Chapter Text
The doorbell rings at 7 am. The man upstairs can’t be bothered so he doesn’t move or opens his eyes.
He went to bed the previous night with a bottle of vodka and a pack of malrboro red. He likes the feeling when his insides get fuzzy as the need to smoke begins. It’s gradual and endearing.
He takes long gulps straight from the bottle and his hand starts crawling its way towards his left pocket where the pack and lighter rest and wait together.
At first he lets it last, enjoys each and every gulf of smoke, but then something flicks and he can’t control it anymore. He thinks the cigarette even burns faster.
He needs the alcohol to keep him grounded and alive, but the cigarettes are his arms that keep him functioning; with them he can find his way through paint and touch and smoke.
Half the bottle was gone by the time it served its purpose. He fell asleep numbed and in such a deep and dreamless sleep, he doesn’t even put his last cigarette out.
And that brings him back to now. The insistent doorbell. The freaking noise that won’t let him rest. Sleep is so uncommon to him that he dreads waking up for he’s not sure when he’ll be able to close his eyes again or gather enough money to buy another bottle.
He stands up and straights the bottle up from where it fell next to one of the feet of his bed. He passes the kitchen and opens the almost empty fridge without a second glance, grabbing the only carton left and taking half of the orange juice down on his way to the door.
He’s wearing sweatpants and a worn and cut out band t-shirt with holes and huge openings to fit three of his arms. But he doesn’t really care. When he opens the door, he is not sure what he is expecting, but it’s definitely not a fifteen year old boy.
“They told me you would be a mess, but this is crazy, man,” the boy lets himself in and pays no mind to the man still under the doorframe.
There’s a moment of confusion and shock and suddenly soberness hits him when the boy touches one of his recent paintings.
“They? Who the fuck are you talking about? And don’t touch anything!” He walks towards the paintings and positions himself between his art and the dirty boy.
“The ABC. They wanted me to convince you to go to a meeting.”
The kid eyes the carton of juice still in his hand and really, the man has no other option but to offer it.
“No one convinces me to do shit.”
The blond boy smiles while drinking like a starving man and takes a breath while reaching for his own back pocket and taking a letter out. He hands it to the drunkard.
“I told them as well. From what I’ve seen, you don’t do shit at all.”
The man throws something at the boy, who laughs after realizing he has a piece of underwear on his face. “Look, just read the damn letter. I’ll find you as soon as you want me to.”
And before he has any reaction, the boy leaves. He can’t tear his eyes from the envelope. It reads:
To: Mr. Grantaire Monteux
From: The Friends of ABC, School of the Gifted
When Grantaire was a kid, he had dreamed about being one of Charles Xavier gifted students. Unfortunately for him, this is no Marvel Universe and he is definitely not a mutant. He is barely human at all, these days.
He sighs and goes back to his room. He probably needs to be sober for this, so he sits on a chair at his balcony and finds a pack of cigarettes next to the ashtray he keeps there. He sighs and takes a deep breath, followed by the flicker of a lighter and the welcome and warming smell of death.
“Dear Grantaire,
Art is something that conquers the heart and while the most horrible hands can create breathtaking paintings, the heart can’t fool itself.
The Friends of ABC would be honored to have you as one of our own, in a full scholarship and charge-free housing in campus.
Please feel free to contact our mailman, who certainly has not followed orders and contacted you directly, Gavroche Thernadier. All you have to do is show him red.
Best regards,
Jean Valjean
Friends of ABC Principal”
Grantaire shakes his head. He looks at the city beneath him and takes a drag from the cigarette.
He didn’t see this coming.
Grantaire doesn’t know what happened but then again he never really does. He wakes up to a park full of people passing him by. There are times he drinks so much he wanders around or does shopping without knowing and he still remembers the day he almost got evicted after spending rent money in one of his alcohol induced walks. These are the only times he regrets taking the first gulp.
His head is driving him crazy, it’s hurting way too much as he tries to remember getting here.
Sometimes he finds himself at odd places, selling his art to any price offered because money is money and Grantaire couldn’t care less to where his art goes. He loves every piece, but he knows how to let go.
A woman is talking to him and she offers him 100 euros for a piece and he has to blink a few more times before answering, “I’m sorry, come again?”
She’s blonde and white as a pearl and her lips are red. She smiles and he feels warm. She is probably an angel.
