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It was a particularly warm night for February, and the window in the upper room of the Musain was thrown open, letting strains of laughter and joviality filter to the empty street below. “Come now,” Bahorel said, slamming his empty cup against the table. “Is there some mysterious circumstance that precludes our knowing just how our fair leader and dearest libertine met?”
Grantaire laughed. “No mystery, my dear man, just a general air of secrecy we prefer to maintain. Besides which, the story is not nearly as interesting as I imagine you believe it to be.”
“But I do find it strange that after all this time together, we, the closest of your friends, nonetheless do not even know how you and Enjolras met,” Courfeyrac said, his tone turning wheedling. “And seeing as how this mysterious moment led to the serendipity of your…whatever nomenclature you wish to use to describe your relationship and living arrangement, it seems only fair that you should fill us in on all of the salacious details.”
Rolling his eyes, Grantaire gestured for Enjolras to join them, and it was with only a small huff of impatience that Enjolras did, settling in at the table in the back corner of the Musain, Combeferre along with him, clearly intrigued. “Whatever this regards, I beg of you, make it quick,” Enjolras said good-naturedly.
“Enjolras, my darling, these fine gentlemen wish to know how we met,” Grantaire said, his eyes crinkled with amusement. “And I wished that you would assist me in convincing them that it is not a story worth telling.”
Enjolras shrugged. “It’s not an interesting story, to be sure,” he said, a little surprised, “but if they’re so curious, I don’t see any reason why not to tell them. Now if that is the only thing you wanted…”
For a moment, Grantaire looked put out that Enjolras had not taken his side, but he recovered quickly. “Well, since it is thus far not a tale we have told, it seems only fitting that you join me for its telling,” he said, placing a firm hand on Enjolras’s shoulder to prevent him from standing.
It was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes. “I do not see why the story would be of interest to anyone,” he huffed. “But if you must tell it, then tell it quickly, and upon its completion, I have no fear that everyone’s curiosity will be fully assuaged.”
Grantaire smiled, a little smug. “Very well,” he said, warming to the tale. “It was a fine autumn afternoon, not too many years past…”
It was a fine autumn afternoon, not too many years past, and Grantaire was in a fine mood, whistling to himself as he strolled down the street. He had just finished a painting session and was feeling particularly accomplished, enough so that he thought he might treat himself to a fine bottle of wine at one of his favorite cafés.
Of course, when Grantaire was feeling particularly unaccomplished, he did much the same thing, but that was hardly the point.
The point was that his cheerful mood took him far from his usually dour haunts across the city. Had he never gone in that direction, he might never have heard the shouts and never had his curiosity piqued enough to investigate the source.
But he would forever glad that he did.
The crowd he stumbled upon was large and unorganized, made up of a mostly motley assortment of Parisian workers, with the odd student thrown in. It had clearly been going on for quite some time, and Grantaire was unsurprised to see that the National Guard was beginning to close in on the crowd, their hands resting dangerously on their weapons.
“Vive la Republique!” someone from the crowd shouted before shoving a national guardsman. That was all it took.
Shots were fired and screams pierced the air as Grantaire was almost stampeded by the crowd attempting to flee. He was pushed against the wall and only just managed to remain upright, looking around wildly for some way to escape.
Rather unexpectedly, he saw one of the national guardsman’s horses nervously tossing its head near him. The horse’s rider had clearly disembarked to take on the protestors on foot, leaving his horse unattended, and Grantaire, with more courage or perhaps stupidity than he knew was possible, grabbed the horse’s reins and swung onto its back.
He wheeled the horse around and was just about to knee it forward when a blond-haired man grabbed Grantaire by the waist and swung up onto the horse, settling in behind Grantaire, who was too confused to move. “What are you waiting for?” the blond snapped. “Ride! Unless you wish to be arrested!”
The blond made a good point, and Grantaire urged the horse into a reluctant trot. Together they fled the scene, the blond’s arms wrapped around Grantaire’s waist in a most distracting fashion, such that Grantaire paid little attention to where they were going, other than away from the scene.
Finally, once they were several streets away, the horse slowed to a walk and Grantaire pulled it to a stop. “Whoa,” he said, patting the horse’s neck. “Are you alright?”
“Are you speaking to me or to the horse?” the blond asked, sliding off the horse’s back and grinning at him. He had a cut on his cheek that was bleeding freely and a bruise beginning to blossom around his eye, and there was something wild and fierce and utterly alive in his expression.
Grantaire had never seen someone so beautiful.
“Mostly to you, though it seems both you and the horse are in fine spirits,” Grantaire said when he had recovered the power of speech. “I take it your injuries are not serious.”
