Archive of Our Own

     Had he known what the day would bring when he'd first roused himself from sleep, Grantaire might have pressed his shirt. Certainly, after that day, he took to using more care in how he tied his cravat and to keeping his waistcoat mended. Now he never knew when he would find himself on display before the eyes of the city, although he was well assured that God would not be watching -- or if He was, then He would be as divinely unconcerned with the status of one's waistcoat as He had been with the shamelessness of the first man and woman made by His hand. On this particular afternoon in the middle of a springtime month he could not be bothered to recall, Grantaire had taken no care with his appearance whatsoever. Wrinkled sleeves, careworn seams, and a face that had not seen a barber that week were no embarrassment to a man who had no greater aim than to win his rent money in a boxing match, and perhaps a bit more at gaming to keep the wine flowing into the night.

     He'd skirted the particular bustle in the streets that tended to herald some new doomed cry to revolution -- the kind that had never failed to fail the people it claimed to serve, and leave them just as destitute and powerless as they had ever been -- and hailed the bartender at La Tisiphone. He'd rolled into that dark, smoky den of inebriates (of which he was a regular), all while feeling at home and utterly adequate in his disheveled state. Grantaire sat in the darkest corner, nursing a bottle of Bordeaux and the bloody nose he'd won along with his francs, and had not repaired himself sufficient to join his fellows at cards when the interruption he had neither expected nor sought in his days strode past his table.

     In later weeks, he would learn that Enjolras made a habit of staying up nights before his larger rallies and found himself struck near-dead by the need for sleep three or four hours before he was meant to stand at his podium. This was hardly a conscious choice that Grantaire's beloved revolutionary made, but rather a symptom of his fervor; all consumed by the writing of speeches and the positioning of men to warm the crowd or warn them of the Guard approaching, he could work through the night while his compatriots among Les Amis took shifts sleeping, and Enjolras never noticed that the sun had risen. Once the situation of their stage was well underway, Enjolras would tell his trusted lieutenant Combeferre to see to the rest and disappear until the moment came to make his grand entrance. The intervening time, he spent unconscious in the nearest bar, usually with some anonymous drunk as a shield to keep the bartender from minding enough to kick him out. He had an unerring sense for finding men too honest to pick his pockets and with souls too numb to be bothered by a stranger joining their table to do nothing but sleep, and this was how Grantaire's path crossed with that of a youth in a coat of brilliant red, whose shining blond hair and skin like silk seemed to deny the dirt of their environs all purchase whatsoever in much the same way that his unadulterable faith ever remained free of the tarnish of human foibles.

     "If you'll permit me," was all Enjolras said to him at first, not introducing himself -- for why should he introduce himself to a man he does not expect ever to know beyond those short moments of being in the same place at the same time? As Grantaire nodded, struck dumb by the appearance of this marble Adonis brought to life, the youth draped his fine red coat over a chair back to keep the wrinkles out, then dropped himself into deep slumber without another word. With one foot propped on his chair rail and his head resting on the wall, his companion's flawless face relaxed into a study in placidness that bore so little relation to the graceless, slobbering, pockmarked fools he'd seen sleeping in these chairs before that Grantaire pinched himself by way of assurance that he had not dreamed a god into existence. If ever a human could be so exquisite, so immaculate, as the creature who had deigned to bless that table, such a one had certainly never patronized La Tisiphone during Grantaire's tenure there.

     Though he'd held neither pen nor paintbrush since the day he'd ceased to be welcome in his master's studio or his parents' home, and the drive to commit exalted images to canvas had waned to memory in the grind of living, a figure was now in front of his eyes that had more physical resemblance to the idealized portraits of gods he'd copied as an apprentice than he did to anything Grantaire had previously defined as "man". This was a face that needed to be preserved in pigment for the ages to worship. The base surroundings of the bar faded entirely from his view as he studied the straight lines of that living god's nose or the gradations of shadow over a cheekbone. That face, that form, that bared neck where his loosened cravat and unbuttoned shirt revealed alabaster skin -- every inch of him belonged on a hillside in Greece, dappled in sunlight raining through the leaves of an olive tree. Grantaire knew he never would have been allowed to paint this man if his former master had employed him as a model, but the heart he believed had been eaten away long ago ached at the thought that no hand at all would ever grant that face immortality. This was a cruel joke played by the Fates, presenting him with a muse, now of all times, when the opportunity could never be anything but wasted. But for the taste of wine on his tongue as he took a slow sip from his bottle, he would have decided he had died and been sent to Hell to give Tantalus his final reprieve.

     Fate's cruel jokes, however, had long been to Grantaire as bread with supper. He saw no increase of pain in keeping within his mind those paintings the world would never view. As beautifully as this youth slept, Endymion would be a natural subject -- resting in eternal bloom on Mount Latmos, under the spell of his goddess-lover Selene, waiting in dreams to couple with her while they lay cloaked in a shaft of moonlight. Or on second thought, there was a severity to his countenance that didn't suit the Moon's gentle ephebe. Perhaps Hypnos instead: Sleep himself, who was fierce enough in his guise as the spirit Epidotes, serving under the Delphian Apollo. He could recline on marble steps with feathers laid down below to soften the stone, his shoulders resting on a pillar. Behind him, the god could be coming to rouse his servant to his duty. In the background, a wrathful Zeus might call down the Furies to torment a soul whom the Delphian would send Epidotes to defend. Perhaps that would be right. The man in the chair had an air of purpose about him that showed through the slumber on his face.

     "Friend of yours, then?" Baptiste the bartender asked over Grantaire's shoulder.

     He tore his eyes off the strange youth for the first time in uncounted moments to face the master of La Tisiphone. "We met only now," he said. "But... I aspire to continue to know him." Now that this god existed, Grantaire knew in a flash that the only way he could face the impossibility of painting him would be to look on him every day from now until his death. Then, he could be content. Only after he had spoken did he realize how long it had been since those words felt comfortable on his lips. He said them once more for the simple novelty.

     "I aspire."

     The sound reminded him of a jewel, fine and smooth, that perhaps lacked the transparency and gaudy sparkle of diamond but was all the more dear for lacking diamond's enduring hardness. He heard it as jasper, the same blood red as the young man's coat, polished until it gleamed, and perhaps suitable to trot out for special occasions but to wear something so fine was something only a fool would do on an ordinary day, when its very fineness would be so blatant on his drab person that it would highlight his foolishness and make him a target for all who would rob him of his aspirations. He said no more to the barkeep, locking his jasper into the silent safe of his chest where its unbearable warmth suffused his veins.

