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He wakes up, face against his pillow. Grantaire doesn’t really want to be here, but there is no other choice. It is cold, even in the covers, and through the window he can see the grey sky. He hopes there’s no rain today. One more day.
It’s been years. Years, and the only way he has managed to make it has been with that single thought. One more day, one foot in front of the other, one more hour here, and then there. Surprisingly, he’s done quite well, something he allows himself to acknowledge on the occasional bout of clarity. Sober for three years and five months, finished his undergraduate degree with grades reasonable enough to be awarded a fellowship at a decent institution to pursue a master’s in arts education. Not what Grantaire had imagined his life would turn out like, but he can’t say he’s terribly unhappy with it.
He wouldn’t say he’s precisely happy, either, but that’s something he would only admit to a therapist, and he does not have enough money to do that.
So he rises from his bed to the cold bedroom and quickly makes his way to the cold tiles of the bathroom, and lets out an involuntary yelp as the cold water hits him.
***
Grantaire will admit readily (and loudly) to anyone who listens that he is a weak, weak man. If one were to ask him, he could cite plenty of examples, starting with (obviously) his past dalliances with alcohol and other substances (if he had a therapist, he would also admit that there’s a double standard here, since he would not consider this a weakness in anyone but himself) (but alas, no therapist). Second in this list would be a vague gesture towards all his inconsistencies and lack of drive. Whether in matters of faith, principles, and ideologies, Grantaire would be hard put to find a single thing that he had stuck with across the years, especially if there was hardship involved.
The one exception would be his art, but even then, could it be considered so, given that he had resigned himself to the mediocrity of his own craft and, certain that he would not fare well in a competitive setting, decided to go and teach others?
It wasn’t that Grantaire thought the prospect of teaching art insufferable, he found it enjoyable enough along with the prospect of a steady income once offered a contract. To be honest with himself, however, Grantaire found the idea of spending the next thirty years maneuvering through the maze of bureaucracy that public schools are to be incredibly depressing. But hey, the kids did make up for it, and occasionally he would also get to talk about art history and its deep roots in all other disciplines.
(And in the quiet moments at night, right before sleep took him, Grantaire would also admit to himself that there was a small but insistent voice inside of him that kept bothering him about moral imperatives, and how it was the bare fucking minimum that a decent human would do to try and make the world just that much better.) (It was a remarkably persistent and annoying voice)
Still, two semesters down and two more to go, and Grantaire was now questioning his own abilities to accomplish even that small amount. He knew he was approaching burn out; they had already talked plenty about it in class, and his advisor kept telling him that a lot of students went through it at some point. And yet, he had succumbed to hubris once the first year was over and he felt alright, only to stand here now, the first day of his third semester in graduate school filled with dread at the idea of another nine months of this.
***
Grantaire arrives at the campus early, tardiness no longer being a habit of his (he can’t afford it).
Although he left his flat when it was still dark out, by the time he reaches the classroom the sun has started to peek out from the horizon, sending weak yellow tones into the clouds above. It is too cold, too early for the sunlight to be golden, but Grantaire finds the cold tones of the sky a good match to the yellow and orange leaves strewn on the wet pavement of the roads.
As he walks towards the building, he spots one flash of true gold in the air, highlighted by the bright red scarf that swallows it up almost completely, and his fingers itch for a camera that he forgot to borrow from the library this week. When a single beam of sunlight hits the golden mane, he wants to weep.
He trips on the curb and almost spills his coffee.
***
It is the first day of fall semester, which means that everyone in the graduate program gets together and plays icebreakers and games to get to know each other. Last year, when Grantaire had just started the program, he had thought it a bit silly, why should he get to know these people? After all, they would all probably be doing their own thing, and he would be all the happier to coast along on the edges, just as he had in undergrad. However, over the last year he had come to wish he had put more effort into talking to his peers, as he saw the casual ease they all slipped into when around each other. He had felt the sharp sting of otherness, augmented by the isolation of having his own apartment for the first time. He missed the forced community of dormitories, and the convivial sharing of everyday moments cafeteria meals offered years ago.
So as Grantaire steps into the classroom, he’s determined to make an effort and actually get to know the people on the program, both his year mates and the new candidates who are just starting. Even though there’s still about ten more minutes until the event officially starts, there is a number of people already sitting and chatting with each other. He spots some familiar faces towards the back of the room, and he makes his way to sit with them, occasionally eyeing the new students as they come in and mingle, some more awkwardly than others.