The blond waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve received worse,” he said confidently. “And you – are you alright?”
Grantaire blinked in surprise. “In your presence, how could I be anything but fine?” he blurted, his cheeks tinged pink at his own audacity – or perhaps his own stupidity.
But the blond did not seem perturbed by Grantaire’s forward words, only laughing slightly and offering Grantaire his hand. “Enjolras,” he said.
“Grantaire,” Grantaire returned, shaking Enjolras’s hand and wishing he did not have to let go. “Do you do this often?”
“Which part? Being almost arrested by the national guard only to flee on one of their own horses? Meeting dark-haired strangers fleeing the same persecution? Or protesting the tyranny of the bourgeois?” Enjolras asked.
Grantaire laughed. “All of the above, I suppose.”
Enjolras smiled. “Well, protesting the tyranny of the bourgeois and being almost arrested by the national guard seem to go hand in hand these days, so as I pursue the former I must also encounter the latter. As to the latter, well, there is a first time for everything, and I am glad I got to share it with you.”
Feeling emboldened, Grantaire said, “I was on my way to dine at a café not too far from here. Would you, perhaps, join me? I’m sure your experience today merits a stiff drink.”
“I do not normally indulge in alcohol,” Enjolras said, a little haughtily, though his expression softened at he looked at Grantaire. “But perhaps sometime you would be willing to attend one of our meetings. Do you know the café Musain?” Grantaire nodded and Enjolras smiled. “Come almost any evening and we will be there.” He inclined his head toward Grantaire and slowly backed away, smiling. “I look forward to seeing you there.”
“And I, you,” Grantaire said, watching Enjolras walk away. When he was out of his sight, Grantaire turned, grinning, and walked in the opposite direction, even more of a spring in his step than before.
“A fine story,” Enjolras said, amused, “but not exactly how I remember it.”
“Oh, really?” Grantaire said, propping his chin on his hand and reaching for the bottle of wine. “And what exactly do you remember?”
Enjolras shook his head. “Your tale did justice to our meeting,” he hedged, “and I do not believe that our friends should be forced to sit through another telling of the same tale.”
“Nonsense,” Courfeyrac said with a stubbornness borne more of wine than any actual interest in the story. “If more is to be told, then stay here we shall until the tale is complete.”
“Hear, hear,” Bahorel said, slapping the table.
Combeferre frowned at him. “Are you even listening to the story?”
“Honestly, no,” Bahorel said, “though I’m sure it’s fascinating.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “Very well,” he said, a touch reluctantly. “It was not, contrary to Grantaire’s memory, which I will excuse for reasons I’m about to make clear, a fine autumn afternoon. It was instead a drizzly spring morning…”
It was a drizzly spring morning, but the damp had done nothing to deter the crowd of people drawn to the protest. Enjolras himself felt invigorated, his red coat standing out in the crowd as he held his fist in the air, shouting along with the crowd.
But he was unsurprised that it did not last.
Political speech following the events of 1830 had been dealt with harshly, and the national guardsmen were well prepared to take down the protestors and arrest any that attempted to resist their dispersal efforts.
Still, not even he could have prepared for how quickly the rally went sour, and thus was thrown off his guard when his planned escape route was blocked by reinforcements, one of whom hit him with the butt of his rifle.
Enjolras whirled around, eyes darting across the still-crowded square at the various other ways he could leave. His options were limited, and he was beginning to feel a surge of something close to panic set in when he spotted a plodding grey horse, a nag clearly brought to market after outliving its utility, with its owner seemingly asleep on its back.
Without hesitation, Enjolras strode to the horse and pulled himself onto its back, shaking the sleeping man to wake him. “Ride!” he commanded, as the brunet shook his head, blinking blearily around. “Unless you wish to be arrested!”
The man’s eyes widened as if he had just noticed the national guardsmen throughout the square, and wordlessly, he urged the horse into something approximating a trot. Enjolras wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, wrinkling his nose at the prevailing scent of wine.
Of course. It was only his luck that he would wind up with some drunk.
Still, beggars could not be choosers, and Enjolras, having spent a particularly foul night behind bars not too long past, knew that a judge would not be nearly as lenient were he caught again, even with his name and parents’ standing.
After only a few blocks, the horse slowed to a walk, wavering unsteadily as if it might fall over, and Enjolras slid off the horse’s back, in hopes of saving it from that fate. “Are you alright?” he asked.
The brunet shook his head, also sliding off the horse. “Are you speaking to me, or to the horse?” he asked mildly, looking around as if confused how he had arrived there.
Enjolras scowled. “Mostly to the horse, though it seems you both are in a poor way. I assume, however, that you are well enough to see to yourself?”