     "Then perhaps you'll want another bottle while you wait for your boy here to wake up."

     "Perhaps later, Baptiste, perhaps later. I'm not done with what I have."

     "Grantaire, not on a second already? Has the Judgment come?"

     Grantaire pushed a few coins to the edge of the table with a wide smile to answer the bartender's laugh. "But how much for pen and ink, and some paper? I must have them."

     "I've set prices for stranger things in my life," he answered, and took all the money.

     If a single sketch came of this and nothing more, it would be a price well paid. His hands shook at the prospect of translating his muse to lines on a page. He wondered if he could even make a faithful reproduction anymore. A drip of blood from his nose, not quite staunched, fell to the cloth in his grip, spreading in a red stain to underscore how far he was from deserving to look on the divine mien that slept before him. He was rough and rank. There was no just reason why he should be allowed to exist in the same world as this glorious creature, but in Grantaire's life he was sure that justice was as illusory as everything else. The sleeping man was real enough to touch (although Grantaire did not intend to do so, lest he profane the spotless white of the youth's shirt with the dirt on his hands), and justice could stuff itself for a tale.

~//~

     His dreams were of docks, looking out on the oceans full of seething tides. There were no ships there, nor any people that he could see, but the saltwater scent was fresh on the wind. Enjolras knew this dream well. Sometimes his dream-self visited it with Combeferre or Courfeyrac, but today he was alone before the untamed oceans that battled upon shores full of detritus. Planks of wood and dirty bricks were piled in disorder, bits of cloth he could pick out at a distance in a rainbow of colors that all faded to brown. If there were bodies, he could not see them, but he doubted their presence. As often as he had seen this dream, there had never been any figures of men but his own and those of friends who accompanied him. The lack of human forms, however, was no lack of humanity. Enjolras could sense the force of the common man, unified and strong, within the vastness of the ocean just as he knew the bleak unsightliness of the shore was the devastation left by injustice perpetrated against the people, inherited from one generation to the next. He knew it was so -- for this was the image of his own heart, and he knew nothing better than that.

     Here and there, a wave would splash high, touch upon the dirty wreck of the shore, and some small portion of the filth strewn around the scene would dissolve to nothing at the water's touch. It didn't dirty the surf, or float out to sea, but ceased to be. For the space of a breath, that inch of land was clear of defilement, but all too soon the weight of the detritus that had been above it fell upon the newly clean ground. Only the platform where he stood, overlooking the ocean, was proof against its power. Sometimes the collapse of the unsteady structure of the world's waste left the beach littered with even more refuse than had been there before. Sometimes the small progresses of the tides against the corruption maintained themselves somehow, but it was all to slow. The day when the world was truly free seemed impossibly far.

     When he looked out on the ocean, he felt a pull in his arms. The same certainty that told him the sky was blue and his life was his own told him here that all he need do was raise his hands, and the tide would answer. All the waters would tower high enough to block out the sun, and they would crash down upon the profaned shores. In the wake of humanity rising as one when he made his call, they would see the liberty, equality, and brotherhood promised them by generations past. It was close enough to smell.

     Always in the instant before he reached out his hand to them, he lost the vision. Moments before his plans took shape, the scene faded to the darkness behind his eyelids, and he rejoined the waking world. The quiet roll of the sea became the murmurs of the patrons in the establishment he'd entered, and the soft salt winds thickened into the scent of alcohol. His attack of fatigue over, Enjolras had only begun to stand when a merry voice called out to him.

     "And does Hypnos stir from his gentle slumbers?"

     A wreck of a man who reeked of cheap wine sat at the corner of the table, his face swollen and bruised with faint traces of blood still around his nose, wearing a rumpled shirt and waistcoat that showed old stains cleaned just well enough that Enjolras couldn't tell if they were due to more blood or more wine. A discarded bottle lay on the table beyond a small pile of papers covered with scribbles, while the drunkard (or so Enjolras had thought him when he'd entered this inn, and so he still presumed the man to be based on current evidence) swallowed a measure of wine straight from another bottle in his hand. And yet the fellow's words rang clear in Enjolras's ears, betraying a manner of speech bred of education that was utterly at odds with the disreputable figure he presented in his person. Enjolras settled in his chair, studying the man for as long as he needed to be sure this was the same idler who'd held this table before.

     "Are you still here?" Enjolras asked, unsure how else to settle his mind.

     "You were hardly such unpleasant company that I would leave. Besides, I had some benefit by it." The man dipped a pen into an inkwell he had at hand, tracing a single capital R in a bottom corner of a scrap of paper. The paper, when he pushed it across the place between them, bore not scribbles at all but a remarkable likeness of Enjolras's own face transplanted onto a youth dressed in the Grecian style. "You are a remarkable subject. Please, keep that as you like, or burn it as you don't. I have what I need here."

     His attempt to return the image refused, Enjolras tucked the paper into his pants pocket. "You represent me as that which I am not."

     The man laughed, a rolling sound that touched Enjolras's face with a smile he had not been accustomed to form of late. The light catching on the fellow's eyes revealed a glimmering blue like a cloudless sky. His expression held that heartbreaking joy that Enjolras had seen in too many faces, where some momentary pleasure seemed to grant the owner a momentary reprieve from misery, to be lived as fully as it could in the knowledge that such joy was certain to be transitory. Enjolras's smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

     Heedless of Enjolras's thoughts, the man told him, "You must dwell in a bare ivory tower indeed if you do not know the artist's privilege is to transform the world we see into the world we can but imagine. But forgive my manners -- my name is Grantaire."

     "Enjolras." Transfixed by the man's eyes, he only noticed Grantaire's extended hand as it withdrew. He didn't add to the hesitation in the action by mentioning it. "You are an artist, then."

     "Oh, no! I am a wastrel. I pretend to that privilege because the world saw fit to place you before my eyes. It would have been rude to decline the favor." Cleaning his pen and stoppering his ink, the strange man laughed on. "I was a student of art, but a bad one, and having failed in my study I make my way as best I can -- which as I see in your frown, you judge is not well."

     "You were not born a wastrel, and you need not die one. No man must."

