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Chapter Text

Grantaire sank into his chair in English Composition. He wasn’t hung over, and he was proud of that, but exhaustion didn’t feel much better. He was too early, and he toed the floorboards through the hole in his worn shoes while waiting for the lecture to start.

A girl walked in, dressed smartly in nice clothes that had clearly never seen a stain or patch. Graintare, acutely aware of the dirt under his fingernails, hated her. She gave him a shy, gapless, smile and offered him a soft hand to shake. He started to hate himself for his insecurities, she was clearly lovely.

"I'm Cosette," she introduced herself softly.

"Grantaire." He was envious. Jealous not of her status or charm but her weightlessness.

They got along well, surprisingly so, and conversation flowed easily. She told him that she was studying psychology, and he supplied that he was only taking classes, not working towards a degree. She said she lived with her father, though she quickly changed the subject and seemed to understand too well when he admitted his parents were dead. Grantaire even told her that he draws sometimes. He was rewarded with a pestering to show her sometime.

When the lecture started, Grantaire ripped a piece of paper out of his notebook and put it between them. This intro course was one they could both probably ace in their sleep, so they wrote notes to each other and punctuated the margins with doodles.

Cosette couldn’t draw to save her life, but she managed to write funny, insightful lines to him and take detailed notes at the same time.

He thought maybe she was flirting, but before he had to turn her down and make it awkward, she confided in a stage whisper that she was in love with a law student in one of her classes who didn’t know she existed.

Grantaire thought he must be a prat not to see her.

______________________________________

The rest of his classes went quickly. Even though it was the first day of the spring quarter, his teachers weren’t stingy in their assigned reading and he resigned himself to another long night of studying. He was holed up in the library for warmth, his books spread out on the table and his chair tipped back on two legs, reading.

Another man bowled into the study nook, throwing himself into an open chair.

“Bahorel!” Grantaire exclaimed, delighted. His boxing friend had enrolled last year, and had spent much of the intervening time convincing Grantaire to join. “How goes the business degree?”

“Keep up!” Bahorel exclaimed. “I’m on to teaching! More stable job in this economy y’know.”

Grantaire nodded, unconvinced. He knew Bahorel had a secret soft spot for kids.

“Has it helped you teach urchins self-defense yet?” he teased.

The other man flapped a hand, banishing the topic.

Bahorel pivoted quickly, asking, “Meet any pretty women?” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “or men?”

Grantaire gaped theatrically. He stage whispered, “How dare you assume I could attract anyone of any gender!”

He hadn’t told anyone but Eponine his sexuality. He knew he would be safe with Bahorel, but with his luck it would never even be relevant.

“What about a handsome man like you?” he rejoined. “Met any dames? Lads?”

Bahorel tapped the side of his nose with a grin. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

Their conversation drifted, books forgotten until the lights turned out and they had to gather everything up and run to the doors to avoid being locked in.

Once safely outside they parted ways, Bahorel walking along the lakeshore to the new Montlake Bridge and Grantaire heading inland for dinner.

______________________________________

Grantaire walked into the church near the college, loosening the cord in his hair. He took a place in the bread and soup line behind a young boy. The boy immediately spun around and stuck out a dirty hand.

“I’m Gavroche!” he grinned, gesturing towards where Grantaire lived. “I own the shantytown about two streets that-a-way!” Grantaire could see the kid’s tongue through his gap-toothed smile.

“I guess that makes you my landlord, then,” the man teased. Gavroche nodded so seriously that Grantaire couldn’t help but love him. The line inched forwards, and soon Grantaire was watching Gavroche cheerfully receive a bowl of soup and some bread from a blond man.

The man was gorgeous, with soft hair and a sharp jaw. Infuriatingly handsome in a way that gave Grantaire butterflies and a fight or flight response. As he took an empty bowl, Grantaire snarked, “How much are you spending on shampoo for those curls nowadays?”

Shit. Talk about biting the hand that feeds. The man looked straight at Grantaire, and he felt like a butterfly pinned to a board.

The man spoke levelly, “That was a weak excuse for small talk.” He gestured for the bowl and Grantaire’s hand drifted forward automatically. Their fingers brushed as the bowl changed hands and Grantaire could swear his brain shorted out. At least that would be a good excuse for the next words out of his mouth.

“Soft hands too, rich boy, I bet you moisturize.”

The man arched an eyebrow, seemingly unimpressed, and turned to the next person in line, dismissing him, but Grantaire saw the man’s lips tighten and knew he had struck home.

Why couldn’t Grantaire flirt like a normal person, or better yet just keep his mouth shut?

He walked out the door into the evening street, keeping his eyes on the ground. Instead of finding somewhere to sit and eat, Grantaire fell upon his meager dinner while walking. He was hungry, but he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the handsome blond as he could.

He walked fast and quickly reached his ‘home-sweet-home.’ A joke– the burnt out shell of a car, long since missing its wheels, was barely a shield from the wind.

Grantaire sprawled across the bench seat and opened his books. He began to take notes on the assigned chapter, but his heart wasn’t in it.

He sighed and rummaged for a mostly blank piece of paper. He wasted precious ink scratching out an eye, a nose, soft curls framing a jaw set in determination or annoyance. Suddenly Grantaire was staring down at the man from the breadline. The stranger he had borderline ridiculed. The gorgeous angel he would never see again. God he had it bad.

Chapter Text

Grantaire awoke with his face pressed into a textbook. He rubbed his face and stretched, rapping his knuckles on the aluminum roof of the car. He unbuttoned his school shirt and slipped out of it to pull on his work shirt.

It was early, and the wind off the water gave him a chill as he walked down to the dock. He greeted the other men on the dock easily and slid into the line for the punch clock behind Bahorel.

The line moved quickly, and Bahorel shuffled forward stiffly. When he looked closer, Grantaire could see a bruise faint across Bahorel’s cheekbone.

Worried, Grantaire needled, “I fell asleep over my books, what’s your excuse? Or are you finally getting old?”

“It was just a fight,” Bahorel said dismissively. “It was fair and they had a medicine man. Everything was fine and I even made some money.” He smirked. “Being without a bird for so long is turning you into a mother hen.” They bickered in kind until they reached the front of the line.

Grantaire punched in at exactly eight. Some days he was still impressed by his newfound punctuality.

The time passed companionably, the friends teasing each other boisterously. They joked back and forth with the other longshoremen.

At four, workers had begun to line up at the clock for lunch. Grantaire punched out, but instead of leaving he perched on a crate, taking out a book. He was resigned to going without lunch. Today, however, Bahorel hoisted himself onto the crate beside Grantaire and unwrapped two sandwiches.

He passed one to Grantaire and said easily, “The ham was about to turn, so I made two today.” He suddenly seemed self conscious and added, “It’s nothin’ fancy, just ham and a lil’ bit of cheese.”

Grantaire saw through the excuse immediately. After a moment’s thought he decided he was touched by the consideration, and took the food. The bread was stale, but it was the best sandwich he had ever eaten.

They finished their food in companionable silence and returned to work.

______________________________________

At the end of the day, when Grantaire walked down the dock towards land to clock out, he heard a commotion near the punch clock.

When he got closer he saw two men handing out fliers and talking animatedly.

Most people were ignoring the union organists, but the supervisor was glowering in their direction.

As though attracted by the potential conflict, Grantaire approached and took a flier. He looked down at it. In his unprofessional opinion it was pretty uninspiring. Just bold text on rough, yellowed paper. He mocked them for it, taunting, “What, couldn’t afford a professional for your flier? I get that the life of an activist isn’t rewarding, but this wouldn’t inspire a diareal horse to shit on it.”

The taller of the two men raised his eyebrow in the same way as the blond from- Grantaire shut off his internal monologue and refocused on the spectacled man’s question. “How would you design a flier?”

Grantaire blinked, wondering why the man was being so civil. He replied eloquently, stuttering, “Uhm, well- I guess…” He stopped and actually thought about it, mind going into overdrive. “I would put an image in the middle. It catches the eye and would let people know what you’re about even if they can’t read.”

The man nodded thoughtfully, but his friend interjected, asking, “Where would the mission statement go then?” He took a short, caffeinated pause before adding, “I’m Courfeyrac by the way.” He gestured to the man with glasses. “This is Combeferre.”

Grantaire responded immediately. “Nix it. If people are interested enough to read the blurb, they’ll come to the meeting anyway.”

Courfeyrac jumped on the remark with enthusiasm. “Are you interested enough to come to a meeting?”

He hadn’t been planning on it. The whole thing sounded like a waste of his time, but Grantaire took the invitation as a challenge and grinned. “Someone has to show you how it’s done.”

As he walked away, flier in hand, Grantaire felt anxious and relieved in equal measure. Maybe his mouth wasn’t always a curse.

______________________________________
The bread-and-soup line was uncharacteristically empty that day, meaning that when Grantaire poked his head into the church he had a clear view of the servers. No blond man.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Grantaire slid into line behind the same kid as yesterday. He waved a hand in Gavroche’s peripheral vision, trying not to startle him. The kid looked up, slipping confidence smoothly over his momentary panic.

Grantaire hid his apologetic wince behind a joke. “So, landlord, what rent do I owe you?”

Gavroche put his hands on his hips petulantly. “Actually, I’m a king now. So it’s not rent, it’s tribute. And I take payment in cheese.”

“My sincerest apologies, your highness, but my cows have been dry. I have no milk to make you cheese.” Grantaire did his best to look like a woeful peasant, pulling his mouth long as he spoke.

Gavroche giggled brightly so Grantaire continued.

“It is my greatest sorrow that your magnificence must, this once, buy his own cheese.” Grantaire made a show of patting himself down before he located several coins in his pocket and gave them to the urchin.

He knew Gavroche wouldn’t spend the money on something so frivolous as cheese. He resolved, as they reached the front of the line, to buy some for next time they met.

Chapter Text

The next day, Grantaire shuffled back into Intro to English Composition. Cosette was already putting her stuff where they had sat last time.

He set his bag down and she looked up with a bright smile. “How are you today?” she asked.

“Good, good,” he replied. “Just planning a cheese heist for my tyrannical landlord/king.”

Cosette raised an eyebrow and he told her about the spunky kid he met. She was, as he had hoped, delighted. She made him recreate exactly what he said and did, and put on a funny voice for Gavroche. She said it was ‘for accuracy’s sake’ but he thought she just wanted to see him goof around.

He ran out of stories quickly, having only met the boy twice, and their conversation drifted to other topics.

They complained about professors and schoolwork. The topic turned to her beloved law student, Marius. Cosette heaved a dramatic sigh. “He’s so clueless! One of the other law students, Enjolras, was teasing him and their friend Courfeyrac had to explain it!”

Grantaire started. “Courfeyrac? Is he a unionist?”

“Yes!” Cosette exclaimed. “Do you know him?”

“He roped me into coming to his group’s meeting today,” Grantaire groaned.

Cosette smiled. “Maybe I’ll come then too. Marius will surely be there, and if it’s boring we can just hang out together!” Her hand fluttered towards his shoulder as though to clasp it, but she never made it there, instead retracting her arm shyly.

“It’s a plan,” Grantaire declared, turning to face the desk where the lecturer had just walked in.

The flier in his shoulder bag lingered on his mind until the end of school.

______________________________________

That evening, Grantaire walked into The Musain. He had actually been to the bar before, but he had frequented most bars in Seattle, so that wasn’t unexpected. Courfeyrac was sitting at the counter with a book, but he dropped it eagerly in favor of greeting Grantaire.

“You really came!” he exclaimed. “And you’re early!”

He looked so happy that Grantaire didn’t have the heart to tell Courfeyrac that he only came because the bar was a warm place to study. Instead he said, “I needed to get the lay of the land.”

“Oh, of course!” Courfeyrac nodded enthusiastically, launching into an explanation of their routine. “So normally Enj- Enjolras that is- shows up early to prep, but he and ‘Ferre, who you already met, are doing… something? Not entirely sure.”

So the student that was teasing Marius would be here. Grantaire wondered if they could bond over giving the oblivious man a hard time.

Courfeyrac continued, saying, “Uhm but anyways, we usually hang out in this main area until everyone gets here and then we move to the back room to start the meeting. Oh!” he exclaimed, having seen some people walk in, “Hi Marius! Hi Joly! Hi Bossuet!”

Grantaire turned to greet them, but was distracted when a second bartender appeared. “Ep!” he shouted.

She looked up, startled, before smirking, “Fancy meeting you here.” In a more serious tone she added, “I never would have pegged you as a social activism type guy.”

He raised an eyebrow at her choice of words and she shook her head in return.

Grantaire sat at the bar, wondering how to ask the question that was bothering him. He decided to broach the subject directly. “I see you’re no longer working for Montparnasse…?” he trailed off, letting Eponine decide how much to share. She would anyway, but he thought it was a nice gesture.

Her smile this time was as brilliant as it was vicious. “I worked two other jobs in secret so he couldn’t decide I owed him more when I got close. Not a lot of sleep, but it was all worth it for the look on his face.”

