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Grantaire was from Cyprus. And in the streets (from the richest to the poorest), the man was famous. He was known to be one the best carver of the island. But if you asked him he would tell you otherwise. He was empty, and his statues were empty. Even he could see the hollowness in his so called masterpieces.
Grantaire had been raised in a moderate wealth, which meant that like any privileged Greek he could learn anything he aspired to. Some became writers, painters, philosophers, politicians... Others joined the army and sought to reach the highest ranks. But Grantaire the Cypriot chose sculpting. And he was good at it. His family was proud of his wealth, but that was about it. And, as his art and his reputation grew, his jolly and innocent self became cynical and addicted to the bottle.
At 20, Grantaire went to Nicosia and rented a ground-floor apartment there. He lived alone, far from the company of friends and family. And nobody tried to contact him. They were scared of him, truth be told. He didn't owned any slaves, which was unusual, because he though they would disrupted his work and wreak his place (truth be told it was a sodding mess, but one he could live in, for he knew where everything was). And he liked the calm, he searched for the loneliness.
He lived in a popular street, quiet the day and oh so crowded at night, where men would seek the pleasure of the flesh. But Grantaire wasn't into that. He wasn't into anything. It was long ago that the prostitutes had stop hailing the man for a good time. The young boys and curvy women said that he was beyond the delectation of the flesh. They say he was as cold as the marble he carved.
Grantaire was nothing for them.
The only friends he had were friends of the bottle and what company was that?
When he wasn't there, people would spite on his name and criticize his rudeness, but everyone agreed that his statues were so well chiseled that you could think they were alive, so pretty that you could fall for them.
He was great, because he knew about aesthete and he knew about beauty. Ask him to carve a portrait, he would comply. Ask to do a statue, he would sculpt. He could mold Pylades and Orestes, Nisus and Euryalus, Castor and Pollux... But he felt empty , because he couldn't do art with his soul. Marble seemed to answer his hands but not his soul.
Wealthy men and neophytes would see wonders in what he did, but true artists though very little of him. And they were right. Some said he lacked a muse. Harsher ones said he lacked a soul.
Grantaire didn't know exactly what he lacked. He could reproduce the beauty of the world, but he never was moved by it. There was only one thing that filled the man and it was the alcohol going to his head.
If someone had asked him about his opinion on the question, he would have answered (helped by a bottle or 2) that it was probably because he though too much.
But no matter what he though, it remained as it was.
Until one week. One week that would change it all.
On the first day, Grantaire woke up in his apartment, surprisingly not hungover. He had several drinks the day before, but his head was clear, almost at peace. He hadn't felt like that for a while, and strangely, the vacuity comforted him.
He nibbled a chunk of bread, before going in his work room, where an untouched piece of white marble stood there, 2 meters tall.
He took his chisel and started working. He had nothing in mind in peculiar but he couldn't stop. Strangely, he knew without knowing, and he finally let go, hitting meticulously for hours. When he finally took a break, his hands hurt so much he wasn't even able to flex his hands. It was sunrise already. He just stopped for some water and a two hour nap, before he started for a second time. He didn't know what he was doing, but under his finger, the muscles of a body began to appear, in a mysterious way. He took a break again after noon, his body protesting loudly at the abuse and the deprivations. But a face had appear, still kind of raw and undefined, along with a mop of unruly hair. He began, again, concentrating on the arms and fingers, so long and slender. And by then, he lost all meaning of time. He barley slept, ate and drunk water. Grantaire couldn't drink wine; that was out of the question. The only thing he was into was the statue, being carved gradually into a form, a man, that he knew little about. He knew about the curve of his calves, about the sharpness of his hips and shoulder blades. He was amazed by his straight nose, the dimples around his mouth and the stare of his wide eyes, he imagined blue. And when all of it was over, he looked at all he accomplished, the statue of that man, and couldn't help but be stunned. He was just... perfection.
He was Apollo reincarnated .
For the first time in his live, the brown haired man was tempted to believe. He sat down on the plain ground, staring in wonder at what he made. Did he, really?
Exhausted by the task he accomplished, he just rolled on the floor and fell asleep there.
When he woke up, he rubbed in his eyes, half blinded by the light that filled the room. And once he realized where he was, with the statue still standing in the room, he couldn't help but wonder if he was still dreaming. Grantaire stood stumbling a little at the ache coursing through him, before he lifted his arms slowly. When he brushed the marble chin, he shivered against the cool material. And as he got closer, he dared to embrace the cold stone, containing the tears that were threatening to come out. The dark haired man felt so lonely, freezing from the inside. When was the last time he talked to his family? Who was the last person to talk to him that actually cared?