     Grantaire's hands hovered over his task as if the strength had gone out of them, then drifted to the table. Turning his head with a forced slowness, the clear eyes that Enjolras had overlooked when he'd seen this man as a simple drunk took his measure, filling with a wildness that tread an unknowable line between light and tears. This face was bereft of the questions he saw in the uninformed, of the jocular scorn he saw in the unconvinced, and far from the fervor he saw in the faithful. It recalled the weary sadness of old men who had seen the first revolution, but where those men might offer well wishes and tell him to dare what he must, Grantaire's mouth took a bitter turn. But even if his words had pierced like knives, it was no matter, for Enjolras could see in the fresh tremble of sorrow that they'd hit the man's heart.

     "Grantaire--"

     "What would you have me do?"

     "Join me -- join us. Come to our rally today. We start soon, just around the--"

     "Oh." The tangled sorrow on his features sank lower. "Is that your lot?"

     Enjolras was accustomed to disapproval. He took pride in the disapproval he found in the faces of his parents, in those of the police who observed his subtle pushes for an end to tyranny or who came to disband his more vociferous ones, and in those of the unfortunate number of monarchists employed by his school. Their disapproval meant he was accomplishing his goals. But this, on Grantaire's face, he read as disappointment, and that was a reaction he had no framework to judge. His pride filled his throat as he raised his jaw.

     "It is. I come to remind the citizens that their remedy still lies within their own hands. Now, at last, must we strive to ensure the happiness of the people--"

     "--and that the lawmakers who would render the world enlightened take to their course with foot as steady as the sun?"

     The words taken, quite literally, from his mouth, Enjolras focused on the man of contradictions who had held him at this table when he had meant to leave long since. Though Grantaire had spoken with a scoffing and sarcastic tone, his quote had been true, word for word, to the original. "You know your Saint-Just," Enjolras murmured.

     His interlocutor shrugged as if to say that anyone could do the same, and perhaps anyone of any little awareness could quote some single thing Saint-Just had said, but Grantaire proved he knew more than one when he answered, "Is happiness still so novel an idea in Europe? In the decades since Saint-Just and the rest met their bad end, I should have thought the people aware enough to seek it on their own."

     "Saint-Just only proved his own point, that one can never reign innocently."

     "Or perhaps his point that the art of governing produces only monsters," the man replied, his frown turning up into a wicked smirk.

     "Man was born for peace and for liberty, and becomes unhappy and corrupted only by the insidious laws of domination."

     "The vessel of the revolution only makes port upon a sea made red by torrents of blood."

     "If the rights of man further endure, it shall be that the rights of man have been written with the blood of the people upon the tomb of liberty."

     Grantaire's face twisted into a sour expression over his wine. Enjolras waited, in expectation of an answering volley as his companion did not seem at a loss, but the response was not the one he had hoped for.

     "You joke, Monsieur Enjolras. Or I was wrong in taking you for a thinking man? In this day, seeing what we have seen, living as we have lived, tell me you cannot honestly hold with such tripe as that."

     "In this day of all days, Monsieur Grantaire, we see the tragedy of revolution that became corrupt before it became complete! The country has retreated to the familiar demons of monarchy, wallowing in misery because one attempt at something better was imperfect. Now we have seen where the dream failed, now we can build for ourselves a new France where men are truly equals, and now we must show that dream to the people who will make it reality, before one more citizen dies a wretched slave of the state."

     "Is it better to die like a dog in the street fighting battles that cannot be won?"

     "Even if the battle could not be won, indeed it is best, for a man who refuses to bow to unjust authority -- even to the point of sacrificing his life -- ennobles both his own existence and the fellowship of all men by the act. However, I object to your question, as you imply by asking it that this battle cannot be won. I have seen strength within the citizens of France. You have my word, it is the government who will answer to them. Such is their right by nature, and when they rise to claim it, they shall be as a force of nature that cannot be denied."

     "There has never been a more wasteful illusion than the one that calls men to shed their own blood and the blood of others in the name of creating liberty."

     "There is no illusion--!"

     "I say it is an illusion!" After another swallow of wine, the bottle went down on the table, and Grantaire swung his feet onto the chair between them, gesturing at the dingy room around them with a broad laugh and the sloppiness of a man who was far more drunk than anyone Enjolras had heard employ logic before this. A sick feeling nestled in Enjolras's mouth and refused to leave as he contemplated the true waste of a man of intellect and passion embracing a path of ruination. "We are none of us free in a world where right is, as ever, established by the ability to kill those whom you oppose. This is no simple question of the Republic, but of the whole of human history. A conqueror -- which indeed you will be if you succeed at revolution, having overthrown the monarchy by violence," Grantaire added when Enjolras sputtered a gasp of a retort. "A conqueror is burdened by natural consequence with the maintenance of a state comprised of citizens who will need immediate order and deposed governors who will need immediate death, or restraint until the remnants of their power are dissolved. Any ruler will have these problems, but a conqueror most of all. He has no liberty to be a man instead of a monster, no liberty to allow the citizens true autonomy or the nobility of individuality as he establishes his state, and here you see the problems that led to a regime built on promises of equality failing to make those promises into more than empty words. We cannot be free as long as it is man's nature to trade death for power. And, as I have seen no intimation that man's nature can be anything else, nor can I put forth the fallacy that surrender to authority could result in more liberty, I must conclude that man can never be free. Therefore, why should I die for empty words, or kill for them? Why should anyone?" The man's face trembled into a frown, falling again under that strange shadow of disappointment. "Why should you?"

     "I fight because it is unbearable to sit passively while the few in possession of power and money trample upon the bereft and the poor."

     "That fight is vanity! At least find some new way to promote the public welfare instead of beating the same old kettle and drum in lock-step with the failures of the past, or if you cannot, then leave those who can find some peace in this world to their individual -- and infinitely more real -- pleasures."

     "If we are ever to see an improvement in the human condition, it will be because all men can look beyond their individual pleasures to see that the subjugation of any person, anyone at all, is intolerable. Until such time as we can no longer turn a blind eye to injustice perpetrated against our fellow men, until we no longer pretend that we can substitute the luck of a private sufficiency for the guarantee of universal dignity, we will live in the same throes of fear, enmity, and disgrace that have besmirched over five thousand years of history."

