Chapter Text
Despite being dimly-lit, the room seemed to emit a warm, hopeful glow as the merry band of protestors drank and planned and talked and drank some more. The protest was getting ever closer and their barely contained anticipation was finally getting a chance to shine through that night at the Musain. Excited smiles and bottles of wine merged with colourful banners and pristine red jackets to create a swelling, dancing hub of activity and light.
At least this was what Grantaire saw through foggy, wine-glazed eyes. Slumped carelessly in the darkest corner of the room, even more drunk than usual, he avoided passing out and collapsing on the table by staring aimlessly at his joyful friends, as if he were surveying complete strangers. Mind you, that’s what they felt like sometimes.
Combeferre rolled his eyes and pushed up his reading glasses as Courfreyac disturbed his planning with yet another awful pun, his raucous laughter echoing around the small, homely café. Jehan was absentmindedly using his nail to trace an ink vine surrounded by flowers which swayed and swirled up his arm. Joly anxiously rubbed his nose with his cane whilst complaining to Bossuet (who definitely wasn’t listening but nodded along anyway) about some obscure disease that he may or may not have caught from a stray dog on the metro. Fueilly and Bahorel were hunched over a seemingly bottomless pile of posters, working furiously. What they were working on, Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure, but they were certainly furious about it.
And yet, Grantaire’s hazy vision always slid back to one person. It’s not that his friends weren’t interesting; quite the opposite in fact – they were certainly an eclectic and, uh, eccentric bunch. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the strong figure in the middle of the room, shining with passion and pride. He was a blur of blonde hair, icy blue eyes, ink-stained hands and an almost frightening look of steely determination carved onto a marble face. Everyone else in the room was drawn to him like moths to a light. Grantaire silently vowed to stare at this godly vision of a man until the sight of him was ingrained in his mind every time he closed his eyes.
God, he couldn’t care less about the damn protest they’d been yapping on about for the past few months. At this point, the very mention of the phrases “peaceful protest” or “we need more leaflets” made him want to pour bleach in his ears.
Despite this, when Enjolras speaks, he could make the cynical drunk believe toads can fly and Santa is real. Grantaire used to be ashamed of how much he admired the leader in red, but he soon learnt to not be ashamed of anything (which would be inspiring if it didn’t primarily refer to waking up at 1pm only to get drunk and eventually fall asleep again, AKA Grantaire’s daily routine). But nevertheless, Enjolras’ ability to move him was almost insulting – and ironic, Grantaire thought with a bitter laugh, as he seemed to be completely incapable to turn the tables and move the cruel, stunning stone statue that was Enjolras in any way.
Grantaire was so busy lazily gazing at Enjolras he didn’t notice the short, shuffling figure collapse in the chair next to him with an indignant sigh until he began to address him.
“Bunch of useless buggars, they are. Sat about dreaming instead of getting off their fucking arses and doing something worthwhile.”
Grantaire was too drunk to argue. He knew (from experience) that if this man cared enough to take it up with the rest of the Les Amis himself, he wouldn’t last long. These encounters usually ended in a heated, one-sided debate, the passionate protestors’ words mercilessly attacking a bemused drunkard whose only goal was to complain about anything and everything.
In fact, it seemed that Grantaire was the only bemused, complaining drunkard they could handle.
“Not to mention that one in the middle there. You know, the leader. Full of shit, he is. Thinks he’s going to change the world – ha! Looks like a teenage girl anyway. Bet he can’t even change a damn tyre.”
Every muscle in Grantaire’s body froze, then melted as a burning anger swept through him. He didn’t care if people insulted him. He didn’t care if they insulted everything his friends stood for. But the moment someone insults Apollo… Before his mind could completely process his actions, he had swung around in his seat and his fist had made contact with the man’s face. There was a clatter of wood on wood and several yells as the man toppled backwards off his chair. That’ll show the little shit. Grantaire took a swig from his bottle.
“what the hell, Grantaire?” Enjolras had come marching over and his unforgiving eyes were glaring right into Grantaire’s. The others continued with their planning, either hiding their laughter or looking a little fearful for Grantaire’s life (but he did get a “HA! GOOD ONE R!” from Bahorel).
“He insulted you! What did you expect me to do, Apollo? Just sit here and watch him insult a man as perfect as yourself? It should be a crime to suggest that you have a single flaw. He deserved what he got, and I stand by it.”
Grantaire saw the opportunity to shower Enjolras with (only slightly mocking but entirely true) compliments and he took it. The furious glare of the “god” didn’t falter.
“It’s the only thing you’ve ever stood by.” “
I’ll stand by you.”
“Well do that then, rather than punching people for me and interrupting important meetings!”
Grantaire grinned his wonky drunk grin. “Anything for you, Apollo.”
And as he gazed at the exasperated paragon of beauty before him for far too long, desperately searching for a way to melt those frozen eyes, he almost forgot about the furious drunk man sprawled on the floor, his nose bleeding profusely.
That is, until said man scrambled up and returned the favour he’d suffered barely a minute earlier.
The world spun for a second as Grantaire felt blood slowly start to drip from his own nose. The room exploded with noise – the second anyone lay a finger on their friends the Les Amis were there ready to fight. But he was only pulled out of his daze when the bartender grabbed his collar roughly, dragging him out of the café and onto the street, the other man thrown straight out after him.
Crap.
Scrambling to his feet, he spun around as best as he could to see that angry-drunk-man was already standing. Grantaire braced himself. He knew how to box – he’s won many a proper fight – but alcohol slows the mind and the reflexes. Besides, the opposition wasn’t even that drunk. Nevertheless, as another punch was swung vaguely in his direction he managed to dodge it with ease and throw another one right back. Something seemed to crack sickeningly as fist came into contact with mouth. This dragged on for a while, both men suffering several blows, but Grantaire undoubtedly winning - if there was such a thing as a winner in this situation.
“Stop!”
Enjolras came running out of the café and stood – almost protectively – in front of Grantaire, not even touching the other man, but somehow forcing him to stumble backward, as if his authority was a shield. He towered over him, anger blazing in his eyes.
"Do you do this often? Pick fights with strangers because you have nothing else to do? There’s an entire world out there and you’re stuck stumbling bar to bar complaining about the people who want to improve it. It’s pathetic. Go home, and I hope for your sake that one day you’ll realize there’s more to life than watching from the sidelines.”
Grunting slightly, the man began to shuffle down the road, leaving behind a trail of colourful curse words. Grantaire leant heavily on Enjolras, a grin growing on his face despite his bleeding nose and black eye. He would never understand how Enjoras could hit someone so forcefully without laying a finger on them – he’d experienced it first-hand. In a moment of immature elation, he yelled out to the fuzzy silhouette stumbling into the night. “Yeah, that’s what I thought!”
Without warning Enjolras stepped out from under Grantaire, nearly making him collapse. When he looked back up he realised with dismay that the rage in the leader’s eyes was still burning bright.
“Grantaire, you have to stop doing this. You’re going to get yourself killed one day! Everything I said to that man? It goes for you too.”
Maybe it was Grantaire’s imagination – or the alcohol’s – but there was almost a hint of concern in Enjolras’ harsh words. He felt like he was being stabbed in the gut, but every wound was bandaged and cleaned as soon as it had been made. In a way, it hurt more than being left to bleed to death.
As Enjolras turned away, Grantaire shouted out in one last futile attempt to make his Apollo stay.
“Don’t I even get a thank you?”
It was intended as a joke, but as the words slipped out his mouth desperation seeped through the cracks in his voice.
Enjolras paused, almost completely through the door of the café, and sighed, not bothering to turn back around.
“Go home, Grantaire.”