Chapter Text
The day Grantaire died, it was raining.
Heavy droplets drummed deafeningly against the flimsy, old windows of the Musain, contributing to the cacophony of sounds that permeated the back room of the café that autumn day. Sitting back in one of their old, mold-ridden wooden chairs and looking through the glass panes at the end of the room, Grantaire could pick out both the shiny cobblestone floor of the Rue des Grés and the overcast sky, by then painted a dreary gray that darkened the world and left a murky, bleak atmosphere behind. Outside, the smell of petrichor was heavy, but inside the Musain one could only smell the warm mix of people, wine, and cedarwood.
Turning his gaze away from the window but making sure he did not disturb his carefully maintained slouch – after all, it would do no good to look as if he was interested in, or worse, endorsed whatever suicidal plans were being thrown about – he sent a lazy glance around. Five tables were placed throughout the back room, but only one - his - was actually being used to drink or eat from. Books, newspapers and other loose papers were messily scattered on top of the remaining furniture, abandoned for now, while a group of friends were – in variable levels of attentiveness – listening to the speech being given at the center of the room.
Grantaire peered at the people sitting closest to him. Across the table, Joly sat with his back ramrod straight, tapping his cane rhythmically on the wooden floor and nodding along to whatever dear Apollo was spewing at that time, his brown hair flopping lazily with each movement.
On Grantaire’s right, Bossuet was evidently not as immersed in the discussion floating about and looked as if he was rather more interested in testing his luck. With single-minded focus, he piled three empty, grimy bottles of wine on top of each other. This was a relatively common occurrence, Bossuet testing his luck at any given time, that is; sometimes he flipped a coin, other times he made truly impressive (impressively good, but more often, impressively bad) bets; but when the right mood and creativity struck, he could also be found doing questionably stupid things that could either lead to broken bones and/or objects or, more sparingly, to amazing acts of good fortune.
Blinking at the growing tower of glass, still standing against all odds, Grantaire released an admiring whistle, chiming, “My friend, lady luck appears to have finally deigned to turn her smiling face to you”.
Startled, Bossuet turned his beaming face at Grantaire. “You think so?”, he asked eagerly, “I was just telling Joly this morning - I feel pretty good about this!”
Turning his body towards his friend, Bossuet’s elbow struck the bottom of the bottle tower with truly impressive aim, making it wobble precariously. Gasping, he turned back to his construction and tried to grasp it, but with no success; the top fell down with a loud clang and was then followed by the remaining bottles.
Grantaire winced as his friend grasped his bald head with a groan of despondency, and further slumped in his seat when a crystalline and melodious voice rang out.
“I’m sorry, are we interrupting something?”, irritation clear and sharp. A quick glance at the source of the angelical rebuke was met with a glare that could freeze hell ten times over, a shade of blue that often burned, but that, at that moment, was cold as shards of ice. An attentive observer (and Grantaire was always an attentive observer when it came to that particular individual) would be able to tell that, although the comment was directed at the two friends, the speaker knew very well who was actually responsible for the disturbance.
Enjolras stood in the middle of the dingy room of the Musain in all his righteous, painfully beautiful glory, blond curls ruffled and landing softly on his shoulders, clothes even more disheveled because – indeed, why waste precious time properly buttoning-up shirts when you could be using it to fight the system? His arms were folded across his chest, inevitably leading Grantaire’s eyes to the hint of sun-kissed collarbones peeking above it and to the pretty mole he knew made its home right on top of the bone. Enjolras’ red jacket only aided his striking figure, completing the image of an unreachable, vengeful angel that would strike down any pitiful opponent that dared get in his way. In that instance, that would be Grantaire.
And listen. Grantaire knew better than to poke a bear, especially if that bear was glaring, irritated, bright as the sun, had a very (legitimate) grudge against Grantaire and did not miss a chance to point out how he should not waste his gift by drinking meetings away, can’t you be useful, for once?- and okay, maybe the bear metaphor got away from him there, but you got his point. It was a very tempting bear, and he wished to see it completely focused on him. In the absence of a response, Enjolras squinted, his glower turning into a scowl, and, really, how could Grantaire resist further provoking such an alluring sight?
