Chapter Text
Grantaire is supposed to be keeping Gavroche out of trouble—and himself out of the way—but instead he’s decided to teach the boy a dirty sort of marching song about angels. Gavroche is perched on an empty wine cask, and Grantaire leans against the barricade beside him, green glass bottle never out of reach.
“Think you’ve got it?” Grantaire asks him, very seriously.
Gavroche nods.
“All right, then. Ready?”
“Ready!”
And Grantaire starts singing, warm and bright.
“All the little angels rise up, rise up,
All the little angels rise up high!
How do they rise up, rise up, rise up?
How do they rise up, rise up high?”
Gavroche is giggling as he picks up the next line. “They rise arse up, arse up, arse up! They rise arse up, arse up high!”
It’s difficult to tell which of them is having more fun, but as long as it keeps Gavroche out of harm’s way—and Grantaire from fetching another bottle of wine—Enjolras isn’t going to complain.
Just after noon, he passes a little too close to the pair of them with an armload of rifles. Gavroche is still singing, his voice high and clear. “How do they rise up, rise up, rise up? How do they rise up, rise up high?”
Too late, Enjolras sees the tiny smirk playing at the edge of Grantaire’s lips. “They rise prick up, prick up, prick—”
“Grantaire!” Enjolras shouts, turning on his heel. “That’s obscene!”
“Oh, it’s all right, Monsieur Enjolras,” Gavroche says reassuringly. “I know lots worse.”
* * *
He doesn’t realize he’s been humming the tune until he catches sight of Grantaire, leaning against the bar and watching him with narrowed, gleaming eyes.
They’re alone in the cafe for now, though how long it will last is anyone’s guess. Grantaire takes full advantage of their solitude, abandoning the support of the bar to press Enjolras back against the cracked plaster wall.
His lips brush the curve of Enjolras’ ear. “How do you rise up, Apollo?”
Enjolras shows him.