When Eponine ran away from home, she went to Montparnasse. He started taking most of her paycheck to cover ‘cost of living’ and she had been trying to get out from under his thumb ever since.

When she had dropped off the face of the earth, Grantaire had assumed the worst. He was glad to be proved wrong.

They had just finished catching up when the door swung open again, admitting Cosette, Combeferre, a slight man with delicate tattoos poking out from under his shirt, and- a startlingly familiar blond man.

Grantaire felt his heart drop with a lurch.

They locked eyes across the room, and the man’s open expression immediately slammed into a scowl.

The exchange was interrupted by Courfeyrac running to them, shouting, “You guys are back! And you managed to bring Cosette!” The jubilant man exchanged fist bumps and handshakes with the people who had just arrived.

The blond man put a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder and started speaking quickly, glancing at the bar. Grantaire should have known he wouldn’t be welcome here, either. Combeferre interjected, though, and with a final glare at Grantaire, the blond man started mingling.

Cosette, unaware of the debate going on behind her, had made a beeline towards him the moment she was free from Courfeyrac’s greeting.

She smiled angelically, and Grantaire turned to introduce her to Eponine, but Eponine was already at the other end of the bar serving customers.

With a shrug, Grantaire turned back to let Cosette tell him about the group. She spent a lot of time exasperated over Marius, but Grantaire was more than happy to enable someone else’s pining if it meant he could ignore the cold glances the blond man shot at him.

Suddenly, the door slammed open, and someone Grantaire would never have expected burst in.

“Bahorel!” Courfeyrac shouted excitedly. “Now we can start!”

A half second later, Grantaire also called to Bahorel. With a start, the other man looked over to the bar.

“R!” he boomed, coming over to clap Grantaire on the back.

The small crowd funneled into the back room. Grantaire was worried they wouldn’t all fit, but the room was almost spacious and the students didn’t seem bothered by the proximity to their friends.

The blond man stood at the front of the room to address them and Grantaire knew he was doomed. In a clear voice, the man said to the group, “Since we have several new people here today, we should do a round of introductions. I am Enjolras.”

Enjolras said his own name like he was declaring independence or accepting the presidency.

The secret hope that Grantaire had been harboring, the hope that the tattooed man was Enjolras and they could still bond over a distaste for Marius, was dashed.

Starting on Enjolras’ right, they went around the table introducing themselves. Grantaire knew most of them, but some he was still curious about. After Combeferre was Joly and Bossuet, then an empty seat that Bahorel introduced as Feuilly, then Bahorel himself.

Registering the eyes on him, Grantaire realized it was his turn. “Grantaire,” he said, his tone halfway between an admission of guilt and a challenge.

Luckily, Enjolras’ attention wasn’t prolonged this time, and the introductions went on. Cosette introduced herself on Grantaire’s right, then the tattooed man introduced himself.

“My name is Jean, but please, call me Jehan,” he said softly.

On Jehan’s right was Marius, then Courfeyrac.

With introductions done, Enjolras wasted no more time, opening a folder and starting on their first issue. It turns out they did more than unions, and Grantaire is sure most of the planning goes over his head.

He did however contribute when Enjolras addressed the new arrivals, asking them how the students could boost attendance.

Cosette made good points about accessibility, and Grantaire was about to talk about his thoughts on the flier when his stomach gurgled.

In a flash of inspiration, Grantaire blurted, “Food. Food would get people to come to meetings.”

He heard some chuckles around the room, but he was serious.

Enjolras frowned thoughtfully, the mirror image of Combeferre considering the flier. He asked, “Would they listen or would we only be feeding people who were already against our ideals? And where do you think this food would be coming from? We are not a soup kitchen.”

Grantaire could admit he hadn’t thought about sourcing the food before he spoke, but a different point of Enjolras’ caught his attention. “Only? More than ideals, food motivates people. Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs,” he added, grateful for Cosette’s habit of sharing what she had learned in her classes that week. “Don’t worry about convincing them, Apollo, you’re so pretty you could convince a stone to bleed.”

It occurred to Grantaire that referencing a soup kitchen was probably a dig at him. Well fuck Enjolras for trying to throw his status around. Threats don’t work on a man who has lost everything once before, and revealing his poverty wouldn’t cost him any of his friends in the group.

Enjolras took a moment to exchange glances with both Combeferre and Courfeyrac before he spoke. “I do not appreciate being deified. Idle idolatry does not help our causes.”

With that, he moved to the next topic, effectively dismissing Grataire’s contribution. For some reason that feels worse than being shouted at.

______________________________________
At the end of the meeting, Grantaire was confronted by an angry Eponine.

“What. was. that.” she demanded, boring holes through his head with her eyes.

“What was what?” Grantaire was genuinely baffled. She didn’t see him make a fool of himself in the back room.

She replied cryptically, “You. Like that. With her.”

“Cosette?” This made even less sense to Grantaire. “You know I’m not- We’re not- I only met her two days ago.”

Eponine seemed to deflate at this. “No, I know you weren’t trying to replace me. It’s just hard.”

Grantaire knew Eponine wasn’t normally possessive over him. Normally she’d be the first to cheer for him when he made a new friend. Something was wrong, but if he pressed, she would clam up. So he waited.

She sighed. “Maybe it would be easier if she remembered me.”

Shit. This was the Cosette. The one Eponine’s parents ‘fostered.’

Eponine barreled on, “It’s not like I want her miserable, but seeing her here, it’s like looking at the life I could have had. I could’ve had nice clothes and a shot at college and a loving father and free time to join things with my friends. I could’ve moved effortlessly through the world like there was nothing weighing me down. It’s like she’s dancing with life or something and it’s so damn unfair.”

Eponine let her head drop and let out a groan that was more like a battle cry.

Grantaire put a rough hand on her shoulder. “Cosette might be lucky and unburdened, but y’know what she doesn’t have? Grit.” Eponine scoffed.

“No really,” Grantaire insisted, “even if she’s tough, she could never put everything back together like you did. Even if she’s fearless it’s because she has no idea what’s possible, you’re fearless because you’ve been there. You’re so fucking strong.” After a pause he added, “She is pretty weightless though.”

Eponine laughed and leaned into his hand, sniffling. She admitted, “I don’t want to have to be strong.”

“I know,” Grantaire folded her into his arms and whispered, “Me either.”

They stayed like that for a few minutes and Grantaire wished his embrace was enough to keep the world at bay.

Chapter Text

The next day, Grantaire woke up early to walk to the market before work. He stopped for a moment in front of a booth selling high end French cheeses before shaking himself and moving on. The day he could afford fancy cheese for some urchin at the bread line was the day he didn’t need the bread line anyways.

Finally, he found a local farmer selling small wedges of hard cheese. They weren’t too expensive, and would keep for a while.

There was a woman already at the booth, and she looked familiar.

“Musichetta, isn’t it?” he asked.

She looked up suspiciously, but upon seeing his face she relaxed minutely. “Eponine’s friend from the bar yesterday,” she stated.

Realizing she probably didn’t know his name, he nodded and introduced himself properly. He only knew her name because both Joly and Bossuet were flirting with the bar-woman. Grantaire wondered if the friends knew they were stepping on each other’s toes.

Musichetta didn’t seem to like him very much, but he did interrupt her quiet morning shopping. He bought his cheese and excused himself.

The market was only a few blocks from work, so he took his time, soaking in the sights. His early morning excursion had given him 15 minutes spare, and he sat on a crate to watch ships sail into the harbor.

Other workers began to trickle in, then the foreman.

The foreman organized the workers, pointing to crates that should be loaded, and marking out an area to unload the shipping freighter that would dock around midday. Work passed quickly after that, the men bantering and sweating alongside one another.

Hauling boxes was tiring work. That was why Grantaire liked it; it took the thoughts from his head, but some days he just didn’t have the energy. He had spent yesterday’s sleepless night thinking about the choices that led him to where he was in life.

Why couldn’t he just sit down and take it? Why did he always have to open his big mouth and make things worse?

Lunch couldn’t come too soon, and when Bahorel wordlessly passed him a sandwich, Grantaire was glad there were no excuses today.
______________________________________

After his shift, Grantaire speed walked to the church, holding the little wedge of cheese. Gavroche was in the line like usual. Grantaire slid in behind him, earning a dirty look from the woman he cut in front of. She saw the boy look up with joy though, and softened.

Gavroche blinked several times, hard, before asking, “Were you hiding from your landlord yesterday?”

Grantaire realized the kid had worried because Grantaire was at The Musain and hadn’t made it to the church at his normal time.

“Nope,” he replied, “I was meeting the finest cheesemakers in the land to pick the very best tithe for you.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “You should come with next time.”

Gavroche thought for a moment before replying, “‘S not a tithe anymore, ‘cause I’m a landlord again. I don’t think you can be king if you live in the same place as your people.”

Ignoring the backwards logic, Grantaire presented the cheese with a flourish, “Well then, landlord, here is your rent.”

Gavroche’s eyes lit up. “Really?” he asked shyly, betraying his age.

Grantaire nodded and Gavroche grabbed the cheese, taking a bite and folding the rest back up for later.
______________________________________

He walked Gavroche as far as the urchin would let him, but eventually Grantaire ended up alone in his car, looking at the mountain of reading he had neglected. He knew he wouldn’t be able to focus on English, so he grabbed his ratty ecology textbook and tucked up in the back seat.

Buying secondhand books had exactly one advantage, and that was the notes in the margins. Whoever had owned this book before him was funny as hell and a lot more concise than the actual text.

When he had worked through most of the stack, it was already pitch black outside. Grantaire lit a lamp hours ago just to be able to see the letters, let alone read.

His decrepit lamp ran on oil though, which was almost obsolete and more expensive than gas, so he let himself call it a night.

Hopefully Cosette would summarize their English for him tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Grantaire woke up late. He barely had time to pull on his school shirt and throw his books into his bag before he was running towards school.

It looked like he wouldn’t get a condensed version of the reading from Cosette before class. He would just have to muddle through.

He burst into the lecture hall seconds before their professor, earning several dirty looks. Cosette looked up and smiled though, and that was enough for him. She moved her bags so he could sit.

He sat and made a show of being extra attentive for the first twenty minutes of class, but soon got bored. He slowly ripped a page from his notebook, hoping it wouldn’t be too loud in the quiet room.

He set it next between himself and Cosette.

She looked at him when he tapped her, then wrote, Long night catching up after the meeting?

Grantaire wasn’t sure if she meant catching up with his reading or with his friends. He replied, Yeah, there were so many people there that I wasn’t expecting. To take attention off himself he asked, How are things with Marius?

Cosette looked sideways at him. I know what you’re doing. Unfortunately for us both it works too well.

She launched into a comforting stream of sentences about her favorite oblivious law student. She had so much to say that even with her small, elegant font she had to turn the page. If it reminded Grantaire of his own law student, well, that was his own problem.
________________________________

It was the end of the day and Grantaire was sauntering down towards the water, watching the sun play on the waves. He was almost to The Musain when he remembered Gavroche’s expression when Grantaire missed their dinner together.

Screw it, the students didn’t like him that much anyways. He turned around.

The church was on the other side of campus from The Musain, but Grantaire was still a little early. Gavroche was already loitering near the door so Grantaire called to him.

The kid turned around, confused. He cocked his head and asked, “Does my tenant think sicko-fanatic behavior will get him favors?”

Ignoring the major mispronunciation of ‘sycophantic,’ Grantaire swept into an exaggerated bow. “No, good sir. I come to alert you of a gathering on your property. We should inspect it, yes?”

Gavroche looked thrilled at the idea that he was being included, but his expression did something complicated, and Grantaire kicked himself for asking a street kid to go somewhere with a relative stranger.

Hesitantly, Gavroche agreed. He kept noticeably more distance between the two of them though, and Grantaire tried not to be hurt.

They strolled along, making a game of trying to figure out where each pedestrian was going, and before long they reached The Musain. The meeting had started almost half an hour before they arrived so Grantaire made a beeline to the meeting room.

He tried not to interrupt anything, but maneuvering two people through the crowd of chairs was never going to be low impact.

Bahorel scooched over into Feuilly’s still empty spot to make room for the kid. Grantaire whispered a quick thanks and tried to focus on the meeting. It was hard when Enjolras kept throwing glares at him.

Maybe bringing a kid to their Serious Meeting was a bad idea. Grantaire wondered if he seemed like a kidnapper.

Gavroche seemed immune to the cold looks. He barely noticed most of them, busy as he was getting Bahorel to tell him about bar fights and alley fights and ring fights.

“You mean you can get paid to fight??” Gavroche exclaimed just a little too loud.

Enjolras sent another glare at their end of the table. Yep, definitely not a great idea. Remembering Gavroche’s worried face when Grantaire disappeared last time made all the discomfort worthwhile though.

Bahorel was offering to teach Gavroche to fight, and that was what all Grantaire needed. While knowing Gavroche could defend himself might give Grantaire an edge in his nightly fights with Somnus, he didn’t want to become a practice dummy for the hyper kid.