“I said I’d like to buy that one for 100 euros. I loved it,” her voice is soft as he had predicted but there’s something close to laughter in her words.
“Are you fucking with me?” He raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly at the girl.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
And that’s all she says about it. So he hands her the painting and she takes it with a smile, but still she doesn’t move after handing him the bill.
“Do you need something else?” He’s getting frustrated. He is not known for his patience. He’s not known for anything other than his solitude and his quirkiness. She looks at him and he notices the smile is gone from her face.
“Have you decided yet?” He shouldn’t, but he knows what she’s talking about.
“No,” he says and he should get his stuff and go home but he needs to pay his rent and before he’s even aware, he’s asking, “Are you one of them?”
“I’m nothing more than Cosette.” She smiles again and shakes her head, “But you could say I’m more of an advisor.”
He smirks ironically, copying her words from before, “I wouldn’t dare.”
She thanks him for the painting and leaves.
Grantaire is left wondering about her choice of art. That was something he made when drunk, as most things he paints, but that one he had made several similar portraits. He ended up choosing the one more abstract to keep working on, and this is what he got. It’s the moon and the Eiffel Tower and it’s all a mix of blue, red and white in their human forms.
It’s not romantic or innovating. It’s actually as cliché as it gets.
He sighs and lights a cigarette. He’s tired.
She had just crossed the street when the boy appeared in front of her. She rolls her eyes.
“Are you seriously babysitting him?” she asks with a frown.
“Yes and no. What’s with the painting, Cosette?” he tries to look closely but she takes it from his reach and he scoffs.
“Nothing. And shouldn’t you be watching him? He drank way too much yesterday.” She is using her mother hem voice and that’s what drives Gavroche mad.
“He drinks and I don’t interfere. That’s how it is. Don’t be a bitch.” He is lying and she knows but says nothing. “Does anyone know you are here?”
She shrugs, “They probably know by now.” Cosette likes to say she is impartial but there’s little she won’t do for the Amis. They are trying to bring Grantaire to the school so she’s interested to say the last.
Grantaire paints and he is remarkably good at it, but why is he being invited is a mystery. She looks at Gavroche and pats his head fondly, “Take care of him.”
Gavroche looks at her and sticks his tongue out at her.
She blinks and he’s gone, just like she expected him to. And with the painting firmly clutched to her chest, Cosette leaves.
Grantaire gets home a few minutes before midnight and falls to his bed exhausted. He should have seen it coming though, since he’s been left alone for almost two weeks with nothing but his bottles and cigarettes for company.
He looks out the window and there’s a man standing on his balcony.
Grantaire is alert in a second. There’s a bottle nearby and he goes for it with more thirst than after hard days and he grabs the glass and doesn’t even think about the waste of alcohol.
“Who the fuck are you?” The man laughs. The bottle on Grantaire’s hand explodes.
And right in that moment, Grantaire think’s he could piss himself right now. The man grins and jumps inside his flat. He wears all black and that’s creepy but what really worries the artist is the man’s eyes. And that hat. “What kind of hat is that?!”
He only realizes he has said that out loud when the man stops.
“I break into your apartment, explode your liquor and all you have for me is fashion advice? My, the ABC has really lost it,” the man does take his hat off and throws it on Grantaire’s bed.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Grantaire. My name is Montparnasse.”
Grantaire doesn’t know now this became his life. Seriously, one minute he’s drinking his days out and painting his nights in and suddenly some really weird people want to get to know him.
“Do I look like I give a fuck what you’re called? Get out of my house.” Grantaire might be lots of things, but a fool is not one of them. He may have let Gavroche in but he had made sure the boy was unarmed.
This guy broke in. This jackass made his bottle/weapon thingy explode.
Montparnasse laughs again and he raises his hand and before Grantaire can even think about moving, something hits him on his leg. He feels the blood pouring out and it hurts so fucking much, but he’s running on adrenaline and he sees the cracked bottle hovering in the air next to Montparnasse’s hands.
“I think I liked you better with the hat on,” Grantaire says while trying to breathe through the pain and his brain is racing with plans and he knows none of them are good and there’s nothing he can do against this freaking Draco Malfoy without a wand and this is so fucked up, so crazy, what is even happening right now.
“You have a pretty mouth. Unfortunately for you, I can’t let you join Les Amis.”