Grantaire glibly retorted, “Interrupting us? I mean, you are, chief, but that’s alright, you know I’d forgive you anything. I was just telling our dear Laigle here that his luck appeared to be back, but alas, the goddess Tyche is not feeling merciful quite yet”, he sighed.
Enjolras scoffed, but his glare softened as he turned from Grantaire (more’s the pity) to Bossuet, still busy gloomily righting the fallen bottles. “Bad luck, still?” Enjolras muttered, looking worried, “It’s been months”.
Bossuet responded with a strained smile and a quick look at their leader, “Luck can’t be too far away. I just want to believe that when it finally comes, it will be truly miraculous”, he shrugged half-heartedly.
At that, an arm landed around Bossuet’s shoulders, Grantaire pulling him towards his chest and proclaiming dramatically, “And when that happens”, he shook his friend lively, “we will drink until Madame Hucheloup never lets our sorry selves back into the Corinthe!”, he chuckled.
Putting all his weight on top of his friend, Grantaire could feel his shoulders slowly relax, smile widening and reaching his eyes, “Aye aye!”, Bossuet exclaimed.
Faced with a newly spirited Bossuet, Joly - until then fretfully glancing at his companion - also relaxed, leaning back on his chair, grinning and raising his glass, “I’ll drink to that!”, he declared. Exchanging glances with Grantaire, the latter winked at his friend and promptly sipped from his cup of wine.
Enjolras snorted but did not comment further on the interruption. Balance was struck. Turning back to the rest of the room – where all their friends were more-or-less inconspicuously listening to what was happening in Grantaire’s table – the blond leader cleared his throat, claiming back their attention.
“As I was saying, we all know that the media is not on our side. Guillenormand’s influence on news outlets is going to be hard to shake, but not impossible. If the people have other sources of reliable information on what our gifts actually are and on what we can or can’t do, we can turn the tide to our favor”, he said eagerly. Glancing to his right, where Courfeyrac was straddling the back of his chair, chin resting on top of his crossed arms, Enjolras pressed, “What’s the word on the streets?”
Courfeyrac straightened from his sprawl and retorted, “Hmm, hard to tell. Some people are demanding equal rights, others want our heads on spikes. Sometimes on pitchforks, too”, he said good-naturedly. Grantaire snorted.
“We need to ensure that the uninformed and ignorant get access to objective, correct information”, Enjolras emphasized, turning back to his friend, “Call on your contacts, set meetings with the support group organizers and tell them about next week’s rally–”
“So we’re still doing that, then?”, Grantaire interrupted lightly, Enjolras turning back to him, a twitch in his right eyebrow, “Even after we all saw how the news channels are bashing us, how other rallies ended, with the police and the government calling for our blood?”, he stated derisively, shaking his head, “In what world is that a good idea?”
Enjolras’ glowing eyes pinned Grantaire to his chair as he gritted out, “Do you have a better plan?”
“Well, I make a point never to give advice to anyone, dear Apollo; advice only serves to be ignored, or to be followed just so that people can blame you when things don’t go their way”, Grantaire said philosophically, nodding slowly at his own reasoning. Enjolras scowled.
“Then I’m telling you, there’s little else we can do. Should we let false reports spread, allow misinformation to pollute our society and turn brother against brother? Friend against friend? Should we give up our rights to freedom? To dignity? Let society believe we are dangerous?”
Incapable of stopping himself – damn him and his inability to not poke fun at Enjolras – Grantaire rolled his eyes and cut him off, “Always so dramatic, Apollo”, he huffed, “And are we not?”, he shot back. Enjolras frowned, confused, but Grantaire persisted, “Are we not a danger to them? Are they not right to be afraid? We all know that our powers can hurt people. Have hurt people before. Should there not be restraints into what we are allowed and not allowed to do?”, he fired.