Enjolras was still at the front of the room, pacing. Grantaire let himself watch the man, soaking in the way he spoke.

Anyone with that much passion and belief was heading for a crash, but Grantaire had never avoided danger.

He tuned back in abruptly when Enjolras mentioned longshoremen. He had missed the beginning, but the gist was that the students were trying to organize a strike to make employers listen to the unions.

Enjolras continued, “The International Brotherhood of Teamsters and the International Longshoremen Association declared that longshoremen along the coast should walk out tomorrow on May 9th to protest unfair working conditions and pay. They are still trying to get the Central Labor Council onboard, but the secretary of that organization, O’Connell, insisted on filibustering and accusing strike leaders of being communists at their most recent meeting. We should not expect help from them. Does anyone have any contributions on the subject?”

“Why would this strike go any better than that General Strike in 1919?” Grantaire’s voice surprised even himself.

Frowning, Enjolras replied, “What deems that strike a failure? A whole city stopped working for three days while still managing to get food to people and keep hospitals stocked. There was no violence.”

Grantaire snapped back acerbically, “It didn’t work though, did it? Maybe you need a little violence.”

“Violence is never the sole means of fixing a problem,” Enjolras huffed. “This time, we hope coordinating up and down the coast and focusing specifically on longshoremen will make federal officials take us more seriously.”

“That’s the other thing!” Grantaire exclaimed. “Do you really expect enough longshoremen to strike? We need to get paid!”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed and Grantaire knew he had made a mistake when he admitted to working at the docks.

The blond man’s focus was terrifying as he said, “So we have two inside perspectives. Interesting. Bahorel, what are your thoughts?”

Bahorel winced at Grantaire, like he knew he was betraying him with his answer. “There are definitely folks who won’t join, but I’d say it’s only about half up here? Not sure about Tacoma and the like. If enough people get on board in California, it might snowball.”

Enjolras nodded, ready to move on. Grantaire was going to be ignored, just like last time. Desperate, he blurted, “And what about the strike leadership? If there really are so many unions committed to striking, maybe they hear you out. Great. Who’s going to do the talking? If the union leadership all want a seat at the table, that’s too much; we’ll end up with disjointed demands and fed up employers.”

“That really is above my pay grade,” Enjolras began, “but if they’re smart, they’ll write something up and have one person deliver it.”

Grantaire scoffed at the idealism. “Why would the people in power elevate someone who was currently their equal? That’s not how they got to be in power.” The other man opened his mouth to respond but Grantaire just started talking louder. “And your paygrade. What’s that about? Surely you’re not actually getting paid for this-” Enjolras shook his head- “so why are you helping?”

Breathing hard, Grantaire stopped to let Enjolras defend himself. The blond man picked his words deliberately. “I can care for any cause I choose. Bettering the standing of one man betters the whole community, both morally and, since you clearly do not believe that is a valid motive, economically. Furthermore, better working conditions for longshoremen help my friend-” he nodded to Bahorel, who had the grace to look embarrassed at being roped into their mess- “which I hope isn’t too selfless a motive for you to grasp.”

Jehan drew in a little breath at the remark, and Courfeyrac tried in vain to catch Enjolras’ eye.

Grantaire grinned. Yeah that’s right, he taunted in his head, get on my level. At least now he wouldn’t have to explain to Bahorel why he made the first personal jab.

Having all of Enjolras’ attention like this was exhilarating and it killed Grantaire’s inhibitions even more than the beer he was nursing.

Recalling the way the man flinched when Grantaire brought up his apparent wealth, Grantaire drew himself out of his chair and asked, “Did your high horse come with the trust fund?”

Hopefully ignoring Enjolras’ dig meant no one could see how much it had stung. Grantaire might not have loyalty to any institutions, but he was fiercely loyal to his friends.

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed just enough for Grantaire to know the remark had hit home.

“I may have come from means, but at least I use them to help others. Your lack of resources does nothing to disguise the fact that you only care about yourself.” Grantaire felt like he had been slapped in the face, but Enjolras wasn’t done. “Your confidence seems to be the kind that comes from having been unconditionally loved as a child, but your manners disagree. What did you do to drive them away?”

Jehan covered his face with a whimper and Cosette put her arms around the sensitive man. Bahorel smacked his palm on the table, clearly ready to defend Grantaire, but Grantaire cut him off.

“We all know the rich have too much time, but it seems sometime in the years since our independence they have shied away from harmless indulgences and now are meddling with the lives of ordinary folk. You can play the pauper, but you can’t fix what you don’t understand.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Enjolras bit back. Like a shark to blood, he smelled weakness. “What did you do?”

Grantaire pushed his chair back with a clatter and stormed out of the room as best he could with all the people in the way. Maybe he should sit closer to the door next time.

When he finally made it to the bar, he sat at a side table to wait for the meeting to end. He wanted to apologize to his friends before leaving. If Grantaire also wanted to see if Enjolras was as hurt as he was, well sue him for being a gossip.

Almost immediately another pair of footsteps followed him out. Ready to tell Cosette he was fine and she didn’t have to use her fancy almost-degree on him, he turned around to see Gavroche standing awkwardly by his table.

“Shit, sorry. I shouldn’t have started a fight today, since I brought you along.” Grantaire had to admit that he forgot Gavroche was there. He hoped the kid hadn’t taken it personally.

“‘S okay,” Gavroche shrugged. “It was more interesting than watching the other kids fight. What’s a high horse?”

Grantaire felt a surge of protectiveness. This kid was smarter and more curious than most of the rich bastards he went to school with. Grantaire hid a soppy smile with a definition.

The meeting ended quickly after that, as though no one could focus after the explosive argument. Grantaire found himself hoping that Enjolras couldn’t focus either, that the blond man found himself distracted thinking of a certain cynic. He could dream.

Everyone but Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre soon funneled back into the main room. They probably should have been taking a break, but Grantaire was glad he wouldn’t have to face the disappointment of the two men that invited him in the first place.

Digging some change from his pockets, Grantaire gave some to Gavroche and told him, “Buy yourself something from the bar.” Preemptively cutting the wicked grin from the kid’s face he amended, “Nothing alcoholic.”

As Grantaire was turning away, he heard Gavroche’s steps falter. He looked back to see Gavroche and Eponine frozen, staring at each other across the room.

“‘Ponine?” Gavroche looked so young that it broke Grantaire’s heart.

Eponine let out a choked gasp. If Gavroche’s expression broke his heart, one glance at the love and fear mixing on her face smashed it into pieces.

“‘Ponine!” Gavroche ran the last few steps to the bar, jumping onto a stool. Eponine hoisted him the rest of the way over the counter and they crushed each other in a desperate hug.

“Gav,” she whispered.

As though that broke a spell, Gavroche noticed the eyes of all the students had turned to the pair and he wiggled to be put down.

“Why did you leave me?” He may have asked it as a question, but it was an accusation.

Eponine let out a single sob and the students abruptly started trying to give the reunion a sense of privacy. They turned back to their quiet conversations as she responded, “I had to, I had to. I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you and El. I couldn’t even protect myself.”

“I missed you,” Gavroche frowned.

“I missed you too,” she confessed, sounding further from breaking than before but still softer than Grantaire had ever heard her.

It seemed like that was the moment Gavroche chose to forgive her because he crashed into her with all the force in his pre-adolescent body. This hug was as fierce as the first one, like they were making up for all the hugs they missed.

She met Grantaire’s eye over Gavroche’s shoulder. “Why do I feel like you had something to do with this?” He was glad to hear the signature bite back in her voice.

He raised his hands in mock surrender as he walked towards the bar. “You know how I am, I just have to bring the drama wherever I go.”

“I can’t believe you took my baby brother to a bar,” she joked, sniffling.

“Well I can’t believe you’re related to this little monster,” he teased.

“I’m right here y’know!” Gavroche protested.

Eponine ruffled his hair. “We know.”

After a few more comfortable seconds, Grantaire felt like he was intruding. He excused himself to apologize to Jehan for the scene he had made.

Jehan was sitting between Bahorel and Cosette. If it were anyone else Grantaire would have chickened out and apologized to Jehan later. Or not at all. He trusted his friends not to dogpile, though, so he gestured to the seats opposite them questioningly.

Cosette looked at Jehan, who nodded.

“I’m sorry for making a scene,” Grantaire blurted after he had settled himself. “I said some things I probably shouldn’t have, and I didn’t think about how it might affect other people.”

With a smile, Jehan said, “Apology accepted. It was nice of you to think of me, but there’s someone else you should be apologizing to.”

“Dude,” Bahorel added, “what Enj said was not cool though. If he pulls anything like that again, I’m gone. I’ve got your back.”

“Seconded,” Cosette declared, “but you gave almost as good as you got. You really got under his skin, and I think you should apologize to him too.” With a wince she added, “maybe wait until the next meeting though.”

“Yeah, make him wait!” Bahorel cheered.

Primly, Cosette said, “Let him cool off.” Her eyes said make him wait though.

Suddenly Jehan’s eyes slid past Grantaire. He turned and saw Enjolras approaching. Joy.

Enjolras asked, “Can we talk? Privately?”

He seemed almost nervous. Maybe he had never had to kick someone out of the group until now.

“Anything, Apollo,” Grantaire drawled.

Beyond a twitch in his jaw, there was no indication that Enjolras had heard the nickname. He gestured, this way. It was unnecessary; Grantaire would probably follow him anywhere.

They walked towards the back room again. As they reached the door, Courfeyrac and Combeferre slipped out. Courfeyrac clapped a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder to wish him luck. Did he really want Grantaire gone so much?

Once they were away from prying eyes, Enjolras finally faced him. “I am-”

Trying to head off the inevitable Grantaire started talking desperately, “Look, I-”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue.

“You wanted to talk, you go ahead,” Grantaire mumbled.

“I am sorry for my remarks. They were out of line and I take full responsibility for what I said. I should not have implied that you were the cause for your estrangement with your parents, or that you were estranged in the first place.”

That wasn’t what Grantaire had been bracing for. “Uhm-” he buffered- “I meant to apologize for what I said at the next meeting, but I guess now is a good time too. I’m sorry I pushed at what was clearly a sore spot. I’ll try to control myself next time.” He swallowed. “You were right though. It was my fault. If I hadn’t been picking a fight from the backseat maybe they would have seen the other car before it was too late.”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed but, mercifully, he left it alone.

“In order to avoid personal arguments, we should agree on some boundaries. I would appreciate it if you made no more comments about my finances. Are there subjects you would like me to avoid? I will of course not use your parents against you again.”

Grantaire shook his head mutely.

“You can always tell me later if you think of something.”

Grantaire was still reeling from the implication that he was welcome at another meeting when Enjolras moved on, saying, “If you have another minute, I wanted to go through the flier ideas you gave to Combeferre. Adding an image would increase our reach. Do you have an artist we could hire? We can create a printing block of the design but it has to be simple.”

Hesitantly, Grantaire offered himself. “What did you have in mind?”

They argued about the design for half an hour before they finally called it quits, but it was friendly.

That night, Grantaire ignored all of his school work to perfect the poster design.

Chapter Text

The three days until the next meeting passed in a blur of makeup work and anticipation.

Grantaire would never admit it, but he really wanted to impress Enjolras with the flier.

When Grantaire finally opened the door to The Musain, his nerves were almost overpowering.

Customarily, Grantaire was almost an hour early, but he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Gavroche already perched on a barstool, kicking his legs and laughing at one of Eponine’s stories.

They looked up simultaneously and Grantaire really didn’t know how he hadn’t realized they were related before their dramatic reunion. Their smirks were identical.
Eponine gestured him over. Gavroche spun on his chair, simultaneously flinging an arm wide.

In an announcer’s voice he called. “And in the other corner we have Mr. Cheeseman himself!”

Rolling her eyes, Eponine mimicked the rush of a crowd cheering.

“Don’t tell me Baz actually took you to a match,” Grantaire groused as he sunk onto a stool and ruffled Gavroche’s hair. “We’ll all be in trouble if you learn to gamble.”

Gavroche swatted at the older man’s hand, pouting, “That’s what he said! He said I would win so much my head would inflate. I think ‘s a good thing if it happened though.”

Eponine reached over the counter to ruffle his hair too. “Your head’s big enough already, little man.” The door opened, admitting a crowd of men and Eponine stepped away to serve them.

Grantaire turned more fully to Gavroche, asking, “You like the cheese, landlord?”

He was rewarded with a solemn nod and a reserved, “T‘was good, subject.” After a second Gavroche looked uncomfortable. He blurted, “You can call me Gav. Like ‘Ponine does.”

“Aww,” Grantaire cooed, “do you think of me like a brother?”

The kid stuck his whole tongue out in a gag. “Don’t push it,” he grumbled.

“Gross!” Eponine exclaimed, having chosen that lovely moment to return. “I can see down your throat, Gav. Close your mouth.”

The door jingled again. Enjolras stepped in, followed by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, whose hands brushed together every few seconds. Grantaire headed straight towards Enjolras, who gestured for the other two to head back without him.