     "Does not subjecting a force of men to the privation of war, condemning some certain number to death, cause more destruction of dignity and liberty than a single man or woman bearing up after getting the damned short end of the stick?!"

     "I'll not answer cheap shots," Enjolras spat at Grantaire.

     "I beg your pardon. I had believed you to be working for the happiness of the people. Perhaps you've not considered that life and happiness go hand in hand. The corpse of a man shot fighting for liberty is no happier than that of a man who starved to death in his sleep. Neither can perform those actions that a happy man might perform, or that a man might perform to become happy. They are both equally dead."

     "One in the act of submitting to an establishment that degrades the worth of humanity, and thereby legitimizing that establishment by his acceptance, the other in the act of refusing to submit or to legitimize."

     His interlocutor fell back in his seat, mouth agape as a stunned gasp escaped him "You would judge a man's worth by the manner of circumstance that makes him happy!"

     "I... would," Enjolras answered. "Is there a better way to judge a man?"

     "I know of none, but I have not made it my business to tell them they must overthrow the government. You speak of the strength you see in the people of France, but I have lived among the people, Enjolras. Have you? Have you appreciated the endless variety and individuality of pursuit among the masses you wish to incite to freedom? Or do you perhaps consider them a faceless horde who fall short of their purpose until they are fitted to the yoke of your ideals?"

     Anger spiked in Enjolras's brow, that this skunk who knew nothing of him, of his actions, or indeed of his ideals -- despite his command of the words that expressed them -- would presume to question his motivations. "Your tongue is quick, sir, but I insist you speak with substance. Posing a question where I can only insist that you are wrong and wait to hear you call me a liar, with no possible proof on either side... You do but spit air!"

     Grantaire straightened in his seat, manic joy overcoming his features once more, fixed on Enjolras with a directness that belied his inebriation. "Oh, my fair Alexander!" the man cried with delight. Enjolras felt a disappointment at the man's failure to become serious that surprised him more than the mockery, and cut him more than he could have anticipated. "Will you slice my knot of words with your flash of wit? Then tell me your intentions for the world you will take! Explain how you will solve the paradox of liberty. How you will answer when the multitudes use the liberty you have given them to such ends as you consider unfit! I should like to hear that, as I myself prefer the happiness in a full glass and a warm bed to what you seek in the kiss of a guardsman's bullet."

     "I speak of another kind of happiness, and I think you understand that. If you did not understand the meaning of personal dignity, you might stumble on some part of it rather than avoiding it so wholly as you seem bent on doing." As the drunkard fell pale and stunned as if a sobering bucket of water had fallen on his head, Enjolras looked to the door. He had barely noticed when disgust and offense had begun to rise in him, but now it was a towering rage he needed all his will to contain. He would never manage so long as he looked on the man's face. "As to your question, the path of wisdom might be to leave such men as you to their petty vices and bend my attention on matters more important. Excuse me." And with head steaming in anger, Enjolras sought his exit. The hand that caught his arm to stay him could not have been more unwelcome.

     "Enjolras! What--"

     "Farewell." He met Grantaire's pointlessly intelligent eyes one last time with the fire in his chest metamorphosing to ice. "My purpose calls, and you have persuaded me that you are none of it. I doubt we shall meet again."

     He felt his own cruelty as the confusion in the man's expression faded, replaced by that same bitter sorrow he had worn when their words had first turned to revolution. He could not regret that cruelty, but its sting resounded in him as well, as if it bled through Grantaire's grip in his arm. The drunkard's fingers drew tight, and his eyes became hard as a weak chuckle came forced from the man's rough throat. In a murmured growl that might have been a benediction or a curse, he said, "Su de stephanois perthesath'eratois phobaisin."

     Enjolras recalled the fragment of Greek from an old poem, a piece of advice given to one who went to meet the gods: Then circle garlands about thy lovely hair. In that instant, he did not know what about the statement incensed him most, only that he was incensed. It little mattered whether he owed the bulk of his anger to Grantaire's seeming certainty that the new revolution would fail even if they succeeded in deposing the king, or to the implication that his death was assured, or to the claims that such a death would be meaningless, or yet to the inexplicable ridiculousness that this man who could pronounce Greek so cleanly with a wine-soaked tongue -- he must have studied enough to have hundreds of quotations available to mind -- would choose to talk about his hair. No talk of honor, nor duty, nor virtue, nor rage -- no! Rather than concern himself with the nobility of the human spirit, this man preferred to act like, or perhaps to consider Enjolras among, the brainless society fools who cared for nothing but curls and ribbons. Enjolras ripped his arm from Grantaire's hand, barely able to contain his desire to snarl.

     "You are the living embodiment of everything wrong in this country."

     His exit from the inn was not interrupted a second time. Enjolras stormed through the streets toward the stage where the rally would be held, and he had little time to wait before Combeferre came running from the gathered crowds.

     "Enjolras! We were close to sending someone after you." Stopping dead in the street, Combeferre regarded him with a wary eye. "Enjolras, what happened?"

     "I argued with a drunk. I know I am delayed, but how so enough for concern?"

     "Argued with a--?" As controlled as his friend's expression remained under the most dire of circumstances, the wrinkle of surprise in his brow appeared as a stern reminder to Enjolras that he should not have waited so long before taking his leave at the inn. "Gracious, Enjolras. What did the man say to occupy you so? You look distressed."

     "Many infuriating things, which I will not repeat."

     "Was this before or after he robbed you?"

     "I beg your pardon? He never came near enough to--" Enjolras patted his pockets, feeling the shape of his purse and the press of Grantaire's drawing, which he would burn as suggested at the first opportunity. Nothing was gone. "I have not been--" The white of his sleeve caught his attention then, and his memory of his departure from the inn told him the rest. "My coat. I left it at the table when I took my leave. Let me return--"

     "No time for that. We can retrieve it after we disband. For now, Prouvaire's will fit you."

     In truth, Combeferre's concern was more that a return to the inn would end with Enjolras entangled indeterminately with this mysterious drunk whose argument had been so remarkable as to infuriate. Never before had he met a person Enjolras would so describe who could compel their leader to listen closely enough to earn a reaction. Had they leisure, he should have liked to see the man with his own eyes, but leisure was never their forte, and he could not guarantee that the vigor aroused within Enjolras now would stay steady though another distraction, which might dampen his spirits or perhaps stir him to a wrath more fearful and less useful. Combeferre spoke none of this, however, as he led Enjolras through the sea of people toward the stage, and for his part Enjolras was too given over to lingering irritation to object to wearing Prouvaire's coat, let alone to notice his friend's pensiveness.

