Chapter Text
“Sooo…” Grantaire said, clicking his tongue thoughtfully. “Why are you here?”
Okay, maybe not his most interesting conversation starter. Grantaire fancies himself something of a conversationalist — he would strike up a chat with strangers in a bar, distract them from his unseemliness with his wit and, maybe, his fighting spark of charm. Humour is all he’s ever really been good for, and he’ll be damned if he lets his singular redeeming quality go to waste.
He had been sitting idly in the holding cell, picking abrasively at his cuticles, when the glowing image of Apollo himself was guided through the bars, hands unlawfully chained behind his back. A shock of red streamed from his nose over a pair of perfect lips. Grantaire was, to put it lightly, captivated. The God of the sun, stood before him as if to be any other man.
That was a few minutes ago now. The beautiful stranger glanced at Grantaire when he spoke. Apollo chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, and Grantaire watched the movement with perhaps a little too much absorption. Whatever. His drunken mind couldn’t be blamed for its besotted state.
“Because the system has been completely extirpated, that’s why.” Apollo says shortly. Grantaire would normally snort at that sort of response, but instead he almost chokes at the angelic voice his unworthy ears were just graced with. He does everything in his power to keep it cool, nodding nonchalantly and going back to his cuticle-picking.
The two of them sit in silence for a minute before the blonde talks, shocking Grantaire out of his reverie.
“Well?”
Grantaire gives him a confused look. “Well what?”
“Why are you here?” he asks in turn.
“Drunk and disorderly.” Grantaire laughs. Apollo’s brown furrows. “If alcohol isn’t illegal, why am I here for having a good time drinking it?”
“You do know the detrimental effects alcohol can have on your liver? And furthermore, on the people around you?” Apollo blabbers incessantly. Grantaire is shocked and a little disappointed that the man still doesn’t lose any appeal. “Alcoholics have higher rates of being found to be abusive, and did you know, there are 580,000 hospitalisations due to alcohol in France each year? Also—“
“God, why do you have statistics memorised? This isn’t an AA meeting — been there, done that.” Grantaire yawns pointedly. Apollo’s golden brow furrows that tiny bit more and Grantaire has to use all of his mental capacity to restrain a mischievous grin. “Now can you actually tell me why you’re here?”
Apollo glances away. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Takes a deep breath. Then—
“I may have— well, punchedapoliceofficerinthenose.”
“Beg your pardon?”
Apollo’s lips purse.
“I… punched a police officer… in the nose. But it wasn’t undeserved!” He hastens to add as Grantaire gives him an incredulous stare. Grantaire just laughs disbelievingly.
“Holy shit, Apollo! You actually punched him? Not even a slap? How on Earth is that an issue of the system? Fuck, what could he have done to elicit your— your righteous wrath?” Grantaire chuckles in hilarity. Apollo seems stuck wondering whether or not Grantaire is making fun of him.
“Um. He was grabbing a young boy who was at our protest in the city. He couldn’t have been older than 12, and this middle aged cop was pushing him around for no reason and — well, it was unjust, and so I justified things.” Grantaire’s smile had dropped at the beginning of the story, but made a special reappearance just for that last part.
“Oh blessed art thou, hallowed Apollo, what with— with your protesting, and your heroism.” Grantaire says, not entirely sure of any of the words slipping out of his mouth at any given moment. He is sure that he shuts himself up, though, when Apollo’s piercing blue eyes snap over to him.
“Stop that.” He bites out.
“…Stop what?” Grantaire barely speaks, afraid to choke on the force of those eyes. Goodness, they’re blue. Grantaire could never stop staring.
“Calling me that. Apollo.” Apollo — or, well, the blonde man — scrunches his nose in disgust. “I’m not some god. I’m the same as everybody else, just… I speak up. I know how I look. I don’t want that to be the sole reason I’m listened to. I want people to hear what I have to say for what I have to say.”
And Grantaire does. He hears every word he says. It reigns clear and strong and powerful over the vague buzzing in his mind. It chimes like church bells.
In that very moment, Grantaire is convinced that this man before him could be the very thing to change the world.
“Okay.” is all Grantaire can say for a moment. “What shall I call you then, Monsieur?”
The man looks slightly taken aback, but is quick to regain composure after his passionate little speech.
“…Enjolras.” He says at long last, and the name is grace upon Grantaire’s very ears. Enjolras. How beautiful a name.
“Well, then, it’s nice to meet you, Enjolras. I’m Grantaire.” He grins in a way he hopes is charismatic, but switches to a closed-mouth smile when he remembers the crookedness of his teeth, which are probably stained red from the wine. He’s internally cursing his distracted brain for the delayed action, or delayed inaction, and considering if it’s a mistake worth apologising and/or grovelling over—
But Enjolras only smiles.