The man moves his fingers again and Grantaire jumps out just in time. His left cheek hurts and he thinks the cut is deep for the blood pouring from it is flowing nonstop. He spits some out when it gets to his mouth and Grantaire is about to reach for another bottle when he sees a blonde head at the balcony.
He thinks, “No! Get away!” but yes, there is Gavroche. The boy makes a sign for Grantaire to be quiet but the artist is having none of that, he can’t let anything happen with the kid, but then Montparnasse follows his gaze and Grantaire sees when the other man stops dead on his tracks.
He looks at Gavroche in fear and he lets out a strangled, “No, please, don’t!” and then Gavroche smiles widely before touching him.
The pieces of glass fall to the ground and so does Montparnasse, unconscious.
Gavroche looks at Grantaire and jumps from the balcony and out of the window. Grantaire closes his eyes as the adrenaline leaves his body and only exhaustion remains and he mutters, “This is a freaking Marvel Universe.”
He thinks he hears someone laughing but he’s already out.
“We tell you to look after him and he gets alcohol poisoning and Montparnasse shows up at his doorstep and stabs him. What the hell, Gavroche?”
Bahorel doesn’t treat Gavroche like the others. He couldn’t care less if the boy was 9 or 90. He needs to be held responsible for his actions.
“How was I supposed to know that they knew about him? I’m not a freaking seer!” Bahorel punches the table and he must be really angry since Gavroche has never seen him loose control of his strength. The metal bends like plastic under the man’s fist.
“You should have kept him close! Don’t try to be smart with me and accept your mistake.”
Gavroche looks at him and Bahorel knows that there’s no way he’s getting an apology from the boy. So he sighs and shakes his head, “You’re on cleaning duty until next week. Go find your sister.”
The boy wants to argue, he has fight in him, but Bahorel looks at him pointedly and that’s the end of the discussion. “Combeferre is going to hear about this when he gets back!”
When Gavroche looks back, his eyes are wide. And Bahorel can’t even hide the smirk. Well, that at least worked.
He didn’t mean to act like the parent of the house, but Valjean was gone and his last wish was for them to find Grantaire.
And yes, they did find the man, but then Combeferre was asked (and this is Bahorel being nice) to go to that meeting with the vice-president and he and Courfeyrac were not back yet, so this leaves Bahorel on security duty. Or how Feuilly likes to call it, Bahorel’s “parenting mode on”.
He sighs and punches the table from the other side, trying to mend it or at least make it less obvious that it had been punched. By Bahorel. Whose strength is no match for anyone here.
“Yo Hulkster, let’s go! It appears our guest is waking up,” Feuilly doesn’t even wait for the punch and instead flies (or is rather carried by the wind he controls) towards the hospital wing. Bahorel doesn’t even try to catch up and just walks.
He’s not sure he should be there at all.
After all, it’s been a long time since he’s seen Grantaire.
Jehan is at the library reading when he hears the familiar sound of Feuilly’s winds. He has been trying to keep his distance, to let the new man rest, but it appears that no one has though as much.
He sighs. Things are getting harder by the day. It’s like the bomb is just waiting for the right moment in time to ‘click’ and ‘boom’.
Oh no. Jehan slams his hand against his own cheek. It’s happening again and he doesn’t know how to stop. One minute he’s thinking and writing and making poetry and then suddenly the words fail him.
Jehan is not a man who hates easily. But there’s nothing on Earth he hates more than onomatopoeia right now.
So he goes back to reading and he tries to calm himself down, because he can’t lose this. He can’t.
But his words are disappearing.
And they are all Jehan has. He manipulates his way around letters and punctuations and that’s how he does things. He is a poet first and a mutant second. This is how he is. But lately it is as if these two parts of him had been fighting and all he knows to do is read.
He reads because he’s afraid he’ll forget the words.
Jehan is panicking and he does not know how to calm himself. Maybe he wouldn’t have to. Maybe, had Courfeyrac been here…
The poet, the mutant, Jehan closes his eyes. He can’t rely on Courf.
This problem is his and his alone. He can do this. Yes.
Jehan opens his eyes and smirks, looking at the book without reading it.
“In this moment of truth, I solemnly swear. I will bring you down, and for that beware.”
Joly is exhausted. He is slumped on one of the armchairs near Grantaire’s bed, Gavroche close by, looking at the once bloodied man.
“Have you washed yourself, Gav?” The doctor asks, but the teenager doesn’t say a thing. He knows Gavroche is feeling guilty and there’s nothing he can say right now. Only Grantaire wakening will make the boy feel better.
