Chapter Text
Grantaire sat in the corner of the Musain, where the sunlight from the windows didn’t quite reach. The other members of the group that were known as Les Amis de l’ABC, worked steadily on the tables which had been pushed together in the center of the room. At the head of this mass was Enjolras, not watching the proceedings but rather haphazardly cutting up old sheets into strips. In fact, everyone in the room was intently focused on their various tasks, all apart from Grantaire, their only viewer.
Bahorel and Marius, who had been late to the meeting as usual, were lying on the floor painting signs. Grantaire had refused to do the ‘one thing he was good at’, as Enjolras had called it, and so the latecomers were delegated this laborious task.
Enjolras didn’t even look at Grantaire, he hadn’t since deciding that the drunk had nothing more to offer. It was true, Grantaire thought to himself, but his reason for not participating was not laziness as Enjolras believed. This was not a fight they could win, though admittedly Grantaire believed most fights unwinnable, and he would not take part in what would surely be a failure. After all, why set yourself up to lose?
He had told Enjolras what he thought, and as usual this had resulted in an argument.
Enjolras knew Grantaire was right, at least subconsciously, but what he abhorred was a lack of motivation to even try. For the leader of the amis it was not about victory, though that was of course their long term goal, it was all about letting the oppressed know that they weren’t alone and abandoned.
Grantaire, feeling alone and abandoned himself, did not care for false hope and friendship.
‘Grantaire for fucks sake paint with us. My arm’s killing and I’m writing wonky’
Bahorel was ignored in favour of a dirt-cheap bottle of wine, Grantaire hadn’t gotten many commissions that month.
Marius looked up at Bahorel with a small grimace before backing him up. ‘Mate come on you know you can do it better than us. Um, Grantaire how do you mark cardboard? I’m meant to use charcoal right?’
‘Use whatever you want’. Grantaire didn’t look up. However Feuilly, who was helping Enjolras with cutting linen, did.
‘Don’t you worry guys, I’ll help. I brought my best tipex and everything, so I’m pretty prepped.’
Grantaire downed the rest of the almost empty bottle and got up, albeit a little unsteadily, and walked over to Marius and Bahorel, who had immediately looked back down to the signs smiling.
‘Okay so you two, in the nicest way possible, fuck off. Feuilly you do art so you can shut up and hand me the poster paint I know you brought.’ With that he sat down, cross legged and began covering the mess of Bahorel and Marius’ signs with thick, white paint.
Marius and Bahorel high fived behind their backs and joined Bousset and Joly in making leaflets.
Enjolras hadn’t once looked up at the proceedings around him, however with Feuilly now helping Grantaire he called over Combeferre and Courfeyrac.
‘‘Ferre do you have the med kit ready for Joly? And the whistles? And…’
Corfeyrac put a sudden finger to Enjolras’ lips, startling him. ‘Yes and yes, and to whatever you were going to say next, yes. Look chill out, tomorrow will be fine’.
‘Can you please take this seriously?’ Enjolras said exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I will not have another fuck up like last time.’
‘It wasn’t a fuck up Enj, sure it could have gone smoother but I think we got the message across.’ Combeferre tried to reassure him to no avail. ‘It was a fuck up. Bahorel broke his arm and Joly passed out so he couldn’t help until later.’
Courfeyrac looked around the room before swivelling in his chair a little to directly face Enjolras ‘It’ll be fine this time. Look, we’ve spent the last week preparing, even R’s on board.’
‘All he’s doing is painting the signs and it took a lot of persuading.’ Enjolras looked at Grantaire for the first time since the start of the evening.
Grantaire was indeed helping, he’d already finished one sign and was moving on to the next silently, only occasionally looking up to check Feuilly was doing the same as him.
‘Well he’s still doing it isn’t he, stop moaning. Maybe you should ask him to do something else.’
‘He’s an artist, what else can he even do?’
Courfeyrac shared a quick look with Combeferre and continued ‘Maybe you should ask him that too. But I bet it can’t be fun only painting signs. I mean Gavroche could do that.’
‘Where is he by the way?’ Combeferre looked around noticing that neither the boy nor his older sister, Eponine, was at the meeting.
Enjolras shook his head and Courfeyrac shrugged and stood up. ‘I’m gonna finish up the ads. But I’ll be back if you don’t ask him to do anything. Seriously look at that little face’ Courfeyrac made a tear wiping motion on his face before walking back to his station. Combeferre smirked, ‘anything else?’.
‘Uh, yeah make sure Eponine doesn’t take Gavroche if she wants to come tomorrow. And make sure she comes to see me before so I can make sure she’ll be safe. Like I said, no more fuck ups’.
‘No more fuck ups’ Combeferre nodded and sat down, going over tomorrow's speeches again.
Enjolras continued his work for another half hour, during which Musichetta had joined the ranks due to her shift at the cafe being over. She had come in, thrown her apron to the ground, kicked it to the corner, and proceeded to give Grantaire the danish pastry she had in her bag.
‘How come we don’t get any? We’re your boyfriends?’ Joly complained, only for Musichetta to give him an silencing look over her shoulder.
‘Because a, Grantaire gave me a tip when I gave him a coffee this morning, something you two never do-’
‘But we live together you’d just spend it on our flat anyway-’
‘Not the point. And b, he needs to eat’.
Grantaire smiled, and muttered a quick ‘thanks mum’ before eating with one hand and painting with the other.
Musichetta watched to make sure he ate it all, before joining Joly and Bousset and whispering something in their ear. Joly looked over at Grantaire, who was painting with his back facing everyone but Feuilly, and nodded.
Enjolras had run out of things to do. He’d cut all the linen he needed to and everyone else was happily getting on with their tasks. He wanted to go home and sleep or maybe just sit and think about tomorrow but he couldn’t. The thought of talking to Grantaire was like a ringing in his ears, he couldn’t get rid of it. He had thought of a job for Grantaire at the protest tomorrow, one he was reasonably certain he could do, but couldn’t quite ask him. It seemed too personal, too much. Grantaire was barely in the group, just touching the fringes of the outer circle. But tomorrow Enjolras couldn’t afford to take risks, and he certainly didn’t want another broken bone for Bahorel.
Eventually, when Feuilly was walking to the bathrooms to refill the pot of water, Enjolras walked over to Grantaire.
He sat in the spot where Feuilly had been moments before, opposite Grantaire, in an uncomfortable crouched position.
‘The signs look good. Thanks for deciding to do them.’
‘Yeah well you wanted them done so…’ Grantaire’s reply trailed off.
‘Well thanks anyway. But I was wondering if you could maybe do another job tomorrow?’
Grantaire looked up.
‘Well, last time, you know, Bahorel broke his arm and anyway, I was wondering if you’d help out as a sort of bodyguard tomorrow? I mean I get it if you say no, it's kind of dangerous and-’
‘Sure.’ Grantaire’s eyes had lit up suddenly and he looked up at Enjolras with an strange look on his face.
‘Are you sure? Because you don’t have to on my account’
‘I will.’ Grantaire blinked suddenly and looked down ‘Someone has to make sure not a single strand of gold on your head his harmed, right? Our fearless Apollo must be safe to lead us to victory. In the fiery heat of battle I shall protect you until death my most gracious god an-’
‘You don’t have to do that. I get it, thanks. Come early I have some makeshift body protection’. With that Enjolras walked away, of course Grantaire would end any civil conversation into a mocking rant. He went to the bathroom to brief Feuilly, leaving Grantaire on the floor.
Grantaire sat there staring at the floor, he twirled the paint brush around between his fingers as he thought, not noticing the black marks it left behind.