The brunet grinned. “As I am always. You seem to think me incapacitated, but I assure you, I have been in far worse ways.” He nodded towards Enjolras. “Are you alright? You appear to be bleeding.” He squinted. “I think. My eyesight is slightly blurry at the moment.”
For the first time, Enjolras realized that he was in fact bleeding from a shallow cut on his cheek. “I’m sure were I as intoxicated as you, I would be better, but I am fine,” he assured the brunet, whose grin widened as he held out his hand.
“Grantaire.”
“Enjolras,” Enjolras said, letting go of Grantaire’s hand as quickly as he could. “Do you do this often?”
Grantaire’s grin turned rakish. “Which part? Falling asleep on a horse I’ve never before seen? Drinking while the sun has yet to reach its zenith? Or fleeing from the national guard with a beautiful blond?”
Despite himself, Enjolras felt his lips twitch toward a smile. “All of the above, I suppose,” he said, albeit reluctantly.
Grantaire shrugged. “Well, the drinking is normal, and with it has come me finding myself in a variety of odd circumstances.” He winked at Enjolras. “Though I admit, I do not normally find myself in the presence of someone like you upon waking.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but smile slightly. “Perhaps you should get some food in your stomach,” he said, nodding over Grantaire’s shoulder. “There’s a café just over there and I imagine it would clear your head.”
“But sir, what makes you think I would want to clear my head?” Grantaire asked, smirking. “I would prefer to remember this moment for all time, lest I never see your fair visage again.”
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you will see me again,” he said, slowly backing away. “In fact, if ever you wish to put your mind to pursuits other than drinking, you might attend a meeting at the café Musain. There you will certainly see me.”
He inclined his head towards Grantaire, who was grinning. “I look forward to seeing you there,” Grantaire called, and Enjolras sighed, unable to shake the feeling that this was going to end up being a monumental mistake.
“I’m sure you do,” he grumbled.
An almost awkward silence settled over the table after Enjolras finished the story, broken finally by Grantaire, who shook his head and laughed. “Of course,” he said smoothly, raising his bottle of wine in a salute. “Silly of me to forget the details. But then, as you are fond of reminding me, such lapses of memory are to be expected when one over-indulges in alcohol.”
Enjolras laughed and shook his head. “Well, it is true,” he said, but without the admonition or judgment he used to have when discussing Grantaire’s drinking. He stood, bending to quickly press a kiss to the top of Grantaire’s head, so quickly indeed that if one had blinked, he would have missed it.
Then he left, pursued by Courfeyrac and Bahorel and leaving Combeferre to frown at Grantaire. “That is not the story,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I remember Enjolras vaguely mentioning something about this meeting, and while it has been quite some time since last we discussed it, I know this was not that meeting.”
Grantaire shook his head, his smile fond. “Every time he tells the story, he changes it ever so slightly,” he said, watching as Enjolras settled back in to his work across the room. “I think he finds his version more authentic to what he would prefer to remember.”
“Then your story is the true story?” Combeferre asked.
Grantaire hesitated slightly. “Not quite,” he admitted. “I did not stumbled upon that protest by happenstance. I was indeed making my way to a café, but spotted a blond man walking in the opposite direction and knew that I needed to follow him.”
He shrugged, settling back in his seat. “I do not know what my intentions were – to introduce myself, perhaps, or merely to see where he was going – but I followed him nonetheless. And when we got swept up in the protest, I kept him in my sight. That is why I was on the horse – to better watch him and make sure he stayed out of danger.”
Shrugging again, Grantaire drained his bottle of wine and set it on the table with a thud. “Maybe it was fate, for once the protest went to hell, I was able to grab Enjolras to pull him to safety before they could hit him.”
“So he was not injured,” Combeferre mused. “And it was you who pulled him from safety, rather than himself.” He shook his head and leaned forward. “But why would you not tell him the truth?”
Grantaire shook his head slowly, his smile soft. “Because the man I fell in love with never needed rescuing,” he said simply. “And I love him all the more for his faulty memory and what he chooses to believe. I am cynic and realist enough for both of us, which means he must also believe enough for both of us.”
With that, he stood, nodding once at Combeferre before making his way over to Enjolras, whispering something in his ear, and taking his leave. Combeferre slowly shook his head and also stood to rejoin Enjolras, a small smile crossing his face as he snagged an unfinished bottle of wine. “A toast, my friend,” he said, offering a cup to Enjolras, who took it, surprised.
“To what are we toasting?” he asked.
Combeferre smiled knowingly at him. “To your faulty memory, and all the joy it provides.”