Nervously, Grantaire pulled out his poster ideas. “As promised, Apollo, some thumbnails. If you have time for a lowly mortal…?”

“Yes,” snapped Enjolras, tugging the papers from Grantaire’s grasp to spread them out on a table.

With a shock so strong it made his tendons ache, Grantaire noticed a sketch of Enjolras mixed among the concepts. Enjolras saw it at the same time, hands freezing above the careful rendering of his own face.

After the second longest pause of Grantaire’s life he plunged forward to grab the drawing, grazing Enjolras’ hand as he did so.

It was warm and soft. Just like last time.

Arranging his features into a strained smile, Grantaire crushed the portrait into his pocket. He started explaining the ideas behind each poster, talking about which audience they would appeal to and the downfalls of them too. He talked until his heart was beating normally and Enjolras had loosened his grip on the table.

When Grantaire was finally done nitpicking, Enjolras said crisply, “You are too self critical. Any one of these would have been sufficient.” He extended a hand, which Grantaire hesitantly took, and shook it briskly before he asked, “Can the students count on your work again? We would find payment, of course.”

Momentarily blindsided, Grantaire paused before drawling, “Of course, Apollo. Anything for the cause.” He nervously wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. “No need to pay me though. What’s the point of hiring an amateur if you’re not exploiting them, amirite?”

Predictably, Enjolras scowled at that, but Grantaire was spared -or denied- a response by the arrival of the other students.

Cosette and Bahorel were engaged in an animated discussion, heads bent together. When Cosette saw Grantaire she made a beeline towards him. Bahorel followed and Grantaire noticed Marius tracking their movements. He made a note to tell Cosette later. At least one of them had a chance.

She laid a delicate hand on his forearm. “Bahorel and I were just having a wonderful discussion about the psychological differences between children and adults, and how that applies to education! I wanted his thoughts on my essay. Could we switch spots today?”

“Of course,” Grantaire smirked. “I wanted to sit closer to the door anyways so when I storm out it’s more dramatic.”

Cosette rolled her eyes, somehow making the gesture dainty. “You two had better watch your mouths this time, or I’ll be forced to defend Jehan’s honor.”

Grantaire raised his hands in mock surrender as the students drifted into the back room. “I’ll only give as good as I get. Promise.”

They took their seats and Enjolras started talking. Grantaire’s thoughts drifted, eyes tracking his revolutionary’s all-encompassing fervor.

Suddenly Enjolras addressed him, saying, “Grantaire. Your point last meeting, that of compensating strikers, was a good one. I contacted the ILA asking for their plan. They acknowledged the importance of relief, but expressed a lack of funds. I was able to put them into contact with the Intercollegiate- sorry, the Student League for Industrial Democracy, the National Student League, and the local branch of the Young Men’s Christian Association. One of them will hopefully offer to financially support this cause. Thank you for your contribution. Do you have any other concerns?”

Mutely, Grantaire shook his head.

Enjolras nodded sharply to the seated man before he addressed the room again. “The strike is set to start this Wednesday. While I do not anticipate any betrayals from the people in this room, it is important to remember what we do when confronted with an informant.”

Bahorel booed, calling, “We slaughter the stool pigeons!”

Raising an eyebrow, Enjolras responded, “I hope that was in jest, Bahorel. It is often the last resort of shipowners to spark a dynamite plot that delegitimizes strikers.”

“So it’s better to let ‘em spy?” Grantaire interrupted.

“No,” Enjolras huffed. “We would civilly ask them to depart and never return.”

In the back someone stage-whispered, “Depart to the afterlife!”

Enjolras silenced the jokester with an exasperated glance, and began talking again. Grantaire tuned him out.

There wasn’t much to tune out. It wasn’t even five minutes before the students were packing up and filing out the door to talk and celebrate. As Grantaire stood up he felt a tap on his wrist. He turned to see Jehan’s questioning face.

“I assume you apologized?” the slight man asked.

“Yes, yes,” Grantaire said. “We set some boundaries and Cosette is holding us to them with threats of violence.”

Jehan giggled. “‘Though she be but little she is fierce!’”

“So, your tattoos…” Grantaire hedged.

Impossibly, Jehans smile grew brighter.

“You like them?”

When Grantaire nodded, Jehan took it as an invitation to roll up his sleeve and show off the ornate dragon that curled up his arm. “I designed them myself. Come by my shop if you want one,” he winked.

“May I?” Grantaire asked, hovering a hand over Jehan’s bicep.

Having gotten permission, Grantaire rotated the smaller man’s arm, marveling at the line weight and the detailed shading. One tentative question led to another, and soon the two were sitting side by side in the main room, heads bent together.

Bahorel swung by and pressed drinks into their hands, exclaiming, “Drink! Celebrate! Grantaire, tomorrow is our last day of work!”

“Maybe forever,” Grantaire grumbled, but he raised a toast all the same.

“Atta boy!” Bahorel boomed, already walking away to spread more alcoholic cheer.

Grantaire watched him offer a drink to Enjolras, which was unsurprisingly refused. Enjolras asked Bahorel a question, flicking his eyes towards Grantaire. The surprise came when Bahorel’s response seemed to leave the blond chagrined.

Jehan tapped Grantaire, startling him. He put thoughts of Enjolras out of his head as best he could and listened to Jehan explain frame geometry, but that didn’t last long.

There was a break in conversation where Courfeyrac’s voice rose above the rest, saying, “He’s so austere you’d think he was raised in an orphanage!”

Grantaire stiffened, eyes landing on the corner table where he, Combeferre, and Enjolras had spread some papers.

“I wish,” Enjolras scoffed.

Loudly, Grantaire interrupted. “No you don’t.”

Enjolras looked him in the eye and levelly said, “You’re right, I do not wish that.”

They held eye contact for a moment longer, before Grantaire looked down. When he glanced back, Enjolras was already shuffling papers on the table and underlining them deliberately.

On edge now, Grantaire wasn’t a good conversation partner, so Jehan laid a comforting hand on his forearm and asked the people at their table about their summer plans.

Soon all the students had joined, except the triumvirate, who were huddled around their table, discussing something quietly.

Grantaire was watching the furrow lines on Enjolras’ forehead deepen with increasing displeasure. He decided they needed to be included, and he really did try to pick his words carefully, to keep his tone light, but old habits die hard and he was a little bit tipsy.

"And what about you, rich boy?" he called. "Surely you're not slumming it with us common folk this summer." Enjolras' face slammed shut. Grantaire had messed this up again. He had overstepped and their fragile peace was over.

Enjolras snapped back, "There is work to be done here. I am not in the habit of slacking."

Miraculously, Grantaire kept his mouth shut this time and the argument fizzled out, but the air remained charged. People hung out for a couple more rounds, though the energy never quite recovered. Soon people were making their excuses.

When the steady streams of “goodbye!” and “see you in class tomorrow!” had faded, Grantaire looked up from his reading to see everyone gone but Enjolras putting papers in his bag and Eponine behind the counter.

When Enjolras was all packed up, instead of leaving Grantaire and Eponine alone to vent about their days, he walked up to the cynic’s table. Face unreadable, he gestured to a chair as if to say, may I?

Grantaire nodded, tense.

Enjolras sat and asked levelly, “What was that? I thought we agreed on some boundaries.”

Instead of apologizing -heh, Apollo gising- Grantaire slurred, “funny talking about boundaries with the dude whose ‘house’ is open air.” Maybe a little more than tipsy then. He wasn’t sure if he was even making sense. He hoped he wasn’t, better a drunkard than homeless. They had been celebrating… something. What was it?

Grantaire’s focus finally snapped back to Enjolras staring at him with that ‘project’ look. He immediately started spewing ideas, “You could stay in Lander Hall with Courf, ‘Ferre, and myself. If you want more privacy you could-”

There were so many words and Grantaire felt like he was drowning. He stood up.

“I am not another project for you to fix, Enjolras,” he spat. “I don’t need your pity.” Neither man registered his rare use of Enjolras’ real name.

The blond hissed back, “Can I not be concerned for a friend?”

“As if we were ever friends, Enj. I’m just useful to have around ‘cause I’m the only one who isn’t scared of you.” Grantaire didn’t notice something dimming in his opponents’ eyes as he spoke, so he was shocked at the ice in Enjolras’ tone when the man interrupted.

“You? Useful to us?” He scoffed. “You’re incapable at best, deleterious at worst. Are you even capable of being good for something?”

“I have the vague ambition to be,” Grantaire replied, genuinely wounded.

“You believe in nothing,” Enjolras shot back, “how is that useful to us?”

Flippantly, Grantaire returned, “I believe my only inheritance is the grave.” Enjolras rolled his eyes, frowning, and Grantaire tried again.

“A skeptic adhering to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors. What we lack attracts us. Nobody loves the light like the blind man.” He let out a sharp breath. “In short, I believe in you, Enj.”

Enjolras stood abruptly, asking, “Are you drunk? You do not know what you speak. Go sleep it off.”

Grantaire watched Enjolras stalk to the door. Had he just confessed?

Grantaire stood for several seconds, shocked. He was snapped out of his reverie when Eponine whistled.

“Trouble in paradise, eh?” she snarked.

“Not now, Ep,” Grantaire sighed. “I just- I can’t-” He stopped himself. “Is he disgusted?”

Eponine locked eyes with Grantaire. “If he is- fuck him, but I can’t see him being okay with his best friends being together, then just deciding it’s ‘disgusting’ directed towards him. That’s not how his brain works. Égalité and all that.”

He could see the logic, but it didn’t shut the thoughts out.

“I need a drink,” he announced.

“No,” came the quick reply.

He whined, “Eponiiiinee! Just one.”

“Why do I not believe you? Besides, you’re drunk enough already.”

“I just confessed my undying love for a man who clearly cannot stand me, I deserve to drown my sorrows just this once. And look-” he exclaimed, fishing in his pockets for his paycheck- “I’m a paying customer.”

“Fine, just the one,” she smiled grimly, dropping a pint in front of him. “Drink up.”

Grantaire really did mean to stop at one, but a steady flow of customers came in and Eponine had to attend to them, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He pinned a bill under his empty cup and walked out the door. The cold air hit him and he wondered if Enj was worth losing a year without a bender, but every time he closed his eyes he saw those cold blue eyes skewering him. He walked around the corner to the Corinthe.

He sat in the back of the warm pub, nursing a beer, then another. A man stumbled into Grantaire and he snapped at him. The other man snapped back and Grantaire raised his fist clumsily.

The manager appeared rapidly from behind the bar. Grantaire was clearly the drunker of the two, so the manager grabbed him firmly, but not roughly, by the elbow and led him to the door.

The street was cold. By this time of night everyones’ windows were shut tight. The houses were tinged blue by dim moonlight, but some doors were ringed with warm light. Grantaire felt like an unwelcome intruder just witnessing the peaceful street scene.

He wandered, looking for a seedier establishment that would serve him in his state.

It was a good way to get jumped. He was past caring.

Eventually, Grantaire walked into Montparnasse’s bar. Normally he would avoid Eponine’s old boss like the plague, but nowhere else this side of town would let him in.

He didn’t know what he drank after a certain point, just that he had run out of money and found himself blinking suddenly in the cold air.

Luckily, his bar crawl of shame had spit him out close to his car, and he stumbled there undisturbed to pass out.

Chapter Text

Grantaire awoke to a tap on his shoulder. He squinted up at Jehan, because of course Eponine sent him a babysitter.

"How'd you even find me?" he tried to snap, but the light was giving him a lobotomy and he was maybe still a little tipsy, so it came out as a whine. Grantaire didn't want to be teased and cajoled and made to feel worth Jehan's attention. He didn't want to feel better, he wanted to lay back down and wallow in the dark. Pathetic.

"I think you know how," Jehan smiled. "Now up! Let's get you going!"

"I have work." Grantaire grumbled, realizing as he said it that it was true.

"I took care of all that for you. C'mon let's enjoy your day off!"

Grantaire had a sudden realization. "Did you bribe my foreman with the insignia tattoo he's been going on about? You really didn't have to."

"Of course I did! Besides, I need the practice," Jehan lied.

"Nonsense, your symmetry is perfect and you're the best colorist this side of the Cascades," Grantaire argued. He realized the hypocrisy in not letting someone else self deprecate, but Jehan really was amazing. Jehan gave Grantaire a wicked smile, cheeks tinged pink at the compliment.

"Enough flattery, I want to take you somewhere!" Jehan's enthusiasm was contagious, and Grantaire resolved to ignore his splitting heart and enjoy the day.
____________________________________

The two walked down to Lake Union, stopping in front of a small house that looked just like the cottage Bahorel inherited a couple years ago. Grantaire raised a quizzical brow at Jehan, who tapped the side of his nose before stepping up to knock. A young man stepped out, grinning at the tattooist and wrapping him up in a hug.

“This is Feuilly,” Jehan introduced conspiratorially, “he’s our ride.”