So Joly rises and pushes Gavroche to the armchair. “Combeferre is going to be here soon. And I think Feuilly and Bahorel are about to break in. Can I leave him to your care?”
The blond boy nods and smirks, “I’ll make them stay very quiet, you’ll see.”
Joly laughs and touches Grantaire’s forehead for a few seconds before leaving the room. He may have majored in Med School, but he’d be no use here if it weren’t for his mutation.
He can’t heal Grantaire immediately but he’ll do it bit after bit until the man is okay. The cut on his leg is almost closed. The main problem about Grantaire, though, is his liver.
How he managed to live until a week ago is still a mystery. And yet, Joly has learned that even the ones who have lost all can find reasons to fight for.
He smiles as he enters his room. Lesgles is still asleep, so he goes to the bathroom and takes his clothes off piece by piece in every step. He is almost drifting to sleep, emotional and physically drained from using his healing factor for so long.
Joly stays under the cold shower for a long time and that probably is longer than he thinks, because Lesgles goes in the bathroom and is brushing his teeth while looking at his best friend. “Long night?”
He is smiling underneath the foam at his mouth and he knows Joly hates it when he does many things at the same time, “Yes, but it’s soon to be over.”
Joly rinses his hair as Lesgles finishes his morning routine. And when he turns the shower off, there is Lesgles with a towel in hand, waiting for him.
Sometimes Joly wonders how they became what they are now. And sometimes he’s just glad they lived to see this. He lets his best friend embrace him with the towel and dry him off and kiss him endlessly.
Lesgles is a disease Joly can’t heal from.
Bahorel should have known Gavroche would still be pissed at him from their encounter a few days ago. But when he enters Grantaire’s room and Feuilly’s wind rips his clothes apart from his body, he thinks “I’m going to murder them”.
He cups his own crotch with his left hand and points at Feuilly with the other, because right now the ginger is the one laughing and it was his doing even though that was probably Gav’s idea.
So he looks at Feuilly and says, “You’re sleeping with Courfeyrac tonight. And I’m ripping your Polish flag from our bedroom. Fuck you.”
He walks away and Feuilly is still laughing.
And of course, that’s when Eponine and Cosette decide to go visit Grantaire. He doesn’t even blush, just huffs and snaps, “What?”
But both girls just roll their eyes and start laughing. Bahorel knows he’s well-built so he’s not embarrassed. He does hate Feuilly though.
So when he gets to the bedroom he smiles when something next to Feuilly’s bed catches his attention.
He takes the damn flag down from the wall and if he’s too eager and ends up making a hole there, he will mend it later. Now he is busy.
Bahorel is smiling all the way down to Grantaire’s infirmary room. When he gets there, Feuilly lets out a surprised shout and every single head turns to look at him. He smirks.
If there’s something Feuilly loves, is Poland. And after that, Poland’s flag he keeps on the wall next to his bed. So of course, being nude is problematic so Bahorel had to find something to hide his crotch from the other amis, right?
So he made a tong out of freaking Poland.
“I’m going to murder you, Bahorel!” And Feuilly would have gone through with his plan hadn’t Gavroche realized it would probably hurt everyone in there. The boy touches Feuilly’s elbow and there’s nothing the man can do.
He is powerless as long as Gavroche has hold of him.
Bahorel smiles wide.
Revenge is sweet.
They are all looking at Bahorel so no one realizes Grantaire is awake until the artist speaks, “Well, this is not how I pictured seeing you again, Bahorel.”
Bahorel closes the distance and stands next to Feuilly, between the ginger and Grantaire. He smiles weakly and hesitantly when he looks and takes in all that the man has suffered.
“You’ve seen me in less.”
Grantaire laughs and it’s painful because it’s devoid of happiness. “I’ve seen you in nothing.”
There’s silence as they watch each other and that’s when Grantaire sees everyone in the room. It’s crowded and he should tell everyone to leave and yes, he should be yelling at Bahorel right now, the fucker, but he is so tired he can barely keep his eyes open.
“How are you feeling?” There’s a girl talking and he thinks he recognizes the voice. When Grantaire looks at her, he smiles.
“Oh, the fallen angel. Hello, dearest Cosette. How is my painting treating you?” He hears someone say “I’m getting Joly” but Grantaire doesn’t know what a joly is so he busies himself with what he knows and that’s all he can do to keep from panicking.