❦
“Let’s see… tall, blonde, and gorgeous. What else you got up that sleeve?” Grantaire asks playfully. Enjolras flicks him an irritated look.
“Tall and blonde, sure, but you don’t need to go about parading my looks again.” He rolls his eyes. Grantaire’s lazy smile falls a little from his face.
“Jeez, just take the compliment, man.” He says. Enjolras only looks further annoyed, which only makes Grantaire further annoyed, which— well, you get it.
“It’s just— ugh.” Enjolras drops his head backwards. Grantaire revels in the peek of pale throat above Enjolras’s tall collar and the way his Adam’s apple bobs slightly. It doesn’t matter what Enjolras says next — Grantaire’s sure he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
“I hate that when people look at me, all they seem to see is that I’m” — he continues with finger quotes — “‘attractive,’ or ‘handsome,’ or— whatever. I want people to hear me and to listen. To take action. But that doesn’t happen when they’re too busy fishing for a lay, and it’s frustrating.” Enjolras rambles, his tongue practically aflame.
“Well,” Grantaire says, “that’s one problem I’ll never have to deal with.” he chuckles ruefully at his own joke. Enjolras stares.
“Beauty is subjective. To label me as attractive and you not— the idea’s preposterous. No one person is more attractive than another, because no one thing is attractive.”
“Yeah, okay, tell that to all the ladies lining up for you, and fuckin’— Brad Pitt, I dunno. Seriously, you can’t look at me and say I’m hotter than you. Like, not to be a self-deprecating asshole, but you’re clearly the finer specimen between us.” Grantaire scratches at the stubble on his chin, a wave of insecurity brushing over him.
“I literally just said that that’s not possible. Did you listen to anything I said, at all? Or were you busy ogling? Just because I fit into society’s conventional beauty standards doesn’t take away from your looks or the looks of anybody else.” God, not this shit again.
“Oh, sorry for not listening to your little speech, I was too busy being put under a spell by your irresistible dreaminess.” Grantaire bites. Enjolras looks taken aback for a moment — his permanently pinched brows smoothed out in shock, before lowering slightly in offence and then hurt. His eyes snaps away. Grantaire is hit with guilt like a brick, all for a stranger he just met. Who was really just being nice him. That only makes it more pathetic. He curses himself.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Enjolras mutters to the floor. Grantaire’s eyes draw downwards too.
“I know.”
❦
The two of them sit mostly in silence for the rest of the time, although eventually they restart with somewhat awkward conversation about this and that, which slowly evolves into casual chatter, and Grantaire is starting to be glad to be here with Enjolras. Underneath his holier than thou attitude and stunning face, he’s actually very smart and witty. Grantaire finds himself enjoying the company. Of course, that’s when a guard approaches their holding cell.
“Hello, Monsieurs. Which of you gentlemen is named Enjolras?” Enjolras rises and steps towards the door hopefully. Grantaire deflates. So much for enjoying himself. “Sir, you’ve been bailed out by—“
“ENJOLRAS!” A voice cuts in, filled with concern. Footsteps run (and… trip slightly?) in their direction before a head of curly hair is spotted outside the cell. Grantaire watches as a smile eases onto Enjolras’ lips, one that conveys comfort and familiarity and shit, and he has to stomp down a stab of envy. He just met this guy, for fuck’s sake. He’s probably too much righteous hero for Grantaire’s apathetic loser, anyway.
“Courfeyrac.” Enjolras greets warmly. Naturally, Courfeyrac seems a tad bit less happy to see Enjolras than Enjolras is to see him.
“Enjolras, by God, what were you thinking, punching an inspector, have you gone completely fucking mad?” Courfeyrac dotes as the guard busies himself opening the cell. “We were all worried sick about you, you know! If you think I’m bad, you should have seen Joly! It’s not exactly ideal for the protest leader to suddenly disappear, much less to return handcuffed. I’ll have you know, though, that that boy you helped out very grateful— in fact, him and his sister have come here now to personally express as much. Isn’t that sweet? Oh, here they come now!”
And then, in a surprising turn of events, a familiar face — a familiar two faces — come into view.
“Hi, Monsieur, we just wanted—“ bored eyes look up from the ground to meet Enjolras’s, and then— “GRANTAIRE?!”
Grantaire sighs.
“Hello, Gavroche.” Grantaire says. Gavroche’s disinterest quickly evaporates, replaced by excitement. Grantaire quickly concludes that Éponine put him up to this, who, speak of the devil, has just come up behind her brother and dropped her jaw.
“Grantaire, for God’s sake, why are you imprisoned?” Éponine groans, hands coming up to rub her temples.