He’s in the middle of a conversation catching up with Bahorel, one of the few people in his cohort he made a point to keep in regular contact with throughout the last year, when out of the corner of his eye he spots the same combination of colors he saw earlier. He loses track of what he’s saying, what Bahorel was saying, if he had been standing, he surely would have lost his footing at that moment as well. Beyond the simple pull of a good color pairing, Grantaire discovers that the man has a beauty that would render anyone speechless.
Grantaire knows he is staring, and he feels as Bahorel follows his gaze and lets out a low whistle. “Wow,” he comments. “That one is going to be fun to watch. What do you think is his area?”
Grantaire is still looking at the newcomer as he unwraps the scarf from his neck. “Something terrible, I hope. Like Health or life skills. Or maybe coaching a sport.” Bahorel chuckles in response.
The blonde, perhaps sensing eyes on him, looks up to find Grantaire still looking at him. Grantaire can feel his face heat at being caught, and quickly averts his gaze.
Grantaire learns that day that the man is called Enjolras, that he is a mere twenty-two years old, and that just last May he earned his bachelor's degree with a double major in Political Science and History. His area, therefore, is social studies. Grantaire also learns that Enjolras is intense. Although he keeps his voice relatively low, when he speaks the entire room quiets to hear him, and his crowd control is insane, light years ahead of Grantaire’s even after a year of practice. He also learns that Enjolras takes everything too seriously, evidenced by the laser focus he sets on the ice breakers and games they do through the day.
Grantaire doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry. He thinks he would have definitively cried if he had been in the same group as Enjolras, but (luckily?) the two years combined are too many people for only one set of games, and he managed to weasel his way into the Enjolras-less group every time. The one other thing he realizes, as he completely fails at escaping the swamp monster, is that Enjolras is awkward when not given a purpose. He notices the man’s flabbergasted look as he awaits his turn in a game of hopscotch, and Grantaire can’t help but smile, even as a charging Eponine tackles him to the ground.
***
Grantaire settles back into his routine uneasily, still keeping all his obligations but with a disquieting dread creeping up on him as he can’t shake the feeling he is about to burn out big time. However, when the first two weeks are over and his first unit at the high school is finished, he finds himself going over to the library to borrow a camera as a small celebration for himself.
He walks around the campus, idly taking pictures and fiddling with the settings until he finds the perfect combination, the one that makes the light bouncing off of objects into something almost divine.
It is the weekend, and the weather has been steadily worsening for the last couple of days, so he is not surprised to see the grounds deserted, the diaphanous lights in the classroom buildings almost lending the place the atmosphere of a ghost town. It sets the ambiance for him, and for all the photographs he takes, but he’s not bothered by it. It being early fall still, he’s content to wallow in the gloom for a day, knowing the weather will turn again in the next few days.
All this to say, when he makes his way to the creek that circles the back of the campus grounds, he’s in a certain mood. After snapping a few shots of the leaves floating in the water, and a couple more of some interesting reflections of the sky and the nature, he is satisfied. He shuts down the camera and returns it to its padded case. Still deep in his own thoughts, Grantaire carefully deposits the camera some steps away from the water, before taking off his shoes and socks and walking into the creek.
In this spot, the water barely licks above his ankles, but the crisp chill sends a shiver up his body, as he burrows his toes in the muddy riverbed. He takes a deep breath (he could let out one impressive scream right now), and after he feels his lungs burning, he lets it out slowly until there is nothing left inside.
He stretches his arms up into the sky, with a feeling of being one with the universe. No, with a feeling of un-being, having left himself at the campus library along with his student ID, out here in the middle of nowhere where no one can look at him and declare him human. He has ceased to exist, disappeared into the air, the dregs of his sense of self being carried far away by the babbling stream he stands in.
Grantaire is so completely absorbed in the whirls of the creek that he doesn’t hear the person approaching until they speak.
“Hello?”
And then Grantaire is jarringly pulled back into his corporeal form, and the startlement is such that it translates into physical movement. He jumps, and, forgetting he is in the middle of a creek, slips on the clay riverbed and falls ass first into the current.
“Fuck!”
Still sitting in the water, he turns to see his disturbance.
Enjolras, red and apologetic, looks unsure how to proceed. He’s twisting his hands, as if he’d like to help Grantaire out of the stream, but also hesitant about coming closer and potentially upsetting him more.
Grantaire can’t help it. He laughs.