“It is beautiful as always. I have it in my bedroom. Maybe when you’re better you can visit it,” she says it with a cute smile and with no second thoughts, and that’s why Grantaire does what he does.
He breaks what his arms reach.
“Hm, maybe, if you happen to have a dick. You can ask Bahorel all about it though. He visited me a few years ago and left without saying goodbye. He’s good at it.”
Gavroche takes Bahorel arm with his free hand and it’s really weird, to be holding the bigger guys from Les Amis by the hand but that’s his life now.
“Grantaire, it’s not-” Bahorel would have continued but Grantaire was now smiling. He was back asleep.
When all heads turned to Bahorel with angry glares, all he did was sigh, “In my defense, that was the night I discovered my powers.”
Feuilly may be powerless but he hits Bahorel on the shoulder and both man cry with the pain.
Gavroche smiles and runs out the room before anyone can blame him for the shit hitting the fan.
Bahorel takes a final look at Grantaire and leaves as well, followed by an angry looking Feuilly.
This is not going to be a nice talk.
Enjolras wakes up with a startle. He’s gasping for air and his hands go to his own neck, finding nothing.
Nothing is choking him, so why is it so hard to breathe?
He calms himself down and closes his eyes until he can feel the oxygen entering his lungs and then going out, slowly understanding.
It was all a bad dream.
He looks around and the room he is staying at is not familiar. He doesn’t know why he’s here and he’s about to shout for help.
But then he remembers the rally.
He has no time to welcome the memory for Joly is entering the room with a big smile, out of breath and poorly dressed in pajama’s’ pants. Enjolras doesn’t want to think what the other man was doing just now.
“Thank God, you woke up! You scared the hell out of me when you did though and Bossuet is still recovering. I accidentally punched him and he exploded our tv and hit me on the stomach. He really needs to get a hang of this soon.”
Enjolras can’t help but smile. He looks at the infirmary room and then back at Joly, “How long was I out? Where is everyone?”
Joly sits on the bed next to his friend. “We lost you for almost two weeks. I only knew you were alive because I could feel your organs activity. You have a really loud brain, my friend.”
At that Enjolras shoves Joly playfully and then shrugs, “I feel fine though. It’s not like the other times. This time I feel rested.”
Joly sees the way the blonde man face is no longer pale. It’s weird, not worrying about Enjolras’ dark circles under his eyes or his purple lips. Enjolras does look fine.
So the doctor stands up and starts turning off all the machines that were giving sustenance to his sleeping friend and when he takes the tubes and needles from Enjolras’ arms, he does so with gentleness and is already healing with his touch.
Enjolras watches in awe as his own bruises vanish only to reappear on Joly’s arm, closing instantly. Joly tries not to make a face, but is no use because Enjolras knows it hurts him every time he heals someone.
So he smiles once it is gone and fetches a bottle of water for Enjolras, who catches it easily and soon starts drinking nonstop.
The blond may never use his power, but he surely is the one whose mutation is the most demanding. He watches as the man finishes the content of the bottle.
And Joly smirks once the room drops a few degrees even though he knows it is not Enjolras intent. They look at each other and Joly gives him another bottle.
“What did I miss?”
Enjolras is the soul of The Friends of ABC. He is an idealist and his biggest dream is to make every living have the same value.
He may be a mutant, but he’s one of the few who don’t welcome it. He finds it a useless attribute. How is he supposed to fight for equality when he can’t be seen as a peoples man?
That’s why they had used Valjean. The oldman was human but he held no prejudice against mutants. And how could he when his own daughter was one? But Valjean is dead now and Joly still hates himself for not being there.
He likes to think he could have prevented the man’s death.
When they came back from the rally, Enjolras had fallen asleep in one of his Odin sleeps and the rest was history.
“Oh, we found the man Valjean was looking for,” said Joly with a wide smile. “And apparently he used to date Bahorel. Feuilly threw a fit when he found out.”
Enjolras is not one to care for gossip but he likes listening to Joly talk and he loves his friends, so he smiles. “I assume Gavroche was around then, since we still have a roof around our heads.”
Joly nods. “You have a lot of catching up to do. Rest and tomorrow you can go back to your inspiring routine.”
Enjolras would have shoved Joly off his bed, but he’s tired and the man is good at him and who’s kidding, he makes speeches and he jogs, his life is not very entertaining. Enjolras drifts to sleep and tries to ignore the warm feeling in his stomach.