Feuilly extended a hand for Grantaire to shake, smiling warmly. “Nice to meet you. I’m sure we’dve met sooner but I missed a few meetings for an artist’s residence.”

Grantaire nodded like he knew what that meant and shook the proffered hand.

The three stood there for a few awkward moments before Jehan nudged Grantaire and exclaimed, “First one to the car gets shotgun!” He took off towards the car, giggling, and was standing by the passenger door before Grantaire even understood what the smaller man had said.

Despite the race already having a definite winner, Grantaire started to sprint too. He aimed for Jehan and put his hands by his temples like bull horns. At the last second he turned and came to a stop at the car’s rear door. Pretending to be aloof, he crossed his arms and remarked, “I wanted the back seat anyways, more space to stretch out.”

Feuilly shook his head at their antics, but a small smile gave him away.

The three piled into the rusty car. With a growl, the car rattled to life. Suddenly Grantaire’s heart was fluttering rapidly in his throat. He swallowed a small whimper. Jehan turned to look into the backseat. Grantaire swiped a hand across his face and attempted a smile, but Jehan didn’t comment, only offered a hand.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Feuilly said, “Don’t worry, first time I got in a car I nearly wet myself. We’re perfectly safe.”

Grantaire couldn’t hold back a dark chuckle at that.

Jehan used his free hand to hit Feuilly. That meant Enjolras had told the tattooist about Grantaire’s parents. Normally Grantaire would detest the violation of his privacy, but the knowledge that someone in the car knew his situation was immensely comforting. Maybe he could throw it back at Enjolras in a meeting. If he was allowed back.

His controlled exhale turned into a shuddering sob at the thought. Jehan squeezed his hand comfortingly and he sucked in another deep breath. After a moment Grantaire pulled a smirk back to his face.

“So, where ya taking me?” he drawled.

Feuilly opened his mouth but Jehan smacked his arm again, exclaiming, “It’s a secret!”
______________________________________

They pulled onto the interstate, heading south in comfortable silence. Jehan was still curled sideways in his seat to hold Grantaire’s hand. Every so often, when Grantaire would flinch away from another car on the road or let out a choked gasp when they sped up, Jehan would squeeze his hand.

When they had almost passed Downtown, Jehan pointed suddenly, exclaiming, “Guys, look! Smith Tower!”

“Awfully hard to miss, being the fourth tallest building in the world or something,” Grantaire ribbed.

Enthusiasm undiminished, Jehan rolled his eyes at the cynic.

“Doesn’t it have a chair that makes you get married in a year?” Feuilly interjected.

“As if you need romantic help,” came the immediate response from Jehan.

Grantaire would have made himself a nuisance digging for details and teasing, but the reminder that some people’s love lives weren’t fucked -hell, that they existed at all- took more out of him than he expected. It felt so stupid to be this messed up over the rejection of a man Grantaire had always known he never stood a chance with. It was just like Grantaire to-

Apparently sensing the reason behind Grantaire’s silence, Jehan squeezed his hand again, silencing the disparaging inner monologue.

They drove for several more miles before Feuilly interrupted the now-awkward silence.

“You go to school with Jehan, right Grantaire? What are you studying?”

“A bit of everything right now. What about you?” Grantaire asked. “Actually Jehan, I don’t think I’ve seen you on campus either, what’s your major?”

“Oh, I’m not in school,” Feuilly answered with a tight smile. “Jehan’s brilliant though.”

“Please, linguistics is barely a degree,” Jehan demurred. More seriously, he added, “Intelligence isn’t dictated by degree, Feuilly.”

Silence fell upon the car again, and Grantaire fell into a fitful sleep.

______________________________________

Between one breath and the next, Grantaire woke up. Still foggy, he slowly became aware of Feuilly and Jehan’s quiet conversation. At first, he blamed the strangeness of their words on the sleep still clouding his senses, but it was quickly clear it wasn’t English. Show offs.

Jehan paused abruptly to look at the man in the backseat.

“Welcome back,” Feuilly said with a glance at the rearview mirror.

“Great, I can have my hand back?” Jehan asked. “It’s falling asleep.”

Embarrassed, Grantaire argued, “You could have dropped it while I was out.”

“If you weren’t so clingy, maybe,” Jehan teased.

Grantaire hid his flush with a stretch and looked around.

Something hit him almost immediately and he asked, “Jeez, what's that smell?”

“The infamous Tacoma paper mills,” Feuilly said, wrinkling his nose.

“Tacoma?” That was further than Grantaire thought they were going to go. “I’m sure there are secluded places to dump my body closer to home,” he teased.

Feuilly frowned, but Jehan just rolled his eyes and quipped, “And miles to go, Grantaire.”

At this, Feuilly relaxed. “It’d be a good deal shorter if they didn’t reject that bridge proposal a few years back.”

“I knooow!” Jehan complained. “What kind of reason is ‘not trying hard enough to find funding’?”

His impersonation was complete with upright posture and the straightening of an imaginary tie.

While the town was heralded by a foul odor, it took another couple minutes to reach the iconic massive American flag that marked the outskirts of Tacoma.

The buildings became more and more frequent until they were in the middle of the city.

On their right was the harbor, busy with workers.

“Hopefully that hustle and bustle is gone tomorrow,” remarked Feuilly.

Jehan hummed an agreement.

On their left, a stately building appeared. Its sheer size made it feel two dimensional. The banner across the main arch read, ‘United States Courthouse.’ Under the banner was a large window with stained glass poppies scattered across it.

In a flash it was behind them.

“Who are you racing, Feuilly? The road’s empty,” Grantaire teased.

“Maybe I’m practicing,” he responded with a cheeky grin in the rearview. “Daytona’s only across the country, not across the ocean like France.”

“Yeah but Florida.” Jehan wrinkled his nose.

The car filled with raucous laughter and jokes at Florida’s expense that didn’t abate until almost Olympia.

They quieted to watch the capitol building come into view.

Grantaire preferred to draw people, but oh was this a building. Tall and stately, it was almost enough to persuade Grantaire of Enjolras’ lofty ideals. Almost.

“I’ll never get over how big it is,” Jehan murmured with uncharacteristic gravitas.

After a pause, Grantaire couldn’t hold it in. “That’s what she said,” he blurted.

The comment earned an amused snort from Feuilly and a musical chuckle from Jehan, but the mood remained comfortably subdued.

As they left the city behind them, the buildings thinned out, replaced by grasses and wildflowers that led up a slight hill to towering pines. The impressive evergreens were interspersed with oaks and maples boasting soft new spring leaves. Every so often they would pass a section of exposed rock that towered above the road.

“Look at that yellow flower bush!” Feuilly exclaimed.

Lacking his usual enthusiasm for wildlife, Jehan scowled. “That’s scotch broom. It’s wildly invasive, which is such a shame because that yellow is so lovely.”

“Oh,” was all Feuilly had to say in response. “Shame.”

They lapsed back into silence, broken when Jehan quietly started naming the plants they passed. “Douglas fir… Sword fern… Oregon grape… Silver fir… Horsetail… Oh! We must be close to the canal!”

“15 miles to Union City,” Feuilly confirmed.

“Union City? If I had known you guys were dragging me out to convince me of Enjolras’ stupid plan, I wouldn’t have come.”

That drew a more full bodied laugh from Jehan. “That’s just the name of the town. No politics today; I promise.”

________________________

Shortly after they had left the sleepy little logging town behind, they turned onto a smaller dirt lane.

They trundled along, Feuilly wincing at every stone they kicked into his car’s undercarriage. After around half a mile, they were confronted by what Grantaire assumed to be an Asiatic gate. It read, in a curling novelty font, 'Olympus Manor'.

Feuilly pulled the car to the side of the path and turned it off with a rumble. The trio got out, grimacing and rubbing their stiff limbs.

“Lotta good the back seat did for your legs,” Jehan teased. “You’re just as sore as the two of us!”

Grantaire made a good natured swipe at Jehan’s hair, trying to ruffle it, but he ducked quickly out of the way.

Looking around for the first time, Grantaire could see the edge of a cabin’s roof behind the trees. Through the gate was a large lawn.

“It looks nice?” he ventured.

Feuilly scoffed. “All you’ve seen is this god awful gate, hold your judgment.” He kicked the gate as they went through, and a patch of scuff marks hinted at a habit. “I mean- who puts a dugout canoe on top of a Torii? It’s disrespectful to both- Sorry, no politics.”

Grantaire was honestly interested, especially by the uncharacteristic fervor that Feuilly displayed, but Jehan’s long suffering face convinced him not to dig up the clearly well-worn topic.

Walking down onto the grounds, Grantaire had to agree. The gate paled in comparison to the expansive lawn that sloped to the canal. The pale spring sun was just peeking through the clouds, lighting on the dew that had managed to survive until midday in the shade of the tall trees that ringed the estate. The day promised to turn gorgeous in just a few hours, and Grantaire wondered if he could convince Jehan to swim with him.

The three men bypassed the cabin and followed the path a short way to a sprawling mansion. The right side was obscured under a scaffold, but what was visible was an eclectic mix of styles. Behind the house Grantaire could just make out a garden.

Feuilly slid aside a low wooden door, and they were admitted to a spacious hall.

The echo of their steps was suddenly interrupted by a jovial voice. “Look what the cat dragged in! Feuilly, I can’t believe you managed to find Jehan, we all thought he was dead!” The man that the voice issued from was sprawled untidily on one of the benches that framed the hall. Despite the harsh words, his tone was friendly. “Anyone want a joint? Freshly rolled.”

Jehan’s reply was a breezy, “Not today Fauchelevent, we have lots to do,” but the way his eyes flicked to Grantaire gave him away.

The concern might have been touching but today it rankled. He wasn’t some damsel about to shatter. Jehan didn’t need to walk on eggshells around him. Grantaire was about to snap that when he realized it would be proving him right. He took a breath instead.

Suddenly, Fauchelevent’s eyes turned to Grantaire. “A new face!” he exclaimed. “An artist too? Or just a poor soul this lot dragged in?”

Self-conscious, Grantaire mumbled, “I just dabble.”

Fauchelevent, closer now, tilted an ear towrds Grantaire, “Sorry, boy. My ears aren’t what they were. What was that again?”

Jehan jumped in. “He’s a great artist, but he’s too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Oh I see,” Fauchelevent winked.

Grantaire wondered if the old man had heard perfectly the first time.

Deciding that was far too much about himself, Grantaire asked, “What about you? Artist or prisoner?”

“Willing prisoner,” Fauchelevent supplied cryptically. “I was in a dock accident and only survived because some Canadian tourist freed me in time. I’m pretty useless for the docks now, but Mr. Nobles keeps me around to fuss with the grounds.”

In a stage whisper Jehan added, “He says he’s not an artist, but you should see the flowers in the back lawn.”

Fauchelevent waved a hand to dismiss the compliment, the motion at odds with his proud smile.

“Well, I won’t be keepin’ you fine lads,” he said, already ambling away.

Jehan led Grantaire on a spirited tour of the expansive mansion. Feuilly had excused himself halfway through when they reached his workshop. The room was lit by large windows, and fabric littered every surface, even hanging from the tall ceiling. Paper screened dividers made each workbench feel like its own little world.

Each room was more magical than the last. They were all stuffed with bright little knick knacks from places Grantaire had never even heard of. The music room had rugs across the two levels of its floor and plants in every corner. There were rocking chairs strewn across the floor. Surrounding the organ were marble statues and a tiled dome in the ceiling covered the piano.

Though that was a room Grantaire would have happily stayed in for the rest of his life, Jehan soon dragged him out by the hand, whispering, “Come with me, I think you’ll like this next room.”

The room had two lanterns hanging from the ceiling, but they weren’t lit. Instead the space was illuminated by the low windows that circled two sides. It had the same rugs covering every inch of the floor, and easels were angled around a low couch. All of the canvases had been temporarily abandoned in various states of completion, but Grantaire marveled at how the loose brushstrokes conveyed motion and light. Each showed the subject slightly different. Grantaire’s favorite caught the model with a gap-toothed smile.

His eyes were drawn to the picture covered wall behind the couch. Some were photos, some were charcoal, but most were ink.

Involuntarily, Grantaire let out a soft gasp.

He turned to Jehan, hands flexing in an attempt to express the words lodged in his throat. “The line weight- and hatching- I”

“Oh, so he’s a scholar.” Jehan teased.

Ready to retort, Grantaire was suddenly distracted by a piece hung discreetly in the corner. It sat right at eye height, and the way the afternoon light streamed into the room, it was illuminated in a beam of liquid gold. He couldn’t help but think of fate.

The image was lovely, all spires and gothic windows, but what blew Grantaire away was the detailed linework. The clouds were implied with loose feathering. The shingles were a mass of dense dashes. Walls were shaded with long vertical lines that blended into crosshatched shadows. The range of values the artist had achieved with just ink was incredible.

Between this and the capitol building, Grantaire was going to have to start sketching buildings.

Jehan interrupted Grantaire’s reverie. “I have a customer I have to meet today, but you can stay here.”

“Nah, I’ll come with,” Grantaire responded. “I’ll probably get lost without you.”