     "Had you only heard the scorn he threw upon the ideal of the noble spirit--"

     "Such occasion I had not expected, as you claimed such reticence to repeat it," Combeferre laughed, who had, contrary to his words, quite expected this exact circumstance.

     "-- and his analysis of the cycle of bloodshed within human history, how it leads to the denial of liberty by its very nature! He was possessed of logic, though he used it badly when it suited him, and crafted objections before my eyes that I had never before heard -- nor, I think, had he considered them himself! Strong, original objections to the idea of revolution, expressed by such a miscreant tongue to such a foul end!"

     The shock on Combeferre's face at the character of Enjolras's explanation, which was as far from expected as the act of Enjolras making explanation had been perfectly in line with expectation, went unnoticed by the revolutionary as they both stepped onto the far end of the stage. The calmer man took care of sending someone to fetch Prouvaire, and of keeping Enjolras's rage out of view of the speakers warming the crowd at stage center. Their own were free to marvel at their leader's transported demeanor. The crowd had no need of the distraction.

     "Never before have I been driven to think of some sot as a waste of a man, but this--!"

     "Only you could so value an ability to object that you think a man a waste for disagreeing."

     "You mistake me. Let any man disagree if he must, I will answer him if he does so out of conviction. But when a man empties himself of all thought of purpose, surrenders the power that is his by right so that he may drown the despair of our wretched lives in uselessness, and uses his logic instead to staunchly defend his very lack of faith, then I will call him a waste of a man. Now please, let us speak on him no more."

     "Having not met him, I myself am without words."

~//~

     Fury and frustration dueled with equal strength within Grantaire's breast. He had noted on previous occasions in his life that the existence of a thing that keenly awakened his interest was an omen of coming despondency. Things which he had sought, or occupations which had enthralled him, had always been of a sort where, if a man could be found lacking, he would be. The genial numbness and resultant lack of desire that had settled on his mind over the years had, he thought, served him well, but it was only in the moment when he watched a man named Enjolras stride out the door of La Tisiphone, his white shirt as glaring as a snowfield under the brilliant golden sun of his hair, that he recognized his numbness as numbness. The inurement he had felt in accepting the empty cruelty of the world was a kind of strength into which he had believed his nature to have shaped itself, a sensibility born of understanding the world clearly and not allowing desperate insistence on meaning in action or purpose in life to blind him; but even in this he was naive, as something about the coming of Enjolras had revealed his numbness for a shell, ripped it away from his being, and left him with a raw despondency that was all the more potent for the thickness of the skin that had defended him before. He told himself that he should have realized as soon as he took an interest in the beautiful man who had inspired the pictures he pushed roughly into his vest pocket, that this noted unsuitability of his character was inevitable -- though of course it would have been impossible for him to know these things at the time, his self-censure would not admit of this impossibility -- and that he should have left the table before his muse awoke with only a brief, pleasant memory as his companion.

     It was his folly, he reprimanded himself, to have stayed to hear the man speak out of some ambition to know him, and further to have been so pleased in his manner of discourse despite it being clearer than day that Enjolras was an incurable idealist of the bent that declared that if the world were lacking in purpose, he would force that purpose upon it no matter how deluded or deadly this course might be. His utmost folly, Grantaire judged, had lain in mistaking Enjolras's request to speak with substance for a mutual interest in discussing their opposing views. And, as is common in those who feel offended by their own folly, he wasted no time in framing that offense on the one who had revealed it.

     Baptiste laughed at his despair as he came to clear the empty bottle and retrieve his ink. "The pretty ones are always trouble. Better company will find you soon enough."

     "Trouble! Did you hear what he said?"

     "And heard well, as both your voices were as piercing as your arguments."

     "That man is no mere trouble -- he is the second coming of the Archangel of Terror! Does he tell me that I am the ruination of this country? Ten years from now, which of us will paint the streets in blood and claim he does but vouchsafe the public good? I wonder if there will be a public left alive when he has completed his revolution."

     "He shall need a new coat in any case, unless you think him likely to return."

     In silence, words swept from his gaping mouth, Grantaire watched Baptiste lift the red coat that seemed somehow less brilliant without its owner present yet far more vivid than anything this dismal place had been known to contain. Had he been prone to temperate consideration, he might have called the coat a bad loss and asked Baptiste what he planned to do with it; but being of a more impulsive nature, Grantaire took the collar of that fine red coat in his hand before he could draw another breath and vaulted from his chair. His hands and feet acted without direction from his mind that could be called intention. When called upon by friends to explain his action later, he would dismiss it with a shrug, and claim that he simply could not have imagined Enjolras without the coat, and moreover had been intoxicated at the time, using casualness as a cover for his own discomfort when he thought back to the inexplicable need he had felt in that moment to place the red coat with its proper owner, or perhaps to remake their acquaintance under better circumstances. It was some time before he let himself admit, even within his own mind, that the idea of numbness was no longer pleasant once he saw it for what it was, and that the existence of a single, lonely being who made him incapable of being numb drew him like a compass finding North -- that even if he had been sober and of a mind thoughtful enough to believe Enjolras would be only a source of pain, he might still have run.

     Baptiste, being of a much more considerate nature and acquainted the patterns of young men's lives, understood better than his customer that he would never see Grantaire again. Within the flash of eyes widened in desperation mixed with the germ of hope -- an expression he had thought never to see on this man's face -- and a trembling mouth open as if to wail in agony, he saw the moment when a life's path changes destinations. He watched the man's headlong run with a sigh, resolving sadly to order one less case of wine weekly from his supplier, then finished putting the table to rights with no more thought to the matter.