Combeferre hates Washington. He hates the city and its weather and traffic. He hates the White House and even more the politicians there.
But he knows he’s the most diplomatic of the Amis and if there’s something he can be proud of, is his power of patience.
Something wet touches his hand and he has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Courf, you’re drooling on me.”
The dog licks Combeferre’s hand, who then shoves him off the couch. “Seriously, you can go back to normal now, it’s not funny anymore.”
He watches as the rotwailler barks once and then starts slowly shifting and becoming bigger and taller and human. It’s always mesmerizing and intriguing to say the least.
When he starts shifting his face though, Combeferre has to swallow down his laugh.
Courfeyrac stands up and stretches. He’s naked but it’s not like he cares, so he winks at his best friend and goes to their suitcase, searching for clothes.
He puts some pants on before jumping back to sit next to Combeferre on the couch. “Can we leave yet? I’m bored and I heard from Gavroche that Feuilly and Bahorel are fighting.”
The man in glasses looks at Courfeyrac with a frown, “What do you care if they are fighting?”
Courf smiles and the smirk is so canine like that he wonders if the man should take a break from changing so often, “Oh, I don’t care at all, but if there’s make up sex, I want to witness that.”
Combeferre hides his face and he would have banned his friend from the room but they are still under watch. “One more hour and then we go. I just wanna be sure they are not going to follow.”
Courfeyrac sighs and steals the remote control from his friend’s lap.
The meeting with the vice-president had been both good and frightening. They had presented ideas and reform projects for the oppressed, but the politician had other concerns in mind.
“Mutants, for example,” he says, “have become a priority of the Government. We have information that the death of Lamarque was a direct threat to the country. And to some extent, so is Les Amis de L’ABC.”
Courfeyrac starts to rise from his chair in protest, but sensing the moving of guards around them, Combeferre kept him in place with a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, mr. Vice-President, but the Friends of ABC only wish to help and make people equal. How is it that we became a national threat?”
Combeferre wishes Enjolras had been there. He may share the same beliefs of his friend – they all do – and probably cares even more for the well-being of the population, but Combeferre is gentle and democratic while Enjolras is fierce and inspirational.
Enjolras is a threat.
Courfeyrac scoffs but keeps in place while the politician stands up, “We have come to learn that all in the Friends of ABC organization are mutants. If I’m correct, you even have a member who is a fugitive for killing ten men in one night.”
Combeferre squeezes Courf’s shoulder in worry. How do they have that kind of information? Do they have a traitor among Les Amis? He drops that thought as soon as it stars. Of course they don’t.
“I don’t know where you go that kind of news from, but we can assure you, The ABC means no harm.”
The politician looks at Courfeyrac and opens a folder, reading briefly and talking at the same time. “Mr. de Courfeyrac, is it true you can take the form of an elephant instantly if you so wish to?”
The two friends hear some of the guards gasp and clung to their weapons in fear. Courfeyrac, who is not easily threatened, doesn’t hesitate, “Yes.”
The vice-president smiles, “If that’s so, do you agree that by changing into said animal in a room like this would crush at least 20 men?”
Courfeyrac holds the man’s gaze and Combeferre knows the vice-president is getting what he wants.
“I could also change into a snake to make you some company.”
The politician has to shout orders to keep the guards from moving and Combeferre stands up and takes his place next to Courfeyrac. This has been long enough.
“If Les Amis de L’ABC wishes to continue with its organization, the American Government requires full disclosure of its members and mutant habilities,” Combeferre is already shaking his head when the politician continues, “I don’t know if I made myself clear, mr. Combeferre. You either agree to the terms or the ABC will be considered enemies of the Republic.”
Courfeyrac is shaking. So Combeferre takes his hand and squeezes it.
“If that would be all, we’d like time to gather and consider the terms. I believe you shall have your answer in ten days.”
The man nods and motions his head to the door. As soon as the friends leave the room, they disappear in the air.
The politician sighs and sits back at the table, writing next to Combeferre’s name and file, “teleportation?”
The head of his security approaches his table, “Mr. Javert, your car is ready.”
Courfeyrac only realizes he keeps changing the TV channels frantically when Combeferre’s hand reaches his arm and brings him back from his mind.
“Are you ok?”
The boy takes a deep breath and Combeferre wonders if it is healthy to always think about Courfeyrac as a kid.
