeferre thought he might have even attended class that day.

“Monsieur de Courfeyrac,” Combeferre called as they made their way through the courtyard toward the street. “A moment of your time, please.”

Courfeyrac looked their way suspiciously, a suspicion that only increased upon identifying his pursuer. “What do you want?” he asked coldly, no doubt remembering their previous encounter. From this close, Combeferre noticed that he was rather handsome. Not as startlingly so as Enjolras, but he had the same soft, youthful features, despite the fact that the three of them could not have been far removed in age.

Combeferre was not entirely sure how to preface the situation, so he went directly to the point. “This is Enjolras,” he said, nodding toward the man who towered over the two of them. “He wanted to meet you.”

Courfeyrac blinked slowly, eyeing Enjolras with expected confusion. “Alright?” he said, put-off.

Enjolras stepped forward with an expression that looked far more predatory than friendly. “Hello, Courfeyrac,” he greeted. Courfeyrac’s jaw twitched; the lack of honorifics did not appear to have escaped his notice. “I would like to have a word.”

Chapter Text

Grantaire was awoken, as he often seemed to be these days, by enthusiastic conversation outside of his room. He groaned and hauled himself out of bed, wincing at the sharp pain behind his eyes. He needed a drink.

“Hello!” Joly greeted him brightly as he stumbled his way from his bedroom to the dining table. Grantaire was hardly surprised by the other man’s presence in his home anymore. “Breakfast?”

There was a pretty arrangement of bread, fruits, and cheese laid out on the table, all of which Grantaire eyed with disdain. “Wine,” he muttered.

“You’ve only just woken up,” Lesgle said with a sigh, as if he had realized even as he spoke that it was a pointless observation.

“Indeed, I have woken up with the distinct feeling of not having had enough wine yesterday,” Grantaire said, entirely serious. He grabbed a bottle from the rack in the kitchen. “I must amend the situation promptly.”

He had, in fact, gone to sleep early the previous evening without having had anything to drink at all, an unpleasant phenomenon that had become increasingly common since the introduction of Alexandre Joly into their lives. Joly was not completely unlike them; he enjoyed spending nights out at the taverns and getting into a fair amount of trouble, only not quite to the same destructive extent as Lesgle and Grantaire had made a habit of. He had somehow perfected the art of balancing his leisure with responsibility. Unlike Lesgle and Grantaire, who had hardly seen the inner walls of the school, Joly never missed a class. He was an excellent student, and already well on his way to becoming a doctor.

It wasn’t long before Joly’s competence began to affect Lesgle, and, far more reluctantly, Grantaire. Where they had once gone out nightly, they now allowed Joly to convince them to stay in when they had early classes the next day. Grantaire much preferred the old routine. He mostly complied out of unwillingness to be alone.

Even so, he couldn’t find it within himself to resent Joly. He was simply impossible to dislike. Lesgle seemed to agree; in fact, from the moment they had met, Lesgle and Joly appeared to have come to the mutual agreement to never leave each other’s side again. The three of them were friends, but Lesgle and Joly were more like twins, or soulmates. Joly slept on their sofa frequently, and Lesgle slept on his when he didn’t. On the rare occasion they spent the night apart, Joly would arrive first thing the next morning to make breakfast. They shared coats and hats. They would pick up where the other had stopped speaking. Grantaire had waited to become irritated by their behavior, but really, it was a pleasant thing to behold. He might have said it was fate that had put them in the alleyway that night, if he believed in such a thing.

“Have you heard of dipsomania, Grantaire?” Joly asked offhandedly. “I fear you may present several symptoms of it. All of them, actually.”

Grantaire’s mouth curled into a lazy smile. “Better to die drunk than live sober,” he said, unbothered.

“A charming sentiment,” Lesgle said with a grin. “It is a wonder you are not a renowned philosopher.”

“Not yet.”

“That aside,” Joly said, rising to collect the plates from the table. “They are playing a comedy at the Odéon this afternoon, are you coming along?”

Grantaire considered it. “I have a session with Gros later today,” he said. “And I suppose I might as well attend class, if I will be bored regardless.”

“How brave of you,” Lesgle said genuinely.

Grantaire bid his friends farewell and finished his bottle before he managed to get himself dressed, his spirits much improved as he made his way to the school. He wondered, not for the first time, how anyone could tolerate life without drink. He supposed there was something to be said about Joly’s theory.

Though it might have come as a shock to some, Grantaire was, in fact, a fine student. He cherished learning. He was remarkably well-read; he knew the works of all the great philosophers well, he could reference hundreds of novels and plays and poems, he even kept himself informed on politics. He was desperate to come across knowledge that would make him see the world differently. It was only that he’d quickly determined that law school would not assist him in that pursuit.

Even so, he listened closely, and answered when called upon. If anything could be said about his life, it was that he participated.

His class for the day took him to noon, granting three remaining hours until he needed to be at Gros’s atelier. He spent this time sketching in the school courtyard. There wasn’t much to be said about the scenery; the courtyard itself was a paved area filled with tables for congregating, crowned by a large fountain and surrounded by a scattering of oak trees for shade. There was a throng of students about, and not much could be said for them, either. It was another grievance Grantaire had with the school: the population consisted of the well-dressed gossipy sort, predictable considering the cost of education. It was the company Grantaire had grown up in the presence of, and had always found incredibly underwhelming. He had taken it upon himself to shed his waistcoat and trade in his top hat for a flat cap whenever he found himself at the school out of a trivial urge to differentiate himself from them.

It was hardly their fault, he supposed. He found everything underwhelming.

As a whole, the day was unremarkable. He learned, he sketched, he thought, and he was bored. It was warm for November. It would always be just this.

Then, he heard a voice.

It wasn’t especially loud; it was a wonder he was able to hear it over the babble of the crowd, but it was steady and clear and brought the scratching of his charcoal to a halt. He sought out the source, and when he failed, collected his things and went looking.

His search brought him around the far side of the school and toward the street, where he quickly located his mark in the form of a soapbox orator. Such a thing was hardly an uncommon sight, though it was particularly bold to protest in such close proximity to the school. Grantaire found himself intrigued enough to approach.

Even had the man not been elevated with a small crowd surrounding him, he would have been eye-catching. He had a glow about him despite the cloudy day, his golden hair burning like a flame against the autumn sky. Grantaire was not close enough to see his face in detail, but even from a distance, he appeared more marble than man.

His appearance, however, was not what caught Grantaire’s attention. Nor his words, for indeed he wasn’t near enough to hear the exact nature of what he was saying, though he could assume it was a topic he had no interest in. Rather, it was his intensity. It was palpable in the air around him, it radiated like heat from a stove. Grantaire did not need to hear his words to know that this man believed in them, that he cherished them, that he would live and fight and die for them. His calm tone startled as though it were a scream. All at once, Grantaire found himself overwhelmed by a feeling he couldn’t put a name to.

His heart was pounding against his ribs. He was at once shockingly sober. He wanted to know this man, to know what he felt, to feel it as well.

The world continued on. The day was warm, the leaves fell, the students laughed. Nothing had changed, and everything.

Grantaire sat upon the grass up against an oak tree. He began to draw.