     The idea that he was perhaps not acting intelligently did not occur to Grantaire until he was halfway into a thick crowd of people, dodging around bodies after the specter of a white shirt he could only be certain was Enjolras. The sea of people parted for Enjolras and the man walking beside him jacketed in bright blue, then closed up behind the pair to shove Grantaire into an eddy of humanity that he should have been far too drunk to navigate. Nevertheless, he found himself out of breath at the foot of a stage, wondering what had possessed him, only to be possessed again by the exquisite rage painted upon his cruel muse's features. He felt a singular pain in the realization that he might spend the rest of his life haunted by masterpieces meant to be painted six feet high, none of which he would ever be allowed to form, but it seemed inconsequential next to the glorious image inspired by Enjolras enraged: he saw Troy, and couriers bringing news to their lord at the ships that Patroclus had died -- the son of Thetis, consumed by his anger, swearing death to Hector in vengeance for his slain lover. Grantaire half-recalled, unconsciously, a forgotten lifetime when he might have believed he had a calling to translate scenes like this for other eyes to see. Alas, he was hardly a painter now, and the thought of that banished his vision enough for him to hear the voice of his subject.

     "--had the gall to compare me to a man who fought to be king over an entire world!"

     Grantaire groaned aloud, seeing if not comprehending the reason for the man's foul temper. "Sweet Achilles!" he yelled, louder than he had planned. "By my eyes, the comparison was apt!" The friend in blue seemed to hear, and tried to stop Enjolras's fury but to no avail. Just as mindlessly as he'd run here, Grantaire clambered onto the stage itself. "Enjolras!"

     "Grantaire?"

     He had been correct to believe that Combeferre had noticed him when he first spoke, and although Grantaire had no eyes to see bystanders while Enjolras approached, Combeferre was still busy noticing the lack of ire in the tone of Enjolras's voice. Rather than take Prouvaire's coat, as the man stepped onto the scene as summoned, he took a red, white, and blue rosette from the basket Prouvaire had with him. The sight of Enjolras reaching out to grasp this man's hand -- a man precisely as sodden and disreputable as Enjolras had described, which appearance seemed to concern Enjolras none -- was sufficient to convince him that the fellow had value. Grantaire, for his part, spent the moment confused that the man who had refused to shake his hand in the casual privacy of La Tisiphone would clasp it now in a double grip while in full view of the public, without speaking of the censure he'd offered only seconds before.

     "Enjolras?"

     "Grantaire, you came."

     Grantaire had not realized his heart was flying until, hearing those two words, it sank. They explained all of Enjolras's joy, and at once revealed that joy to be mistaken. The man was happy to see him because he believed Grantaire to have been swept away by the folly of Enjolras's revolution rather than the more mundane folly that had truly brought him this far. He had no doubt that he exhibited clearly the disquiet which stole over him like ripples over water every time Enjolras reminded him of his commitment to this revolution, for the images came unbidden to mind -- of Enjolras fighting, Enjolras seeing the futility of his fight on some inevitable day, Enjolras with that beautiful light in his eyes going dim just before he died -- and then Grantaire saw with his physical eyes how the angel's face grew stern once more.

     "You came, but not because you had a change of heart," his muse chided.

     "No, you fool. I came because you left your coat." He presented the well-tailored construction of red wool that Enjolras should have long since noticed. "I hope you find its condition no worse for the suddenness of my run."

     Enjolras's expression was anything but grateful as he took it, though he spoke his thanks. If Grantaire had to put a word to the lines of the man's face as he strode toward his place behind the persons currently riling the crowd, it would be disdain. He utterly disdained, and had no compunction about making the fact clear to the subject of that disdain, and once that moment of disdain was through, seemed content to forget that such a presence as Grantaire had ever addressed him. The will to follow at his heels, denying Enjolras the ability to forget him as surely as Grantaire would never forget Enjolras, was itself denied only by the unreasonable despair that rooted his feet to ground upon seeing his muse's disdain. Reason told him that he, of the two of them, was the one in the right, and yet this beautiful creature could destroy him with a glance. If Enjolras sought to expose tyranny, he should have stood as an observer to that moment.

     The touch of the hand which fell on Grantaire's shoulder did not fully enter his mind until that same hand pushed him gently to face the other direction, and Grantaire found himself eye to eye with the gentleman in the blue coat instead of watching a vengeful angel in red. The replacement confused him at first, for he did not realize he had turned, and in his distraught state sought some reason why the world should revolve to a new view before his eyes. No sooner had he comprehended the true nature of the change and recognized the gentleman as the same one who had spoken to Enjolras earlier than the man in blue addressed himself.

     "I believe your name was Grantaire? I have heard so very much about you, sir."

     "I wonder that you can say that with a smile, as I heard some little of what you have heard of me, and I would venture that the rest was no more complimentary. Monsieur...?"

     "Combeferre. Please, step this way. And I assure you, Enjolras would have censure for every person of his acquaintance, but rarely have I heard such praise -- or I should say, rarely have I heard such fire from him, as Enjolras will call me a liar if I say he meant to praise you. I have, however, known him long enough to interpret things he does not mean to say."

     "Between his censure and your interpretations, have you understood that I am inebriated? And perhaps more so than I had realized, for if you have a drift, sir, I have not caught it."

     "Then let me be plain." With friendly, placid face, the man led him toward a small knot of other gentlemen likewise clad in coats too finely maintained to belong to the streets. Once they arrived, Combeferre adjusted Grantaire's collar as he spoke again. "Enjolras shows it badly, but he does appreciate the return of his coat. If you will join us at the Musain after the speeches have finished, he will have more leisure to speak with you again."

     "It has never been my intention to join you. My errand is done. I should leave. I am sure nothing could please Enjolras more than my departure." Mentioning the name, he glanced toward the man in red who belonged to it, and found his attention so locked that he never noticed Combeferre pulling a watch from his waistcoat.

     "Oh, heavens, look at the time. Please, stand over here. Very good, and we shall see you soon -- at the Musain. Do not forget it."

     "The Musain," Grantaire repeated, unaware of where his feet had landed him. His eyes were fixed on Enjolras like the face of the barren Moon toward the splendor of the Earth. Combeferre's departure was in turn like the drift of clouds over the surface of the atmosphere: present, but not in the least the focus of his attention. The rosette Combeferre had pinned to Grantaire's lapel while fixing his collar likewise went unnoticed until some member of the jostling crowds knocked Grantaire enough to dislodge his fixed gaze. He searched for the pin that held it in place with little success. It was cunningly attached. "Oh, for the love of--"

     "Grantaire? Is that you?"

     He spun in search of the new voice that called his name, and found a face he knew well from his time in the boxing ring. "Bahorel? Are you mixed up in this unfortunate affair?" The tricolor rosette on Bahorel's chest, which matched perfectly the one that would not yield to Grantaire's attempts to remove it, answered the question well enough. He was no doubt right in the thick of all the revolutionary nonsense.