“It’s just hard, being the enemy.” Combeferre shouldn’t but he smiles. So that’s why his friend wasn’t letting go of his doggy body.
“The people will not be quiet about this if it goes national wide, so they probably won’t even make it to the media. They don’t want chaos.”
A few minutes pass when finally Courfeyrac looks at the teleporter and then at the clock on the opposite wall from them.
“Can we go home now? Please?” He looks shaken and Combeferre wonders if he should have brought Bahorel instead.
But Courf had insisted and he noticed how he had been avoiding Jehan since last rally, so he just nodded and told him to pack without a second though on the matter.
Courfeyrac is a great guy, who fights and loves and keeps them united. But he is not fierce when it comes to confrontations like that, when he is treated like he is nothing but a prisoner bargaining for his way out.
So Combeferre smiles and nods, standing up. “Yeah, let’s go. Bahorel can’t be trusted for long.”
At that Courfeyrac finally cracks a smile and for now, it is enough.
When Grantaire wakes up again, he is alone. He looks around the room just to be sure and then he sighs. His life is a turmoil right now and for the first time, he wasn’t the one to blame.
Well, he doesn’t know that for sure, but there’s nothing he can think of right now.
He could have avoided opening his door to Gavroche, but he doubts it would have prevented anything.
He sits up and doesn’t feel ill, so he takes it as a sign to stand up.
The drunkard takes the IVs from his arm and walks around, looking for his clothes. He finds them clean and folded in a wardrobe and puts them on. He opens the door and looks. He looks and he can’t believe how huge the place seems to be.
There’s a long and fancy hallway when he reaches the end of the infirmary ward, so he decides to walk around. He hears people talking loudly and laughing, but the moment one of the doors open and a man comes out of it, he notices the room is deadly silent.
They stare at each other and Grantaire can’t help what comes out of his mouth, it is his only defense after all, so he says, “Hey there pirate. Where do you hide the rum?”
He could expect a punch in the face, but the man just smiles wide and laughs beautifully. He is beautiful, now that Grantaire takes a longer look. The eye patch is not missed, but Grantaire is more interested in that smile and the lonely eye said so much. He feels his chest tighten at the sight.
“I don’t know where they keep the liquor, but I’m sure you can’t have any yet,” the man is still smiling when he raises his hand at Grantaire. “My name is Jehan. Welcome, Grantaire.”
The drunkard is not sure if he should shake the hand in front of him; it felt like signing a contract for a lifetime in that house, but he can’t not shake it, so he does.
“If it’s not too much trouble, do you have anything to eat, dearest Jehan?”
The man smiles and nods, “Sure. Follow me.”
Grantaire opens his mouth to make a joke about losing his way around the huge mansion but suddenly his body starts moving without him meaning to. His heart starts pounding loudly and he wants to say something, but his mouth won’t move.
He might have a panic attack but he doesn’t know if his body would even let himself do that, and he tries to move a finger, c’mon, just a finger, but it doesn’t answer to his commands.
A few minutes pass and Grantaire wishes he could cry, but then Joly appears from nowhere and he yells, “Jehan, let go of him!”
The man with the eye patch looks over his shoulder and sees Grantaire walking like a marionette and Joly heavy breathing from running. Jehan closes his eye for a second and then Grantaire feels the invisible strings let go of him and he falls to his knees next to Joly’s feet.
“What the hell was that?” he asks, out of breath.
Jehan’s good eye is pouring with tears and he hides his face behind his hands, “I’m so sorry Grantaire, I can’t – I don’t know – I lost the words and-”
Joly moves after touching Grantaire’s forehead for a few minutes, reintegrating the connection between doctor and patient, and goes to the man crying.
“Take a deep breath, Jehan. It’s ok. See? Grantaire is fine.” The doctor looks pointedly at Grantaire, who understands.
“I’m fine Jehan, really. Don’t worry.” He stands up and touches Jehan’s shoulder carefully after looking at Joly to make sure it was ok. When he gets no response from the man in tears, he says, “I’m hungry though. Will you feed me, pirate?”
Joly’s wide eyes would have made Grantaire laugh if he hadn’t been in such a weird conversation. Jehan does, though. He laughs quietly. “Ok. Yes. Let’s find you something to eat.”
And if he talks in pauses to make sure there’s no power behind it, no one says a thing. The three of them start walking. Jehan still looks shaken, but he leads the way. Joly trails after them, always looking behind his shoulder at the empty hallway.