Enjolras, brow furrowed in confusion, pauses for a moment. Then he walks, determined, until he’s standing right at the edge of the water, a hand extended for Grantaire to grasp.
He takes it, stopping to wipe the mud off in his coat, and is pulled out of the creek.
As he stands, a small breeze blows by, sending shivers through every wet part of him (and not because of the hand holding his).
“I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Enjolras apologizes, and Grantaire trembles in the wind (because he’s cold).
“Nah, it was probably my bad. I should have been paying more attention, out here in the middle of nowhere… this is how horror movies start” Grantaire trails off.
“I… don’t know what to say to that. But,” Enjolras continues, giving Grantaire a once over, as he moves to where he left his shoes and camera. “You must be cold. Do you live far?”
“Eh… kinda. Don’t worry about it.” Grantaire is successfully balancing on one foot while tugging a sock mid-air on the other one. “I was just about done anyway, and this will keep me from dilly-dallying on campus. Wouldn’t be good to bike home once it’s dark.”
At the mention of a bike, Enjolras looks like he just swallowed something sour. “You’re not biking like this?”
It comes out like a question, but Grantaire doesn’t think it was meant as one. “Well.” He begins, passing the camera strap over his head. “Given that I biked here, and don’t want to hang out in the cold waiting to air dry, I think I am.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out as antagonistically as it does, but some habits die hard, and he’s always been a bit of an asshole.
“I can drive you.”
Enjolras, for some reason, is following him as he starts walking back to the campus proper.
“Why? You don’t know me.” Now, this is how horror movies start, he thinks, and makes an effort to be an adult and not say it.
“We’re in the same program! And I am deeply sorry, and the cause of your current plight, so…” (He uses words like plight!) Grantaire is quickly developing a feeling, a kind of tug on his gut towards Enjolras, wanting to know this guy, even knowing that it can only end badly.
“It was my bad! You are absolved! No need for penance.” One thing about Grantaire is, he will bring out the three-syllables words when he gets antsy. “Plus, I’m going to need my bike tomorrow so I can’t just leave it here overnight.”
This seems to stump Enjolras, if only for a moment. “You could come to my place?”
Grantaire cannot resist, this time. “Now that is the beginning of a horror movie.”
Enjolras turns red in, embarrassment? Frustration? Grantaire does not know this man enough to be able to discern the subtleties of his flesh, but he is willing (oh, but it would be so entertaining to wind him up). “Sorry. I’m being an ass.” He gives Enjolras a quick look, trying to figure out if they’re anywhere close in size. “If I can borrow a towel, I think I can dry enough to be only mildly moist.”
They are now where Grantaire parked his bike, in front of the library. “Yes, of course.”
Enjolras leads him past the building to a small parking lot, where he unlocks heads towards an ugly little yellow car. It makes Grantaire feel better about his wet, slightly muddy clothes, that the inside of the car is every bit rumpled as is the outside.
He tries to think of small talk topics as Enjolras turns on the car, and he feels the heat start to whirr around the cabin. In the past year, he has gotten a lot better at making idle chat.
“So, how are you liking the program?” Talking to another young adult should not be that hard, after trying to make friends with a hundred and fifty teenagers every day.
“Hm.” Enjolras doesn’t look at Grantaire, staring into the road. “It is very intense. I know it is an accelerated program, but I feel like I’m barely staying on track.”
“Yeah,” Grantaire chuckles. “The first month or so everything feels like whirlwind, but I can tell you, you get used to the speed. It doesn't get better, though. The pace, that is.”
Enjolras makes a face. “Pity. Here I was expecting to have a fast couple of months and then prance about until graduation.”
The delivery is so deadpan that Grantaire’s brain doesn’t recognize it as a joke for a moment (oh, he is funny). He snorts, undignified, then asks what he hasn’t stopped wondering since he first saw him.
“What’s your area?”
“I want to teach history and social studies in high school.” Enjolras recites in a tone that suggests frequent repetition. “What about you?”
“Art. Or Spanish. Maybe both.”
“Art in Spanish?” Enjolras suggests, lifting an eyebrow.
“That would be awesome. Why history?” Grantaire wants to know, beyond the admission essay reason. They park in front of an old building, the engine sputtering to a stop.
As they get out of the car, Enjolras hums in response, as if trying to phrase the answer in his head.