     His fellow pugilist struck an attitude of utter dumbfoundedness. "Grantaire, how is it that you -- of all people -- are here of all places? You."

     "I am decidedly not here, in spirit at least, and as soon as I can remove this festoon, my body shall join my spirit." There were corners of the city where such decorations as that little rosette might get him arrested, and ones he was more likely to frequent where it would get him ridiculed well into the night for opinions that were not his own. Until he could remove it, he was safer in a crowd who wore it willingly, where he could blend in. "Here, would you help me? Your man Combeferre over there stuck this to me, and I cannot unstick it."

     "Combeferre acts with reasons," Bahorel answered, raising his hands and shaking his head to say he would not involve himself. "I have found it wiser to trust them."

     "Someday, Bahorel, some jackass will tie your arm to a post before a boxing match so you don't notice you're tied, and see if I help you then."

     "What brought you here at all, that Combeferre found you so convenient for the sticking?"

     With a round groan, Grantaire began, "Enjolras..." and gestured toward the golden leader queued for his turn to speak. He considered an explanation about the coat and his chase as he studied the fine cant of the proud man's shoulders covered so well in red, then abandoned it, for he knew well enough that he would not have done the same for any other stranger. If there was a reason why he was here, it had less to do with a garment and more to do with the wearer. He sighed and finished as he began, opening both arms to his far-off muse. "Enjolras."

     Bahorel gave a solemn nod, considering a moment in silence. When he turned to Grantaire at last, it was with a smile of bemusement so faint that a less artistic eye might not have seen it. "Grantaire, as your friend and comrade, I feel honor-bound to tell you--"

     "I am well aware that the Guard frown on these gatherings. It was foolish to appear here and risk arrest for reasons such as mine, I know--"

     "-- Enjolras will never bed you," Bahorel laughed in his ear, striking him on the shoulder.

     Unexpected as the topic had been, to say nothing of Bahorel's assertion -- Grantaire would and did insist that matters of love had not at that point occurred to him, and if they had done he would have considered himself quite able to ascertain from their discussions thus far that this second Angel of Terror would have none of him -- he scoffed and reached stammering for words. "Oh, ha ha! Off with you!"

     "I tell you, he will not."

     By this time another of the company, this time a man wearing a purple coat, had rounded to their side with a look of pure disbelief on his face. "Bahorel, you must explain what you're discussing, and with whom you are discussing it. I cannot have heard you correctly."

     "Ah, Grantaire, this is Courfeyrac," their mutual fellow began. "Courfeyrac, may I introduce my friend Grantaire. He has unexpectedly joined our number."

     "I have not--"

     "It seems that he adores Enjolras."

     "I do not--!"

     "But never fear, I explained he will have no satisfaction on that account."

     The new gentleman turned about with such good humor that Grantaire knew there was no use in explaining to these two the concept of artistic appreciation of beauty, which comprised the sum of his attentions to their gallant leader. Even if they understood in truth, they would refuse to understand in word out of sheer amusement. This Courfeyrac exclaimed, "That is true! You will not!" He held out his hands in friendly warning made warm with a smile. "Through no fault of your own. Enjolras devotes his passion mightily. But do be welcome!"

     Grantaire could not have found himself in a more unlikely situation, or at least a situation he had thought so unlikely for himself when he had roused himself from bed this morning. Yet here he was, made out as a revolutionary against his will, with new friends and old rushing to assure him that he was welcome among them despite the only purpose they presumed for him being one that was impossible. And while he was no saint to turn away the chance of a beautiful lover, especially one so beautiful as the unforgiving man he had followed here, he could wish these men did not seem to think him such an utter fool as to try attaining him.

     "You have made an unfair conclusion of me, messieurs! I have held conference with this Enjolras of yours for under two minutes, and though I will own him to be a marvel, I protest -- the thought that I might bed him was nothing further from my mind!" Courfeyrac's smile broadened as Grantaire spoke. "He is a terror, a man of unreasonable disposition, and if I may be so bold as to opine on our short acquaintance--"

     "Citizens of France!" a too familiar voice cut across the square. Stripped of all attention for the conversation before him, Grantaire found his gaze again on the red-clad figure that he feared would haunt his mind until the end of time. The sun was on him now, catching on his figure to make his hair into a golden flame. All at once, the scene of the rabble of Paris teeming at the man's feet transformed in Grantaire's eyes to the crowds at Delphi coming to receive wisdom -- the god standing before them with arms raised aloft. In his mind's eye, Grantaire could see the drape of cloth that would replace his muse's modern costume as this leader of men called out, "I come here today to ask you -- where is your freedom but in yourselves? What legislator defends your causes, your needs, your rights? Will you stand with me against the forces of misery and strife that bear down on you now?!"

     A whimper broke musical from Grantaire's throat. "Gnothi sauton, O khrusokarene Apollon Hekebole..." he murmured, entranced.

     By his side, Bahorel studied his face with narrowed eyes. "Did you catch what he said there, Courfeyrac? My Greek is rubbish."

     Grantaire's breath stopped, and his heart beat loud. He had spent so long in the company of drunkards who would call his classical words nonsense, his mouth had learned the habit of using them for anything he might not want heard. The bemused expression in Courfeyrac's eyes as Grantaire faced him promised that the purple-coated gentleman had a much better grasp of the language than did Bahorel, who knew enough already.

     "Was that... 'Know thyself, O Thou golden-headed distant Apollo'? Did I get that right? Oh, I did!" Courfeyrac exclaimed as Grantaire buried his face in his hands. "You must watch your words do not betray you, my friend, no matter what tongue you use. You are among educated men here."

     His ears burned, but Grantaire met his shame with a smile. "I did say he was a marvel."

     Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder, nearly embracing him like an old comrade, and laughed with bubbling humor. "Ha! Grantaire was your name? I shall like to know you better. But if you will take my counsel -- never let Enjolras understand you have a purpose other than revolution. He will not abide you."

     "Then he will not abide me, for I am honest to a fault."