Grantaire, once again, feels guilt rest heavy on his shoulders. This seems to have been a stressful day for her already and she shouldn’t have to deal with Grantaire’s idiocy to top it off. Christ, he’s been feeling too guilty as of late. Perhaps a sign of poor character. He pulls a small flask out of his coat pocket and waves it in means of answer. Éponine closes her eyes and takes a deep, deep breath. Grantaire suddenly remembers Courfeyrac’s explanation for their arrival and he looks back to Gavroche, giving him a quick visual once-over.
“Oi, Gav, what’s this about an inspector harassing you? The fuck?” Grantaire asks. The smile on the boy’s face leaves as quickly as it arrived, and instead he rolls his eyes.
“Fuckin’ Inspector Javert!” Eponine quietly pinches his arm for the profanity, and he swats her away.
“Y’know, the one what keeps coming by our place cause of mum and dad and Montparnasse? Anyway, I was heading towards downtown and saw there was this big protest going on, so I decided to hang around and see what was up, and I joined in the chanting cause why not, like, fuck the police! And so I get bored and fall behind and that dickhead got all young-man-you-shouldn’t-be-doing-this on me, which was stupid as shit— ow, Éponine, stop that— because I wasn’t doing anything, so I tell him that and he gets all police brutality on me! Like fully grabbed my collar, complete asshole, right? Then this guy, Andre-Lass or whatever, came swooping in and totally socked him in the jaw! Thanks, by the way.” Gavroche aims the last bit at Enjolras, who just shrugs.
“I wasn’t going to let him hurt a kid like that. I wouldn’t have let him hurt anybody like that.” He says. Grantaire stares.
“…Are we gonna have to bail you out?” Éponine, ever on task, asks in a tired tone. The guilt returns posthaste.
“Sorry, love. I’ll pay you back once I get home, yeah? Got some cash from doing some caricatures on the weekend.” Grantaire says, even though he drew a total of two caricatures. Éponine’s got it rough and he’s not about to ask her for cash favours like this.
Her brows draw in slightly, which would look like an ordinary expression to anybody but which Grantaire knows is indicative of her gratitude. Éponine has this thing where she makes micro expressions that are only readable to the few who have stuck around long enough to learn their language. Grantaire supposed it’s a vulnerability thing. She tends to maintain a look of toughness to anybody she doesn’t know— but then again. anybody like her would.
“Are you two an item?” Enjolras questions suddenly, his clear voice mildly strained. Grantaire and Éponine make the exact same look of distaste at the exact same time.
“Um,” Éponine says, her nose wrinkled, “no offense, but it’s embarrassing enough to call Grantaire my friend. I’d kiss a frog sooner than kiss him.”
“You basically do, with Montparnasse,” mutters Gavroche, earning himself a smack to the back of the head.
Grantaire notices abruptly that Enjolras is yet to leave the cell despite the bars being open and the guard haunting left. While Éponine and Gavroche squabble, he looks over to Enjolras, and is alarmed to see him looking right back.
Before he can ask about it (or make fun of it), however, Courfeyrac speaks up.
“Alright, mate,” he says, voice wriggling out just legible between Éponine and Gavroche’s bickering. “how about we get you out of here? For poor old Joly’s peace of mind, if nothing else?”
This interruption regrettably caues Enjolras to avert his eyes from Grantaire, who tries not to visibly deflate. It’s actually rather exhilarating, having those baby blues on him. Enjolras has the sort of gaze that makes one feel as though they’re the only one left in the universe. Exciting, liberating… and mildly intimidating.
“Yes,” Enjolras agrees, clearing his throat suspiciously. Grantaire, ever self-indulgent, decides to believe he’s flustered to have been caught staring. Wishful thinking, certainly, but a pleasant assumption nonetheless.
Enjolras is led out by Courfeyrac, who slings an arm over his pointy shoulders and starts yammering about how even if everybody was worried sick it was kinda funny to see the Inspector with a nosebleed. Grantaire wishes absently that he had been able to see it as well; or, rather, been able to watch Enjolras inflict the injury in all his virtuous glory.
He’s still imagining Enjolras slugging the police officer and protecting a hapless little boy (which in itself is mournfully unrealistic, knowing Gavroche) when Éponine returns with the guard to unlock the cell door once again and free Grantaire to roam the streets unrestrained.
She takes one look at him once he’s out and a sort of doomed look of horror graces her face. It’s rare to see so much movement from her facial muscles, so Grantaire knows immediately that it’s bad.
“Fuck, R,” she says, shoulders slumping and the corner of her eyes pinching with exasperation. “you like him, don’t you?”
Grantaire promptly turns around and walks back into the cell.