They climbed a graceful staircase to the smaller second floor.

Immediately, Grantaire could tell which studio was Jehan’s. The door frame was painted with intricate flowers and the door itself was propped open by a dusty stack of books.

There was already someone inside. Jehan’s customer, presumably.

For the first time that day, Jehan abandoned Grantaire’s side to talk to the wiry man.

Grantaire assumed he was free to poke around in this room too.

Two walls were lined with shelves of ink bottles. They gleamed in jewel tones, bathed as they were in sunlight from the large windows opposite the door. Against this wall was a table covered in designs. Leaned against the short wall closest to the door was a tall, ornate mirror surrounded by plants. Grantaire was sure the sturdy pots were made by someone there. Hung above it were several framed designs and an older tattoo gun with pretty brass fittings. A modern steel model sat on the stand beside the bench in the middle of the room.

It was this bench that the customer was sitting on. Jehan pulled a chair from the desk, grabbing one of the sheets on it as he did.

Grantaire crept closer to discover that it was a floral design, inked in loose, fluid lines. What really made the drawing stand out was a delicate wash of colors over the petals. They were all different combinations, but all of them had a precise gradient from their center to the tips of the petals.

With a start, Grantaire realized Jehan was talking.

“-you want to sit and sketch at my desk? I imagine Francis would like a little privacy.” As a kindness, he added, “It will be slow going, and you would likely get bored.”

Embarrassed, Grantaire shuffled to the desk and sprawled across the chair Jehan hadn’t taken.

There were blank sheets in amongst Jehan’s sketches. Grantaire pulled one towards himself and grabbed Jehan’s pen from its stand.

After testing the flex of the nib and the wetness of the ink, he made a long line across the paper. It was slightly curved, with a hook at the end. Several shorter hooks beside it filled out a tail.
______________________________________

Several hours later, as Grantaire inked the last thick lines of the beak, he heard Jehan take a deep breath.

He turned to see the tattooist put the gun down and shake his wrist.

“You did great, Francis,” he smiled. “You can go to the mirror and take a look.”

Gingerly, Francis stood to inspect Jehan’s work. As he did, Grantaire caught a glance.

It was beautiful. The stems followed the lines of the man’s shoulder elegantly. When his muscles flexed, they looked like they were dancing in a gentle breeze.

Francis must have agreed with Grantaire, because he broke into a bright grin when he got to the mirror. After watching it move for several minutes, he strode over to Jehan and kissed the shorter man firmly on the cheek.

“You never disappoint,” he said, still grinning.

“And you never pay,” Jehan teased.

Francis slung his shirt casually over his shoulder and ambled out the door, throwing a wink behind him before he vanished out the door.

He was replaced by Feuilly, who immediately started talking.

“It’s pretty late. There’s some rooms free tonight if you don’t have anywhere to be.”

Grantaire hadn’t noticed the sun slipping behind the trees, but the room was much duskier than when they had arrived.

“I’m fine to stay, but I didn’t cover Grantaire’s work,” Jehan replied.

Grantaire waved a hand. “It’s the strike anyways.”

When Jehan turned to look at Grantaire, the look of surprise on his face hurt.

“Any excuse not to work,” Grantaire smirked.

Jehan saw through the weak mask.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed,” he apologized.

Grantaire waved a dismissive hand as he disentangled himself from his chair.

Feuilly gave an uncomfortable smile and vanished again, calling “Since I don’t have to drive, I’m gonna take Fauchelevent up on that joint. You know the way?”

“Yeah,” Jehan called back.
_____________________________________

Once they had claimed adjacent mattresses, Grantaire stopped and whispered "Did Ep tell you why I...?"

Jehan interrupted him with a fierce hug and murmured, “Yeah. Don't worry hon, I'm sure he didn't mean it.”

Grantaire wasn't convinced. "Have you ever heard Enj say something he didn't mean?"

The other man just squeezed him tighter. "That doesn't mean he's never wrong. Enj is smart, he'll come around."

Ever the cynic, Grantaire made a noncommittal noise and buried his face into Jehan's narrow shoulder.

Chapter Text

Grantaire groaned and rubbed at his gritty eyes. He rolled over, careful to avoid the loose seat spring.

Wait.

He sat up. He was met with morning sunshine from the thin windows that lined the top of the room. Ah, yes; a room. Curse his internal clock - waking him up the one time his day was completely free.

Jehan was curled in the mattress next to Grantaire’s. Imagine not taking every chance to sleep stretched all the way out. Such privilege, Grantaire snarked internally. He heaved a melodramatic sigh that disturbed the cool basement air.

Jehan stirred and Grantaire froze until the other man’s breath evened out.

It turned out his caution was for naught, because not a moment later Feuilly clattered down the steps. Jehan pulled his blanket over his head, but Feuilly plucked it back off.

“Up ‘n Adam!” he crowed. “We’ve gotta leave now to be sure we can make today’s meeting!”

“What time is it?” Jehan yawned.

“9 o’clock, last I checked.”

The sleepy tattooist let his eyes fall shut again. “We have loads of time, even if traffic is horrid.”

“Don’t you wanna change and get cleaned up before the meeting?” Feuilly wheedled.

Jehan sighed deeply, but sat up.

“Let’s roll!” Feuilly exclaimed, far too chipper for the -admittedly not so early- hour.
______________________________________

It didn’t take long for Jehan to recover his joie de vivre and leave Grantaire the odd man out. He was still massaging the sleep from his eyes while Jehan and Feuilly bid farewell to Fauchelevent.

Grantaire did manage to perk up when the three snuck into the garden to pluck breakfast apples straight from the tree.

High on the rush of their minor theft, they piled, giggling, into Feuilly’s car.

Around a crisp, juicy mouthful, Grantaire asked, “If this is Olympus Manor, which gods are you?”

Promptly, Jehan answered, “I would want to be Athena; she’s smart, dangerous, and artsy.”

“You’ve already thought about this,” Feuilly teased.

“As if you haven’t,” retorted Jehan.

“Fair enough,” Feuilly laughed. “I like the thought of being Hephaestus.”

“What about you?” Jehan asked, turning expectantly to Grantaire. “And don’t you dare say Dionysus.”

“Fine,” Grantaire faux-pouted. “Melpomene.”

“The muse of tragedy.” Jehan rolled his eyes. “You can have Dionysus then.”

Grantaire adopted a serious expression, “He is the god of fruit.”

Feuilly snorted so hard the car swerved slightly, and Grantaire found that it didn’t bother him as much as it would have just a day before.

The road was uncharacteristically empty for the time of day. The port was similarly deserted, prompting cheers from Feuilly and Jehan.

In the backseat, Grantaire smiled. Today was not the day he would see Enjolras’ fire extinguished.
______________________________________

It was slowing down on the exit ramp that woke Grantaire.

He opened his eyes to low brick buildings, stained sidewalks, and crowded shop windows.

“I don’t remember this on the way to your place, Feuilly?” he asked.

It was Jehan who answered. “We’re going to mine.”

They pulled to the curb by another rusty brick building. Where many of the others had storefronts on the first floor, this one had little windows on every level.

Feuilly pulled away again with a wave, probably headed to his own home.

The chipped red door on the tenement was recessed, and the hallway beyond smelled faintly of urine. The staircase had an elegantly curved bannister that was too grandiose for its faded, shallow steps.

Grantaire kind of loved it.

The steps creaked as they ascended to the third floor. Jehan plucked his keys from his pocket while gesturing to the end of the hall.

“Shower’s over there; it sounds open if you want to go first.”

“It’s your place,” Grantaire demurred, desperate to delay the discomfort of being naked in an unfamiliar building.

“That it is,” Jehan remarked, unlocking the door with a muted click and swinging it open.

The room was not large by any measure, but its decoration made it cozy. Like in Olympus Manor, there were rugs, plants, and knicknacks strewn comfortably over every surface, though these were much less exotic.

The sunlight streaming through the window made the place feel larger, though perhaps a little stuffy. Jehan crossed the room and opened it, admitting a lazy breeze.
He turned towards the adjoining room that could only be where he slept.

“Would you put some tea on?” he called. “Everything you need is in the cupboard and the tap water is potable once boiled.”

Obediently, Grantaire opened the cupboard. He was surprised by the variety of tea that Jehan stored there. Spoiled by choice, he pored over the labels, selecting one that promised ‘notes of cacao and fig.’

Jehan’s teapot was predictably gorgeous. Large, with an elegant handle and spout. Grantaire wondered, as he set it on the stove, whether the delicate blue designs were ones Jehan had designed.

While the water heated, Grantaire poked around the room. From Jehan’s window he could peer over a building and between two more to glimpse a sliver of water. He was contemplating the glinting waves when a tap on his shoulder startled him.

“The shower’s open,” Jehan smiled.

Nodding, Grantaire moved to enter the hallway, but Jehan started as though a thought had occurred to him.

“Would you prefer clean clothes?”

“It’s no trouble,” Grantaire said, again starting towards the door.

“Nonsense, at least let me lend you a shirt if you are uncomfortable wearing my pants.”

“Me? Uncomfortable?” Grantaire scoffed. “I just meant your clothes are too small for a giant like me.”

“I’m sure I can find something, and if you make an argument about staining it with drink, I’m telling Eponine.”

Grantaire acquiesced, filled with a healthy fear of his oldest friend, and maybe some of his new friend.

The tattooist led them into his bedroom, which was just as homely as the other room.

At the foot of the bed rested a solid dresser. Jehan pulled open the middle drawer to reveal stacks of soft shirts. After rummaging for a moment, he pulled out a shirt that was indeed bigger than the rest. As he held it up to Grantaire, Grantaire admired the pale salmon color, so divorced from his usual, boring, white.

Jehan closed the drawer with his shin, simultaneously shuffling through the top drawer for a shirt collar.

“I think I lost the matching collar, sorry. Is white fine?”

Grantaire nodded assent as he accepted the clothes and a towel.

He walked to the end of the hall, where he toed off his beleaguered shoes. The tile was cold on his feet, despite the warmth left in the air from Jehan’s shower. He undressed and let the water run over him, as hot as he could stand.

Hot showers were a luxury he couldn’t usually afford. While most public showers were free, the lines were always long enough that the hot water ran out before Grantaire even got inside. That wasn’t even considering the politics in sharing such a vulnerable space with strangers. Overall an unpleasant experience and one Grantaire didn’t suffer often.

This shower was nothing like that; it was over far too soon.

Still making the most of his solitude, Grantaire hummed as he got dressed.

He forewent his sweaty undershirt, thinking, if Hollywood is doing it. The shirt that Jehan had lent him was tighter across the shoulders than he would prefer, but not uncomfortable. He slipped back on his ratty brown coat, the wrinkled wool at odds with the fresh shirt.

Water dripped down his back from his unruly mop of hair as he walked back to Jehan’s apartment.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by a steaming mug on the counter. He wrapped his hands around it, cursing softly at the heat when he took a sip.

Jehan heard, and peeked in the window from where he had been hidden on the fire escape. He beckoned for Grantaire to join him.

When they were settled together on the iron rungs, Jehan remarked idly, “Y’know, it was this fire escape that convinced me to rent here. I’m probably not allowed on it, and it’s kind of rickety, but I’ve always liked fire escapes. We always lived on the ground floor when I was little, and being all the way up there surrounded by air seemed like flying.”

“Excelsior,” Grantaire responded simply.

Jehan smiled at him, and the two finished their cups in silence.
_____________________________________

The sidewalk was warm through the thin soles of Grantaire’s shoes. Jehan checked his watch and grimaced.

“I don’t think we can make it on time if we walk.”

Grantaire flapped a hand. “We can be late, it’s fine. They’d only miss one of us at least.”

“Where is your sense of fun,” Jehan griped. And your self worth, he did not say. “We can take the streetcar.”

The station nearest to Jehan’s tenement had been closed due to cost cuts, so the two walked several blocks, soaking in the sunshine.

They arrived at the station at the same time as the streetcar. Jehan pulled two nickels from his pocket, cutting off Grantaire’s spiral about how he would pay and replacing it with guilt.

He knew better than to argue with Jehan by now, but the black hole in his stomach screamed that he didn’t need to be babysat.

He took a deep breath.

Friends take care of each other. Favors don’t mean pity. A streetcar fare is pretty small, and Grantaire could try to pay Jehan back later if he still felt bad.

They boarded the streetcar, which despite being open air, was an oven.

Jehan led them to the very last row of seats. Grantaire was grateful for the crossbreeze, but Jehan was clearly more motivated by the opportunity to people-watch.

Grantaire, too, turned his eye to the other passengers. It was too late for workers on their lunch breaks, so the car was filled sparsely with eclectic characters. There was a trio of students, all bent over a newspaper, laughing together at the adverts. A businessman in an expensive suit was twisting his fingers together unconsciously, knuckles white. Two well dressed people, around the same age as the students were riding the streetcar for the thrill. They could have been siblings except for the way she kept touching his forearm as they watched the other passengers.