“Well,” he begins, unlocking the door without meeting Grantaire’s eyes. “besides the fact that history is always relevant, and informs our current situation, I believe that it is of paramount importance for the youth to understand the position they occupy in society and what has led them there, if only so that they will be able to challenge it in a way that ultimately leads to their liberation.”
Holy shit. This man speaks like an essay. Grantaire is wants to crawl into his mouth. He stopped at the door when Enjolras started his tirade, amazed at the words coming out of his mouth. Enjolras looks back at him, curious. He tilts his head in a silent “coming in?” question.
He does come in, to a room lit by a few warm bulbs. There’s a sort of chaos that implies internal order, piles of books towering on them from different tables, plants crammed into windowsills to take advantage of any possible ray of light coming in. There are knick-knacks and posters, laying out the soul of the inhabitants, scientific illustrations of moths and plants side by side with prints of marches and protest art.
As he stands there, Enjolras has finished taking off his coat and placing his keys on a small bowl by the door, now tinkering in the kitchen. “What about you, why art and Spanish?” He asks, as he opens a linen closet and hands Grantaire a towel. “I can also give you some clothes if you want to throw these in the dryer?” He adds, as he sees the full extent of the damage.
Grantaire, who had foreseen this, declines. “Thanks, but I don’t think you would have anything that fit me.”
“Oh, not mine, Combeferre’s – that is, my roommate. You guys are similar height and build, and your clothes will dry faster in a dryer than with a towel?”
“…Ok.” Grantaire, at this point, has no more qualms. If Enjolras wants to have him here, he will stay, at least until his clothes are dry. He is right, after all, the towel is no longer cutting it.
Enjolras hands him a pair of sweatpants and a sweater that is so so soft and points him to the bathroom. When he emerges, Enjolras takes his clothes in exchange for a steaming mug of tea, and Grantaire sits in his living room as he waits for him to come back. He feels… a bit confused, as to how he got here. Not that he is complaining, but he is surprised.
“So, why art and Spanish?” Enjolras repeats as he reappears, with a matching steaming mug. He tucks a leg facing Grantaire in the couch.
“Art is everywhere.” Grantaire begins, unsure how to explain himself. “Art is everything. Like, obviously there are issues about what is considered art, and the whole of art academia is massively fucked up, but I’m not talking about that. When you look at people, when you look at how they live and where they live, there is art, and there is beauty. It is what makes people human, what makes the difference between surviving and actually living. Even in the harshest places, in the worst environments, if there are humans, and they are able, they will have made something. There’s graffiti, obviously, and all sorts of protest art that comes to mind, but beyond that, there’s also the simple beauty of clothes made by hand, to express what one is feeling or how they identify, and let’s not even talk about all sorts of folk art that have not been considered art and therefore not preserved in museums and stuff? So everyone has a kind of art lineage, with the visual culture they grew up with, and each of those is valuable and should be treated as such. The extension of that is that kids need to know that there is space for them in the world, to express themselves, and that they will be heard and valued.” He’s ranting, now. “So yeah, art.” He picks at the sleeve of the sweater, rather than look into Enjolras’ face.
“That’s awesome.” Grantaire chances a look at Enjolras then, and finds him looking back, earnest. “What about Spanish?”
“Ah,” he looks away. “That’s just for employability. It’s my first language, so I thought I’d give it a go.”
“Guau. What does your practicum look like, with two subject areas?”
“Oh, um, I’m at the art room for like five periods, and then I walk down to the Spanish class for the last two periods of the day.” He looks at his hands. “It’s not the best arrangement, and I’ve considered just dropping it, but by now I got attached to the kids, and they also deserve better than me just disappearing. I also get to see some of them twice, since they have art and Spanish. They’re great, but the administration figured out that I can speak Spanish so now they keep sending all the ELLs – the language learners, that is, to my art classes so I can translate for them. Which is fine, I can do that, but also that class is already full… I do enjoy getting to know them, and they seem to like having another adult who speaks their language that’s not an English teacher. At this rate, I’ll end up teaching Spanish for life just so I can work with the Latine kids, haha.”
Enjolras hums in response, as if considering what he’s just heard. Grantaire resolves to shut up and drink his tea, to avoid going on any more tirades.
Though he meant that last part halfway as a joke, he has put serious thought into choosing the language path just so he can work with the kids that speak little English, to help them succeed and so they can find a community in school. There are a lot of factors stacked up against them already, and the administration of the high school does not help, placing them in vocational tracks regardless of their previous schoolwork in their home countries, nevertheless their aspirations and hopes. Grantaire used to also co-teach AP Spanish, back at the beginning of his first year as a student teacher, but the fact that there was a single Latine kid in that class, when in his Heritage section there were a dozen already reading and writing far beyond that level, was immensely disheartening. And eye-opening, of course, but mainly discouraging.