From his periphery, Grantaire could see some of his friends fidget uncomfortably in their chairs, uncertain as to whether they should interrupt the glaring pair or not. As expected, Enjolras did not seem to notice the growing tension in the room, clenching his teeth and making a muscle in his jaw twitch in a devastatingly handsome way. Settle down, R, he thought to himself, no time to pathetically focus on how beautiful he looks while disgusted by you.
“And where does that sort of thinking lead to?”, Enjolras exploded, “First, they stop us from using our gifts under some arbitrary conditions, claiming they help us get ahead of unpowered people-”
“-I mean, can you really talk of equality when some of us do have unfair, supernatural, advantages?”, Grantaire wondered, sardonically.
“-Then”, Enjolras cut him off, “Then, they stop us from using our powers at all–”
“-Now, that seems like a real jump from your first point-”
“Does it really?”, Enjolras snapped. “Do you really think the Government, the unpowered, will let people like us, like you, just walk around, unsupervised, if they knew what you could do?”, he rallied. Grantaire tensed up, and a quick glance around the room revealed that everyone was avoiding his gaze. Under the table, Grantaire felt a warm knee touch his. Joly. He looked back at Enjolras, smiling self-deprecatingly.
“Touché, Apollo”, he reclined on his chair, hands closed into fists out of sight. Smile frozen on his face, he continued, “I guess I should just be grateful I’m even allowed around such righteous and socially acceptable gifted people. I should only be so lucky as to throw my life away, fighting for rights that the common populace will never agree to give to people like me, I, who instead should be, as our dear Courfeyrac kindly put it, pitchforked to death–”
“- All right, everyone. I don’t think this discussion is being productive anymore”, Combeferre interjected long-sufferingly, raising from his seat to the left of Enjolras and on the opposite side of Courfeyrac. His tall, broad-shouldered build contrasted nicely with his soft-spoken manners and calm presence. An unmoving, steady force. Raising his eyes from where they rested on Enjolras’ face and fixing his reading glasses on his nose, he turned his focus back to Grantaire, sighing. Grantaire barely spared him a glance, fixing his gaze defiantly on Enjolras, who returned the look. Courfeyrac was also looking at the pair, eyes going from Enjolras to Grantaire like he was the spectator of a particularly amusing tennis match.
The chief, the guide, and the center, all glancing at Grantaire with some level of reproach. Oh, what a time to be alive.
“Grantaire, you know that that was not what Enjolras meant. He just wants you to truly join our cause and fight for a dignified life”. Turning his gaze to Enjolras, who avoided it, still glaring at Grantaire, he continued, “And Enjolras, you know we don’t force people to use their powers against their wishes. Grantaire should only use his gift when he feels comfortable, and–”,he raised his voice when Enjolras tried to interrupt, outraged “- if he ever feels confident that he can control it”.
Well, that was enough to break the stalemate. Breaking the intense eye contact, Grantaire lowered his eyes to the table, a wave of shame washing over him and setting his face of fire. Jesus, Combeferre really could have come to his aid in a less dignity-destroying way. No need to remind him and everyone else that his gift was so fucking useless that he couldn’t actually use it in a way that mattered without possibly landing himself in jail, or worse, before a firing squad.
Grantaire maintained his eyes down, glowering at his gloved hands while they peeled the label off one of the bottles Bossuet previously used in his poorly timed attempt at luck, leather catching on the paper. His mood officially ruined for the day, he reached for his wine glass, drinking heavily from the dark crimson liquid inside, and pretended he couldn’t hear Enjolras’ huff of “He’s powerful, if only he spent less time drinking to oblivion and tried to control his gift, he wouldn’t be so afraid to use it”. Unfortunately, pretending did not equal not hearing, and so this off-hand comment hit its target with the force of a bullet train.