Grantaire’s fingers itched for a pen, eager to capture the moment they were all sharing but experiencing so differently. He had been wanting to draw more and more often since meeting Cosette and the rest. It wasn’t just Enjolras’ stupid, perfect face- though that wasn’t an insignificant part. They had reopened his eyes to the lives of others.

“Why do you think that man is nervous?” Jehan whispered.

“Maybe he left the stove on,” joked Grantaire.

“Wait he’s twisting a wedding ring,” Jehan noted. “I bet he didn’t get the promotion and is figuring out how to tell his wife.”

“Well he’s out pretty early. Either he got the boot or his wife is in labor or something.” Grantaire laughed loudly, eliciting a raised eyebrow from the posh woman. “I can’t believe I got to the sentimentalist take before you.”

“I was getting around to it.”

The brakes squealed as they reached a station.

Jehan stood, exclaiming, “This is our stop!”

The Musain was on the other side of campus from where they got off, so they cut through the quad. In the shadows of the grand stone buildings, dew still clung to the grass, soaking Grantaire’s socks.

Rounding the art building, the water came into view. So did the Musain, the sounds of merriment leaking from the windows despite the early hour. Stepping inside, it was clear that the longshoremen were making the most of their free day.

Grantaire wove his way through the crowd to the back room, Jehan in tow.

The mood there was very different.

“There you guys are!” Combeferre rounded on them, a manic glint in his eye. “While you were off on vacation and-” he frowned- “trading clothes? The rest of us have been working.”

Courfeyrac appeared beside him to rub calming circles on his back. “Breathe.”

Bahorel rushed past with wide eyes. “Help,” he mouthed.

Enjolras looked up from his papers to frown at the latecomers, but his expression flickered when he met Grantaire’s eye. Resolutely, he took over for Combeferre.

“As you know, we have been planning a picket. Our organization, alongside that of the ILA, had been going well until Mayor Smith enlisted the national guard to oversee our demonstration. Currently, our job is communications, trying to ensure everyone is informed so it remains peaceful. There is a list of smaller organizations over there. We could use your language skills in contacting them, Jehan.”

Grantaire tried not to let the unspoken dismissal sting. Of course he couldn’t help them; his only skills were drawing and drinking.

To Courfeyrac, Enjolras added, “Have you found laws we can use to decry the mayor’s use of force?”

Courfeyrac, again seated at the table, didn’t even bother looking up as he shook his head.

Beside him, Marius opened his mouth only to deflate a moment later with a “Nope.”

Grantaire wondered if it was too late to slip back out for a drink.

Apparently Cosette noticed him floundering. She patted the spot next to her, throwing a life ring to a drowning man.

When he was settled she asked, “Did you and Jehan have fun?”

  Did she know?

“Yeah, Feuilly took us both to this art place.”

“Oh, Olympus Manor? I’ve been meaning to visit, but my father doesn’t want me so far from home.”

“Overprotective?”

Cosette looked startled, as though she had forgotten he was there.

“I suppose,” she shrugged. “We should get back to work. I think Enjolras is giving us the stink eye from over there.”

When Grantaire looked up, Enjolras blinked and fixed his intense stare back at his work. Huh. Since when did Enjolras break first?

“Does ‘to whom it may concern’ sound too stiff?” Cosette asked, breaking him from his reverie.

“Mmm, yeah,” Grantaire hummed. “Maybe stick to the classics.”

He barely saw her write ‘dear’ in her curling font, too busy watching Enjolras through his eyelashes. Their leader looked more tense than usual. His lips were bitten and his hair was falling out of the tie at the nape of his neck.

Enjolras’ eyes flickered to Grantaire. Finding himself watched, he flushed -flushed- and looked away, biting his lip so hard it left another angry red mark. Grantaire wanted to kiss it better.

Fuck. Thinking like that would only hurt him.

“-get a stamp for me, Grantaire?”

Cosette had finished copying the template Courfeyrac typed up for the group and was looking at him expectantly.

When he stood to do so, Enjolras blanched. Normally pale, the panic in his expression made him look almost ill.

Grantaire shouldn’t have the power to make an angel discomfited. Was how he was so unnatural?

Stamp clutched in his hand, Grantaire braved the aisle by Enjolras’ table again.

This time he didn’t make it undisturbed.

“I like your shirt,” Enjolras said. He was measured and calm now, simply gauging the response.

“Thanks,” said Grantaire’s mouth.

  What does he mean? Is the pink shirt too queer? It’s Jehan’s though, not mine, and he didn’t- Oh… Have I implicated Jehan?

He sat numbly.

Cosette, bless her, didn’t say anything. She just peeled the stamp from his hand and stuck it to her envelope. She handed the envelope to Feuilly because she couldn’t pass it to the pile with one hand still on Grantaire’s.

He appreciated the ‘grounding’ as her professor called it. Focusing on the pale crescent of her nails helped shut out his thoughts, if not the rushing anxiety beneath them.

Across the room, Courfeyrac let his head hit the table with a thunk.

“What are we even doing here?” he whined. “We should be celebrating out there, not stuck in this little room in 100 degree weather.”

“Hear, hear,” Bahorel seconded.

Joly bustled up. “Not giving ourselves concussions, that’s what we’re doing.”

Courfeyrac dodged the fussing hands of the doctor.

“Really though Enj. We’re not going to find any laws to stop this abuse of power, and all the other orgs are as warned as they’re going to be. They got the same heads up as we did. What’s going on?”

Enjolras ignored the question, merely waving a lazy hand towards the door.

Combeferre reached under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

As the other students filed out the door he said, “You could have stress-worked in the dorm. What was so important you had to drag it to the meeting? Courf is right, we should have been celebrating.”

That was the last part of their conversation Grantaire heard. If Enjolras replied, it was lost in the din of the bar.

Bahorel dragged them and some longshoremen into doing the Lindy Hop. Most of the people in the bar were already tipsy or even sloppy drunk, so Grantaire threw his two left feet into the mass of bodies and tried not to think about the disgust in Enjolras’ face.

Chapter Text

Grantaire woke up with a start, sure the sunlight streaming into his car meant he was late for work.

A moment later, he relaxed. Going to school the last couple days had lulled him back into his routine, but it was still the strike.

He contemplated relishing the lazy morning by sleeping in, but there was a picket that afternoon, and the students needed some humor to relieve them of the triumvirate’s anxious preparation.

Grantaire pulled on a fresh shirt. As an afterthought, he grabbed Jehan’s shirt. He should return it.

The feel of the fabric under his fingers, slightly finer woven than his own, wasn’t enough to distract him from the sinking feeling that the shirt gave him.

Enjolras would surely be at the picket, spearheading the operation as their glorious leader. Grantaire would be there, distracting the group and no doubt earning the blond man’s ire.

While that was the norm for the pair, Grantaire wasn’t thrilled that Enjolras’ knowledge of his… attractions… might lead to other realizations. Most of the students were aware of Grantaire’s desperate bids for their leader’s attention, Enjolras thankfully didn’t know that reason for their fights.

What’s done was done. Grantaire hated to admit any hope for their cause, but who didn’t want to be part of history?

He scrubbed a hand down his face, scratching himself on the scruff that lined his jaw. At this point, it was more like a patchy beard than the stubble he usually sported.

Walking down to the dock was probably still his best bet. The early risers would no doubt have left The Musain already, and- judging by the sun- even strikers might be gathering by now.

He pulled himself out of his car and set off.
_________________________________________

As predicted, there was already quite a crowd amassed in the dockyard. From the hill he was on, Grantaire could tell that none were actually on the docks. They were penned in by a long line of Seattle police and state troopers. At the end of pier 41, a small steamer bustled with people. Scabs, most likely, or an unlucky passenger ship from Canada.

Even from this distance, he could see the students huddled around Enjolras, who appeared to be standing on an honest-to-god soap box.

Getting closer, Grantaire saw that it was, inexplicably, a carrot box. He was answering questions from the strikers milling about.

Despite the details, the overall scene was downright revolutionary.

Perched on his box, Enjolras looked like a general addressing his soldiers.

Overly aware of his own bedraggled state, Grantaire asked his own sarcastic question. “Do you take time out of your busy schedule to shave or can you just not grow a beard?”

Several of the students nearby stiffened, but some of the longshoremen chuckled. One of Grantaire’s co-workers clapped him on the shoulder.

“Keep your sharp tongue away from the lad, I don’t think he can handle it.”

Eager not to be undermined, Enjolras retorted, “I can handle Grantaire’s tongue just fine.”

A moment later, alerted to what he said by scattered chuckles and Grantaire’s equally sharp eyebrow, he flushed an impressive shade of scarlet across his cheekbones and ears.

Turning abruptly to the students, he called, “I would love to wait for more strikers to show up, but with the charged atmosphere, too much undirected energy may prove disastrous. Let us take our positions along the front line.”

Grantaire opened his mouth, about to ask where he should go, when Enjolras turned directly to him.

“You’re with me.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Did Enjolras really trust him so little?

His spiral was interrupted by that same co-worker.

“Enjoy your position with that one.”

It was Grantaire’s turn to blush. Was he so transparent?

Yes, supplied his worst thoughts as he followed Enjolras to the front of the crowd.

They ended up opposite a rough man, slightly older than them. He had pouty lips and mean blue eyes, so different from Enjolras’. Enjolras’ gaze gave the impression of keen intellect; sharp, like a fencer sizing up an opponent. This man’s eyes were sizing up a piece of meat. Not calculating how to make a point; calculating how to inflict pain.

"An' wha's a pretty little flower like you gon' do?" the policeman sneered.

Enjolras, incensed, threw out a retort Grantaire had received many times, "It's not what I will do, it's what the people will do. A cause is more than any one man."

The muttered response- "Posh pansy-" and accompanying sneer was just about what Grantaire was expecting from a man like that, but Enjolras stiffened. The guard was opening his mouth to unleash another snide remark when Enj lunged forward, snarling.

On instinct, Grantaire grabbed his wrist to hold him back, loudly declaring, "I believe in our strike as much as the next man, but some people are beyond reasoning with. Don't waste your time Apollo." Enjolras turned to look at him, confused. Grantaire was never the one advocating peace. "We don't want to be the ones that instigate violence," he added in an undertone, which seemed to convince the blond man.

They were just stepping back in line when someone in the crowd shouted, "Let's give it to them!" and a gunshot split the morning air.

All hell broke loose. The crowd started to move at the same moment, some fleeing the violence, some seizing the opportunity to break the line. Enjolras sprinted towards the dock, Grantaire still hanging from his wrist.

Only a small portion of the 600 picketers gathered actually made it onto the dock, but they were determined to cause chaos. They began grabbing crates and shouting abuse at the strikebreakers. Some of the scabs shouted back.

A man Grantaire worked with, Claquesous, was getting in Enjolras face, and without hesitation Enj used his free hand to punch the ex-prisoner, who fell back with surprising ease. Grantaire must have squeezed his fingers, still clamped around the other man’s wrist, in shock, because Enjolras turned, as though confused that Grantaire was still there.

The blond man twisted his wrist as though to dislodge the hand on him. Grantaire, dismayed, started to let his hand drop but instead long fingers twisted through his own.

They navigated the fray linked like that, disrupting the ship’s departure as best they could, but order was quickly restored.

An officer had seen Enjolras hit Claquesous, and cuffed his hands behind his back. The officer had looked askance at Grantaire, standing staunchly beside the other man and offering his wrists, but Grantaire had insisted.

“I’m with him,” he demanded- almost begged- and he soon found himself handcuffed beside his Apollo.

The dozen or so men who hadn't managed to evade capture were told they would be taken to the station and put in cells to 'cool down,' though they were informed that they wouldn't be processed. The news did nothing to calm Enjolras' foul mood. He was fuming, eyes fiery, barely taking in his surroundings.

They were herded into a van to be transported, and Grantaire was sure he should be scared, but he couldn’t bring himself to be anything but happy, shoulder pressed against Enjolras’.
_____________________________________

Joly and Bossuet tumbled into The Musain, arm in arm and pink-faced, closely followed by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, laughing breathlessly.

They interrupted a morose scene; Marius staring blankly into a candle on his table, half finished drink in hand and Musichetta mechanically cleaning a spotless glass behind the bar. On seeing them, she ran to give them her boys a big hug and pepper them with threats of what she’d do if she had to bail them out again.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac sidestepped the happy reunion to sit with an almost tearfully relieved Marius.

“You guys!” he whined. “I thought I was gonna have to tell Cosette I got you guys arrested!”

“It wouldn’t have been your fault if we were in jail.” Courfeyrac comforted, patting him on the back.

Combeferre cut to the chase, “No one else is back yet?”

Marius shook his head mutely.

“I think I saw Enj charge forward after the shot with R in tow, and Bahorel could be out until midnight, you know how he loves this stuff,” Courfyrac offered.

“With Grantaire?” Combeferre questioned, the two exchanging a meaningful glance that flew right over Marius’ head.