“You should–” The dryer buzzes at that moment, and both Enjolras and Grantaire jump in their seats. “Shit, I keep forgetting to turn the signal off. One second.”
Enjolras ambles off to check on Grantaire’s clothes, so he is left to wonder what it is that Enjolras thinks he should do. He feels a bit guilty, sitting here in someone else’s clothes, drinking Enjolras’ tea and rambling about education. He should have asked more questions, said less.
Grantaire takes a sip of his tea (cost-sunk fallacy, plus it already has his germs on it) and tries not to slouch into a ball. Enjolras comes back, without Grantaire’s clothes. He must look confused, because Enjolras offers: “They’re still damp. That was just the five-minute buzzer because the dryer hates me.”
“Hmmm.”
“I was going to say, you should join our group.”
“Huh?”
“Let me see if I have a pamphlet somewhere around here…” Enjolras digs through the mess of papers covering the coffee table. “I know I put them somewhere in here.”
He twists to rummage through the pile of papers occupying the bookcase behind him, and Grantaire is regaled with a sliver of skin, exposed by Enjolras’ shirt riding up with the movement. He stares for a moment and then, embarrassed, turns away.
Enjolras finds what he was looking for, and whips around triumphantly. On his hand there is a leaflet made by someone armed with minimal notions of graphic design and a free account on Canva. It reads: The Friends of the ABC, and Grantaire can’t decide whether it is meant to be ironic or genuine. The advertisement also lists a meeting time and place, as well as a brief description of the topic for the next meeting: technology’s role in educational inequity.
“We are always looking for teacher’s who want to challenge the systems put in place, and it seems you have some interesting ideas about structural issues in your area. We would love to have you on our next meeting.” Enjolras pushes the flyer into Grantaire’s hands, expectantly.
“I’m not sure about that… I mean obviously I do think there are a ton of issues with the education system as it is right now, but what we really do about it? It’s already hard enough to find culturally relevant materials for my classes, I wouldn’t even know where to start with something bigger.”
“That is what we are trying to help with. There is strength in numbers, and the more teachers we can reach with our meetings the more we will be able to do. Right now, we are hosting a series of talks about factors that widen the opportunity gap in schools, and how we can work on our spheres of influence to ameliorate them.”
Grantaire thought he was moved by Enjolras talking about his own subject area before but this, as he talked about working beyond the classroom, this was a whole different level of intensity. He almost glowed from within.
“You know Bahorel, right? He regularly attends our meetings; you can ask him about us if you’re not sure.”
Before he computes that, Enjolras walks off, the last five minutes of the dryer over.
Oh. The activist group. Bahorel had mentioned it once when he first went, said they might appreciate Grantaire’s point of view on diversity. He had dismissed it as a joke at the time, thinking it was just a bunch of grad students doing a circle-jerk about how bad the system was and how they had thought racism had been solved until this or that happened. He already got enough of that in his classes, he didn’t need to also join a club for another helping.
Enjolras returns with his clothes, warm and dry, and Grantaire changes back into them in the bathroom, still thinking about the group.
What Enjolras was saying was definitely not what he had pictured, and to his chagrin, he was interested. All of that sphere of influence stuff was fine when you actually had a sphere, but Grantaire did know that without a group there was not much he could do to improve the current climate at the school for his kids.
Whether he had faith in structural change or not, it had stopped being important at some point in the last year. The important part was moving the needle, as small as the movement seemed.
He returns Enjolras his roommate’s clothes and picks up his stuff. Enjolras washes the mugs and drives him back to campus, seemingly content to let him mull over the invitation.
(At what point did I become an optimist? Well. To be fair I don’t think I am one truly. More like I realized nihilism would not solve shit and decided I did want to try. Kudos to me for ~growing up~)
As he steps out of the car into the cold air, Grantaire bends down to thank Enjolras.
“Thanks for letting me use your dryer. And the tea. Good luck with your classes.”
“Don’t worry about it, and thanks. I’ll see you around?” There’s just a smidge of expectation in the question, like he doesn’t want to push Grantaire, but still would like to see him at the meeting. Grantaire grins, and because he is the worst, he responds:
“You know what? I think you might.”