Jehan starts fumbling around the kitchen cabinets and Grantaire sits at the table with Joly.
“So you’re all mutants? I though School of Gifted was just a coincidence.” Jehan laughs quietly and Joly snorts.
“That was Enjolras trying to be funny for a change. It obviously didn’t work.”
Grantaire traces a picture at the wood in the table, lost in his thoughts for a few seconds and then he wonders, “Who’s that?”
“Our leader. The soul of Les Amis de L’ABC. You have yet to meet him, I think he is training.”
Grantaire doesn’t know what to say and so he waits until the man resumes talking. Jehan is silent while making eggs.
“Yes, we are all mutants. As you can tell by now, Jehan has word manipulation. He can talk his way out of things, pun intended.” Jehan throws a towel at Joly’s head, who only laughs alongside Grantaire. “And I have healing abilities. That means a lot of powers don’t work with me.”
Grantaire really needs a drink. If he didn’t have proof of what he was being told, he would have told them they were insane and left without a second thought. But this. This is intriguing.
And for some crazy reason, Grantaire feels like he belongs here.
“And I thought my life was weird before. You guys have it bad, man.” Grantaire smiles at Jehan when the man puts a plate full of eggs and toasts in front of his seat. He starts eating with such energy he almost forgets he has company until Joly speaks again.
“So, we’ve showed you ours, you show us yours. What can you do?”
Grantaire looks up and they are both looking at him expectantly. He swallows the food and raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t like where this is going, “I paint.”
Jehan smiles wide, “Oh! The future or the past?”
The drunkard looks at both of them with a frown, “No, you don’t get it. I paint. Period.” Both men look at each other, confused. “Wait. So you didn’t bring me just because that Montparnasse guy attacked me? You actually think I’m a mutant? Me?!”
He wants to laugh, but his stomach is waving with nervousness. He got into a very troublesome situation. No one notices a man leaning at the kitchen doorway and watching the conversation.
“You are a mutant, Grantaire. I could feel the pull when I healed you.”
He looks between both men with a funny retort about to come out, but Jehan has a look of sympathy on his eye and that’s too much.
“I’m really not. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.” He feels bad. Grantaire feels really, really bad. And that is insane.
“No! Lamarque saw it. He said you’d be the missing piece and that you’d complete us and help us with the Revolution. It really, really is you, Grantaire.” Jehan looked like a fighter whose cause was being ripped from him. And maybe it was.
“Revolution?” Grantaire is emotional and a wreck and he can’t even deal with his own feelings, how can he care about hurting other’s? So he laughs, “I’m sorry, but you’re mutants and revolutionaries? That’s a bit too much. Seriously guys, I’m just a poor painter with an alcohol problem. I assure you, I’m not a mutant. I just handle my liquor really well.”
Joly looks lost and Jehan is close to tears. He knew there was something wrong; he never gets good things so this had to be a mistake. He sighs at the sight of the two distressed men, “I’m sorry. I wish I was who you needed.”
And it comes as a surprise to even Grantaire: he really means it.
But then the man at the kitchen door “tsks” and enters the room, “You’re a cynic and an alcoholic and you just mocked our cause. You wish only to drink. Maybe it would be for the best if you left.”
Jehan stands up in surprise, “Enjolras. You don’t mean that.”
But the blonde doesn’t acknowledge Jehan for he is still looking at Grantaire. And the man looks back, thinking about everything and nothing at all. He thinks, God this man is beautiful. But he says, “Wow we have a class A jerk here, guys.”
Grantaire stands up and he sees everyone tensing up. “So let me get things straight. A kid breaks into my house and tells me I’m being invited to this little club of yours. A week later, I’m attacked by a freaking mutant. I wake up here and your friend takes control over my body,” Jehan flinches in regret and Grantaire only spares him a look of apology before looking back at Enjolras, who doesn’t show any emotion in that pretty face of his. “You don’t see me being a jerk to any one, do you? I almost got killed after your group started stalking me and yet, here I am wishing I was a fucking mutant so I could help you. Because God knows why, I like you lot.”
He finishes talking and he’s out of breath and he’s cold; actually, the place is freezing and before he knows it, he is falling.
Grantaire thinks he is going to break his nose when he hits the floor but then a pair of icy cold arms hold him and he thinks, “This is much worse than the floor.”