Ignoring Bossuet and Joly’s worried glances, Grantaire sprang to his feet, muttering “Fuck this, I need a smoke”. Without looking around the room – God knew he could not bear to see pity in his friends’ eyes right then – he sped to the back door of the Musain.
Opening the door, he was instantly met with a burst of cold air, stray droplets hitting his face and freezing his cheeks. Grantaire muttered curses under his breath and, closing the door behind him, leaned on the doorframe, sighing and patting down his worn black jacket in search of his pack. Finally finding it in the left pocket with a mumbled “ah-ha!”, Grantaire pulled a cigarette out, flicked the lighter and watched as a small flame lit the end of the stick he held between his lips. Pulling on the cigarette and inhaling the warm cloud it produced, Grantaire allowed himself to finally relax, melting into the cold stone wall of the doorframe behind him.
Although the weather was certainly cold, he took off one of his gloves and stared gloomily down at his hand. Objectively, there was nothing unusual about it. Ghostly pale, long, calloused fingers, bitten-down nails, knuckles either splashed by stubborn paint stains or bruised by late-night boxing lessons. Nothing that hinted at a gift that only brought pain and destruction.
Chuckling under his breath and sneering at how self-pitying he sounded even in the privacy of his own mind, he shook his head, dark curls bouncing wet and cold against his forehead and cheeks. Scratching absent-mindedly on the scruff scattered across his jaw, he pulled more smoke into his lungs and raised his eyes to the street, jumping when he was met with a familiar smiling face, right in front of him.
“Jesus! Where did you come from?”, he choked, coughing around his smoke-filled lungs.
“What is that sad look of yours for? Have you and our fearless leader been fighting again?” chirped Jehan instead of responding, a knowing look in his green eyes. He huddled closer to Grantaire, pushing him a little with his shoulder so he could fit in the tight space between the street and the doorframe that protected them minimally from the stubborn rain. He immediately felt his friend’s warmth seep into his side where their bodies touched, leaning against one another. Finally catching his breath, Grantaire responded,
“My dear Jehan, you know I cannot resist the pull of the sun on such a dreary day”, Grantaire sighed dramatically, nodding at the rain hitting the cobbled floor, “Alas, it appears as if even Helios needed a bit of respite from such a cloud of gloom and doom as yours truly, so I thought it was the perfect time to catch some fresh air”, he said, gesturing with his cigarette. Jehan's eyes followed the movement of his hand and he frowned, taking the cigarette from Grantaire and – ignoring his indignant “hey!” – putting it out against the stone doorframe of the Musain. To soften the blow, Jehan then pulled playfully on the pendant hanging from Grantaire’s neck, a gift from Éponine.
“A pomegranate”, Grantaire pointed out wryly when she gave it to him on his last birthday, “really?”, he asked, looking at the opened fruit, small ruby-colored seeds catching the yellow lighting of their living room.
Éponine merely responded with that enigmatic smile of hers, right side of her mouth lifting briefly, but not a second longer, “It only makes sense, doesn’t it?”. Grantaire rolled his eyes and huffed but put the pendant around his neck and hadn’t taken it off ever since.
At present, Jehan tsked, “You know I don’t need to see the future to know these things can’t lead anywhere good”, he nodded at the remains of his cigarette, abandoned on the cobbled stone. Grantaire sighed mournfully at the stick but returned a good-natured smile at his friend.
It would truly be a crime to be upset at Jehan. His twinkling eyes, elvish features and dimpled smile could melt even the coldest of hearts (read, Enjolras). One would think that someone who was able to foresee possible and inevitable tragedies on a daily basis would have a bleaker outlook on life, but Jehan always appeared to stubbornly cling to the bright side of things. It took a truly strong-minded person to acknowledge that certain events have to happen, and that, although the Fates can let you in on their secrets, that does not mean you should try to challenge them or change the natural course of events. As Jehan had once put it, “trying to stop bad things from happening just because I know they will happen can lead to unpredictable or even worse outcomes. Besides, what if me acting is what leads to the misfortune I foresaw? I find that it is oftentimes safer to just… live with the knowledge and go along for the ride”.