With at least a guess of where everyone was, Marius perked up a little, but he put his head back in his hands when his two companions made plans to go to the station in an hour if their friends didn’t show up.
______________________________________

Enjolras and Grantaire were thrown in a holding cell alongside the rest of the detainees.

It was a familiar scene for Grantaire.

In the drunk tank surrounded by sweaty men, the cold bench pulling him down against it. His only company the concrete patterns on the ceiling. Except this time-

Enjolras turned to Grantaire suddenly. “I may have underestimated your use. Having a devil’s advocate at meetings has been helpful.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Thanks...?”

The blond man huffed a sigh, disturbing a lock of hair. Grantaire was struck with a sudden urge to tuck it away, but he controlled himself, trying to look as though the man’s words had no effect on him.

“What I mean is, I am sorry for saying you have no use. I have treated you unfairly and I do not know why you chose to come to this protest. You were right, we did get arrested for nothing.”

“Not for nothing.” Their reversed roles had him on the backfoot. How does the cynic comfort the revolutionary? “You proved me wrong; the strikers are motivated by more than laziness. They can be rallied. And I meant what I said- I believe in you.”

There was something in Enjolras’ eyes beyond the cold disdain or passionate fire Grantaire was used to. Something softer. Maybe he actually did get punched in the head during the fray.

“What day is it today?” Grantaire asked.

“It is the 30th of June, 1934. I am not concussed.”

Enjolras’ face did something complicated. He hadn’t looked this consternated since the first time he had apologized to Grantaire. Maybe he was allergic to apologies?

“I am trying to say-”

Grantaire interrupted him desperately. “You’re trying to say?”

“Christ, why are you so difficult?” Enjolras snapped. They were safely back in familiar territory. “I am being serious.”

“I am wild,” Grantaire smirked.

“Just listen, for once in your life,” begged Enjolras.

It was his tone that stopped Grantaire. The crack in his marble facade.

“I admit that I found you… aggravating… at first, but I realize I misjudged you. We have both been acting out instead of addressing our emotions.” He studied his hands. “I like you, and I believe that you like me too. Dancing around that fact will only hurt us.”

“Enjolras!” Grantaire whisper-shouted.

Enjolras’ head whipped up. He almost looked like a kicked puppy, which was hilarious on his features. Grantaire would have laughed if there weren’t more pressing issues.

“This is a public jail!” he continued. “This is not the place for sensitive confessions! We would receive no help if someone overheard. They only need the slightest reason to keep us here.”

Crestfallen was not a word that Grantaire would ever have used for Enjolras, but it fit now.

He plowed forward hysterically. “And a jail is not romantic! Did I say I like you too yet? I really like you.”

Instantly, Enjolras regained a little of his impressive composure. “I know you do.”

“Is it too late to take it back?” Grantaire ribbed.

He was rewarded with a fond little scoff that nearly undid him. Kindness had seemed too much to ask for just a day ago.

“This will take work. We don’t exactly have a history of peaceful coexistence.”

Grantaire mimed zipping his lips. “That is a post-bail conversation.”

Enjolras hummed. “What, then, is a jail worthy conversation? Oh- I have been meaning to ask, may I have the drawing of me that was mixed into your flier designs?”

“Anything, Apollo,” Grantaire promised with a saccharine smile.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Could I not be Athena?”

“Ooh, I think Jehan already called her. You two might have to fight.”

The mundane bickering was nice, actually. Really nice.

Grantaire let his smile slip to a more genuine one and Enjolras poked his cheek, also smiling.
_____________________________________

Courfeyrac and Combeferre had come to bail them out pretty soon after that.

They offered to walk Grantaire home, but he had declined. There were still some things he liked doing alone even though the option not to was something he was learning to cherish.

He admired Enjolras’ departing back, intoxicated on the thought that he could do that now. With a self satisfied smile, he set off on a leisurely stroll back to his car.

The warm streets had drawn out all sorts of people, but he had homework to pretend to do.

When he was settled, Grantaire allowed himself to waste one sheet of paper drawing Enjolras. No- it wasn’t a waste if it made Enjolras happy. More than that, it made Grantaire happy.

He rendered Enjolras’ cheekbones and frown lines in ink. Not his eyes though, those were never quite right. Never as fiery or as full of life. Biting his lip, Grantaire decided to try something new.

With a few frantic minutes of sketching, another Enjolras had appeared on his paper.

This time, the eyes were perfect. Immortalized in a loving glance.

Chapter Text

“The newspapers are siding with the shipowners,” groaned Combeferre. “They’re saying that we’re Communists duping workers.”

“What?” Enjolras stood up to pace. “They are the ones duping workers! All we want is to ensure safe working conditions and fair hiring processes. Union dues are nothing compared to the wage boosts that can result from collective bargaining.”

“Enjolras, calm down,” Grantaire interjected. “We know. Save it for your response.”

The blond man couldn’t quite hide his surprise behind a raised brow.

“You’re not going to try convincing me that responding is useless?”

“Well I don’t think the newspapers are gonna listen. They know we’re right, it's just not in their interest to admit it. We’re better off finding a way to address the longshoremen, and even the general populace so that-”

You could almost see the gears click behind Grantaire’s eyes.

“Oh. You’re teasing.”

He mimed shutting up, but Enjolras encouraged him.

“No, keep going. You said ‘we,’ now act on it.”

They exchanged a borderline sappy smile that had Bahorel groaning in mock disgust before Grantaire launched back into his plan.
__________________________________________

“It’s like he’s not even trying!” Grantaire groused.

Courfeyrac set his face in his hands.

“God, not you too. Where’s the levity?”

They were sitting in the front room of The Musain, drinking after a meeting, but Grantaire couldn’t stop thinking about today’s problem.

“Quit whinging or someone will think you care.”

“No, I just wonder- why is he president of the union if he doesn’t even listen to what the workers need? It seems illogical.”

‘Illogical,’ parroted Bossuet. “He’s even picking up Enjolras’ vocabulary.”

Grantaire’s muttered protest was halfway to a whine.

“I know fancy words too.”

“We know, loverboy,” Eponine reassured him, smirking.

“More like stiff words,” muttered Bahorel without heat.

Grantaire threw his hands up dramatically.

“Fine. If it’s levity you want, it’s levity you’ll get.”

He was halfway through a story so salacious it was borderline implausible when Enjolras returned with another round.

The blond man opened his mouth, probably to chastise the rowdy group, but he saw their laughter and the way tension was bleeding from their frames and shut it again. Instead he sat beside Grantaire, leaning into him slightly and raising a pointed eyebrow at the anecdotes’ more unbelievable details.
__________________________________________

Combferre was chewing on his thumbnail; a rare enough sight to be worrying.

“Mayor Smith has brought in the national guard on top of the local police he already mobilized.”

Weakly, Joly asked, “Should we cancel then?”

“No,” snapped Enjolras. He took a breath and tried again. “I understand your concern for injuries, but backing down would be letting them win. We cannot concede to their bullying!”

Everyone subconsciously looked at Grantaire, anticipating his reaction. Instead they found him biting his lip.

“Well?” Enjolras prodded. “Out with it.”

Grantaire, taken aback by the tone, bristled.

“Sorry, R.” Enjolras sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I would love to hear any ideas you might have.”

Grantaire accepted the apology with a nod.

In a low voice he said, “Maybe we can find a middle ground. Tell folks about the national guard and let them make their own decision.”

Courfeyrac clapped Grantaire on the back.

“Compromising! Never thought I’d see the day!”
__________________________________________

“Fuck!”

That was the first word that Enjolras had said all meeting. The hushed conversations stopped.

“Maybe it would help to tell everyone what’s going on,” Combeferre hedged gingerly.

Across the table, Grantaire could see Enjolras slip a ‘leader’ persona over his features. That was never a good sign.

If he was a comforting person, he might have gone around the table to sit with his… With Enjolras. But Courfeyrac was already there, and Grantaire couldn’t help feeling that he sometimes brought out the worst in Enjolras anyways.

Enjolras stood.

“Tacoma has temporarily lifted their blockade to send food to Alaska.”

The room erupted.

“Tacoma’s always been the strongest so far!”

“Does this mean they’re open open again?”

“I mean-”


“Maybe it’s okay.”


"What.” Enjolras was staring at Grantaire.

“Well,” Grantaire started, refusing to shrink under that withering gaze. “Food is a pretty important base necessity. It’s not like they’re sending caviar and fur coats! If it isn’t the start of a slippery slope, then maybe this was the best choice.”

Enjolras didn’t move. It was possible he hadn’t even blinked.

“It can be hard to source food up north,” Cosette added gently.

“This is none of your concern,” snapped Enjolras.

Cosette drew back to respond, fire in her eyes, but he just kept steamrolling forward.

“Why can’t you just support me!”

Grantaire gaped like a fish on a hook.

“I don’t have to! I’m not your yes-man!”

This seemed to get through to Enjolras, but Grantaire wasn’t done.

“If you ever can’t -not won’t, can’t- get a meal, then you can weigh in.”

Grantaire could see in Enjolras’ eyes that he was sorry, that he was about to apologize. Good. But he couldn’t accept it right now. He wanted to be mad, and he didn’t want to start another argument.

He left, placing a gentle hand briefly on Enjolras’ shoulder.

They would talk later.
_______________________________________

Grantaire was sitting at a table in the main room of the bar then the meeting let out. It was early, not that long after he had walked out.

Enjolras, uncharacteristically, was the first one out. He made a beeline to Grantaire.

“I would like to-” He stopped himself. “Fuck! The diction is hard to shake.”

Grantaire turned his whole body to face Enjolras. He stopped short of offering an encouraging smile. Enjolras had to do this himself.

“I am so sorry that I lashed out. I knew I was in the wrong, and I should not- I shouldn’t have degraded your opinion. You are useful when you’re playing devil’s advocate, more so when you engage sincerely. Even outside of use, you are entitled to your own thoughts, as anyone is.”

There was a moment of silence, and Grantaire let him stew in it before brushing a hand through the blond’s hair.

“I accept your very pretty apology. Did you say sorry to Cosette too?”

“Yes,” Enjolras grumbled. “I apologized to everyone, especially Cosette for my bullheaded behavior.”

“Good,” Grantaire grinned smugly as Enjolras slumped into him.
_______________________________________

“They’re calling it Bloody Thursday.”

There was none of the usual chatter in the backroom of The Musain. Jehan had his face buried in Bahorel’s shoulder. Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s fingers were interlaced, knuckles white. Joly was staring blankly at the woodgrain of the table while Bossuet rubbed circles on his back.

Enjolras forged on, seemingly blind to the distress. “Yesterday, police fired tear gas canisters into a crowd of picketers in San Francisco. They followed that with a charge by mounted police. Strikers threw back the canisters and stones, but were forced to retreat by a second charge.”

Bahorel’s jaw worked and his eyes were steely.

“That evening, strikers surrounded a police car and attempted to tip it over. In retaliation, law enforcement agents fired indiscriminately into the crowd, killing two.”

Jehan made a small noise in his throat.

Grantaire contemplated moving around the table to tell Enjolras to give everyone a second. Surely it would just be disruptive. Why did he still sit so far away? He wasn’t using distance as a vague insulation from fiery glares anymore.

The silence lasted one tremulous second too long, and Grantaire realized Enjolras’ eyes were glossy with angry tears. Without hesitation, he pushed quietly out of his chair to skirt around Cosette and sit with his love.

Enjolras smiled at the hand Grantaire placed over his, straightening to address the room again. Softer now, he continued.

“The victims were striking longshoreman, Howard Sperry, and cook’s union member Nick Bordoise, who was volunteering at the ILA’s strike kitchen. Where they had been shot, strikers began laying garlands. Minutes later, police breached their cordon and removed the flowers. As soon as they left, the strikers returned, replacing the flowers and standing guard once more.”

Jehan sniffled and huffed a quiet laugh.

“Later, while strikers brought their injured into the ILA union hall, police fired on their building and threw tear gas canisters at hotels in the area. An unknown person called the hall, asking, ‘Are you willing to arbitrate now?’”

Joly’s lip twitched with a silent snarl. Uncharacteristic vitriol in his voice, he muttered, “Firing on the injured is the lowest of the low.”

“So what do we do now?” Cosette’s voice cut through the murmuring.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras said, a manic edge to his voice. “There is a funeral procession planned in San Francisco, and we may be able to organize one here, but those actions do nothing to further the strike.”

Combeferre interrupted.

“The San Francisco Labor Council and several branches of Teamsters hope to turn the tragedy into a general strike that will finally convince companies to arbitrate.”

“Tomorrow comes,” Grantaire murmured as Enjolras finally sat down, tangling their other hands together too.
__________________________________________

Courfeyrac slammed through the door to The Musain, breathless and disheveled.

"News!" He shouted, holding a crinkled newspaper aloft. "Most of our demands have been granted!"

The room erupted in cheers and Enjolras caught his eye with a grin: sharp and jubilant and victorious.

Safe in the back room, surrounded by their rejoicing friends, Grantaire pressed a kiss to the lips of the man he loved before letting Enjolras go press Combeferre for details.