But this statue, this Apollo, that was all his. He created it, he gave life to it, and now, he didn't want anyone to see it (him?). That was his and his alone.
And thus started a hard part of Grantaire's life. He who used to sculpt without passion, he now couldn't get rid of that fantasy. All his thoughts were focused on him. He would draw doodles or sketches for future pieces, but he kept profiling the man. He tried to sculpt anything, but he was stuck.
He pictured in his mind the confidence of his pace, the gentleness of his movements and the way his would animate when he talked. He would be the man better than the man, an aesthetic perfection.
And Grantaire wasn't shallow. He imagined the man fierce and obstinate. He would be an orator, defending valors of the republic. He would be a selfless man, going to the forum almost everyday. He would be everything he wasn't without resenting him for it. Sure he would frown upon his cynicism and his drinking habit, but he will love him. And Grantaire would worship him.
In desperation, the “man” (not exactly a man anymore), decided to drown himself in the liquor. Wine was his sole companion and he actually rejected anyone who tried to talk to him on those nights. On the mornings, he would wake up in the deserted bar, or in the back of some shady street. Never at home, a place that he had trouble to bear nowadays. The other half of the time, he went to his workshop and stare and touch the carved marble in sheer desperation. Truth be told, he was hoping for... anything, really.
He longed for his Apollo, or a man looking like his Apollo.
Feeling the strain gaining, and his body failing, body and soul, the sculptor turned himself to the Gods. Or rather, a Godess, Aphrodite.
In all his life, Grantaire never thought himself to be a believer. His family raised him in religion, but he was never into it. And for the first time in his life, he actually felt a burst of faith. It was desperation, but he knew that if he didn't try, he would die.
In the early morning, he put on his cleanest chiton and a pair of sandals, and walked to Aphrodite's temple. The priestesses were already there, preparing the daily service as Grantaire made his way to the altar. They looked at the crouching man with an ounce of fear, considering him and his poor state. He looked dirty, hungry and sleep deprived. It was the case.
The man bowed his head down, and prayed.
And prayed.
He prayed for 2 days and 2 nights. On the 3rd, the women kicked him out of the temple. And Grantaire, exhausted mind and soul, came home more desperate than ever. Aphrodite didn't answer him, or given up any sign.
The sun was shinning so brightly outside and the city was barley awake. Apollo's chariot had started it's course on a while ago, and it only hurt Grantaire even more. All he could see was the statue in his mind. He quicken his pace along the way, containing the sadness, the pain and the anger. It wasn't fair.
He opened the door resignedly, knowing that all had failed. He leaned against the wall, feeling resigned. That was it, wasn't it? It's not like he could go back to his old life. Not after that. He used to be living of apathy, and now, Apollo was his life.
He probably should sell the forsaken thing or destroy it. But who was he kidding, he could never do that.
He walked into the room, the statue still here, the marble shimmering under the morning light. He was still has magnificent as always. The cruel stone was fixing the emptiness, as unmovable as ever.
Apollo...
He sobbed the wretched name, cursing and marveling about the day he came into his life. Because, even after all the pain he suffered, a life of misery and passion was still better than a life of nothingness.
He brushed his hand against his, unresponsive and cool.
One last kiss couldn't hurt, he though bitterly, tears falling free from his face. He leaned close and met the stone mouth he worshiped. The lips touching his were surprisingly warm, but the sun's cruel rays were the culprits. It could only be that. The hands grabbing his hair, however, came as a shock. He took a step back, looking at the unfamiliar rosy cheeks, the mop of blond curls, and the blue eyes. So kind. So blue.
They were filled with life and fire. And they pierced through Grantaire's heart like he was a target. The fire within him was set aflame, hurting so deliciously.
He was even more handsome.
-Apollo... He whispered barley believing what he was seeing, what he was feeling... He must be drunk, he must be hallucinating.
The man chuckled (a music to his ears) and tighten the hold he had on Grantaire's hair, the fingernails digging possessively in his scalp. And he wouldn't have any other way.
-My name's Enjolras.
-Enjolras... (His throat felt so dry)I'm... I'm Grantaire.
The blond laughed again, his forehead against him. He felt so alive against him.
-I know.
His lips were tugging upwards showing off his dimples and a set of ravaging white teeth. And Grantaire loved every single bit of that smile.
And he couldn't help but surge forward, kissing the lips he longed for what felt like forever. They both smiled, lips brushing, and it felt like the Elysian Fields
Oh thank you merciful Gods.