~//~

     The gatherings of this group of students at the Musain were rarely solemn, but after that day's rally and the subsequent dash to safety once the Guard had descended, their meeting simmered with unbounded enthusiasm -- with the exception of one gentleman Courfeyrac noted in the corner, who was busily explaining that he would not be here at all except that he had run with the tide of the men around him, but Grantaire had stayed all the same. When he finished making excuses for his presence, he proceeded to educate Joly on the absolute best place in town to get fresh bread in the mornings, and to join Bahorel in singing a mnemonic of the most efficient path to crawl Paris's most famous bars. Courfeyrac had no doubt that this man would remain with their company despite his protests, even before the moment when Combeferre and Enjolras strolled in the door at the leisurely pace afforded to such rarefied men as them who could expect to escape arrest by the mere smile of universal grace, without the trouble of running from the police. At that moment, when Enjolras looked at once toward the corner where Grantaire was singing, and Grantaire stared stricken once again at their leader's frown, the conclusion that they had gained a new regular was too certain to be worthy of comment.

     It was Enjolras who looked away first, making his way to the table where Jehan and Feuilly were talking about more topical matters, and Grantaire whose gaze followed with a lost and lonely quality that brought an ache to Courfeyrac's soul. He would buy the man a drink later to replace the bottle in his hand that he tipped so high for a swallow, it must have been near empty. Combeferre likewise watched the scene with what looked like more than casual interest. Approaching him, Courfeyrac pitched his voice in a whisper so their conversation would miss the notice of unconcerned -- or disapproving -- ears.

     "Have you met this model of a libertine who is singularly taken with Enjolras?"

     "Oh, well. Then I shall not have to introduce you to the model of a libertine with whom Enjolras is singularly taken."

     "You joke."

     "I am all seriousness. Thank goodness he stayed!"

     "It's only because those words came from your mouth, Combeferre, that I don't reject them out of hand. Even from you, I must have some explanation."

     "I heard several minutes together of the most passionate discourse from Enjolras, all on the subject of why it is a crime against nature that this man devotes himself to debauchery and disbelief. He thinks that of humankind in general, I admit, but he was particular about the waste of an intellect and a superlative soul that this man represents. I believe he had railed at me about it for quite twice as long as he had held conference with the gentleman, and put me in fear that when he took the stage, he would do so to lecture Paris about the miserable affront a certain drunkard had done him in an inn by admiring his hair. He was by no means finished with his analysis. But by some miracle, the man himself appears, and in his presence Enjolras staunches the flow of his objections. While separated in the streets, he returned to his vituperations, and now... Lord, I think he has taken to his work with an increase of vigor so that he may all the more ignore this fellow!"

     "That I would ever see the day..."

     "You'll tell no one? Especially not Enjolras. His oblivious manner may be to his benefit."

     "Who would believe me? But I confess, I now have some desire to see how a conversation between them runs."

     "I think you will not have long to wait."

     Indeed, as they spoke, Enjolras parted from his company at the table to approach Grantaire's corner, addressing a question to Bahorel over Grantaire's shoulder while feigning no awareness that the man to whom the shoulder belonged was present. An observer could see the progress Grantaire made from blinded by his presence, through offended at his slight, to boiling forth into a cuttingly voiced objection. The man's face showed emotion as clearly as a signal lamp in a lighthouse. He had all the subtlety of a tiger in a teashop. Both Joly and Bahorel demonstrated the good sense to back away a full step as soon as words escaped Grantaire's mouth and Enjolras aimed his attention with a cold glare.

     Combeferre and Courfeyrac stayed well out of the radius of the two men's attention, but approached close enough to hear their leader ask, "Did you hear a word I said today?"

     "In your tutelage, my wind-swept Hyacinthus?! I surely heard every word you spoke, not only one, but I took the further step of disagreeing."

     "You disagree? I say that all men deserve equal footing beneath the laws and equal opportunity to pursue their goals, and you have found some reason to disagree? And what, I pray, do you believe makes men innately unequal, that two men should be born equally naked and unaware into the world, but one shall be a king and one shall be a cobbler or a beggar on the street for no reason but the accident of his birth?"

     "And do you believe that society could survive without some stratification of the people into the leaders and the led? The organization and direction of society is a learned occupation requiring both aptitude and practice, not something that can take care of itself by merely leaving each individual to his own pursuits and dreaming that they will cooperate. If society could be perfected by leaving it alone, we would hardly have the troubles that we have, or the centuries of philosophy debating unsuccessfully the best means of sailing the ship of state!"

     "That wasn't the question I asked!"

     "But have you considered the probable outcome of the change you desire? The seat of power must not be vacant, or the world will be in chaos, and simply placing that power in other hands will never destroy the inequality you bemoan. It only shifts it, the nature of the beast remaining intact: men who have power will use it to rule their fellow men, and to stay in the position where they are able to rule their fellow men. Telling the people to rise against the monarchy will not make the reality of human nature transmute itself to fulfill your fancy. I don't like seeing people trampled any more than you do, but how much of the indignity they now strive to transcend was born of the first experiment of revolution? And you are asking them to undertake that fight again on nothing more than your word that this time will be different."

     "When we can put the keys to the path of power into the hands of the people, it will be different. You will see -- night and day. Listen, and let me tell you about our philosophy! The republic we plan here is no experiment of revolution. We have seen the mistakes of the past, and we have seen the successes. We can take the truer path to equality for all citizens: any governor who wishes to stay in power would be answerable to the citizens he serves, and any man who can prove his fitness to govern before the people will be free to rise. That, and only that, can make the act of governance into a just exercise."

     "Name me any government in history, including the democratic republics, that has ever been wholly just! I swear to you, if nothing else, I will listen to that."

     "Are you capable of taking any point seriously?!"

     Combeferre murmured to Courfeyrac again. "I confess, for all Enjolras extolled this Grantaire's readiness to debate, this exceeds my expectations."

     "You could have warned the rest of us," Courfeyrac replied. Already, as the volume between the two mounted, everyone in the room had turned to watch with widened eyes and gaping mouths.

     Enjolras had whipped himself into a fire as Grantaire's latest volley drove him to declare, "Would you do me the courtesy of replying to a serious question with a serious answer? Nothing you have to say about my hair could possibly be relevant to the advancement of natural rights!"

     "How could I do you courtesy with my answers to your questions?! I find your hair so much more admirable than your convictions!"

     The two of them spoke no more that night, but in turning back to the plans to build support for revolution, Courfeyrac heard Enjolras growl the words that would come to define the Friends' new friend more than any others.

     "Grantaire, you are impossible."