Grantaire was brought back to the present by the curious tilt of Jehan’s head, some copper strands of hair escaping his long braid. “You look lost in your head again, my friend. Is everything alright?”, he asked softly.
Grantaire smiled kindly in turn, “I’m fine, just tired. Didn’t sleep well”, he muttered. Jehan’s eyebrows lowered in concern.
“Nightmares again?”, he pressed, hand raising and resting on Grantaire’s elbow, squeezing gently. A gust of air blew harshly on the pair, and a stray leaf landed on Jehan’s head. Grantaire reached for it with his ungloved hand, and just as he freed it from the auburn strands, the door behind them opened, the yellow light coming from inside partly covered by the lean bulk of a figure.
Turning around, Grantaire came face-to-face with the stern countenance of Enjolras, his shining zicorn eyes quickly flying from Grantaire’s hand near Jehan’s face, to Jehan’s hand holding Grantaire’s arm and staying there. Against the glare that was inexplicably burning a hole through Jehan’s hand, the latter drew his appendage back, snorting amusedly. Enjolras' face was rose-tinted, probably from the cold, as cleared his throat and informed a now thoroughly confused Grantaire that, “Gavroche is here. He says he has a message. Urgent”. He then stiffly nodded at the pair and stood there, frozen until they started moving inside. Jehan passed Enjolras first, smiling knowingly at him, and Enjolras’ gaze met Grantaire’s, unreadable expression fixed on his face until he, too, turned inside. For what appeared to be the millionth time that day, Grantaire sighed deeply and rubbed his ungloved fingers together, walking inside. Of the offending leaf, only a faint smell of rot and the stain of ashes in his fingers remained.
The inside of the Musain was filled with noise, people slapping Gavroche on the shoulder, happy to see him after quite some time away. The little gremlin smiled widely at the attention, a cutting stretch of lips that said he wasn’t up to any good. Glancing at Grantaire, he exclaimed “R!”, and freed himself from his crowd of enthusiastic admirers, running towards the older man.
Gavroche was Éponine’s little brother and, as far as Grantaire was concerned, his little brother too. After the Thénardiers left the five-year-old at their doorstep seven years ago, malnourished and sobbing, there really wasn't any other choice but to pull up his sleeves and help a then panicked eighteen-year-old Éponine take care of her brother. Not the best care, he could admit, but he liked to think they did okay, all things considered. He taught the brat his ABCs for God’s sake, and now there he was, playing spies for their ridiculous revolutionary group.
“Hey, Gav”, Grantaire ruffled the kid’s brown mess of hair, ignoring the way he hissed and spat back like a miffed cat, shoving his hand away, “How is my favorite devil’s minion doing? Demolished the system today?”, he quipped, green garnet eyes dancing mischievously at the boy.
“You know it”, Gavroche responded, chest puffed, all ruffled feathers and pride. “But I’m actually here with some bad news. From general Lamarque”, he announced, facing the room. The name of the official swiftly brought down the mood of the crowd, silence raising and appearing to consume all the air inside. At that, a ball of lead started growing in Grantaire’s stomach.
Then, the heat of a hand on his shoulder shook him out of his thoughts, “What can you tell us?”, asked Enjolras, coming from behind him. Grantaire felt his hand like a hot brand on his shoulder, warmth seeping through his muscles and spreading to the rest of his body. He felt himself relax a little, leaning imperceptivity towards the source of the heat.
“The protest next week, you have to cancel it”, Gavroche started. Not letting anyone interrupt, the boy continued, “The Government is putting together the National Guard to fight powered people, they’re planning to use that protest to arrest you, something about starting a registry on the gifted”, he explained. Hearing this, the murmurs of the room rose to cries of outrage, uneasiness growing.
Enjolras scowled, furrowed eyebrows forming wrinkles on the top of his nose, “This is how it starts”, he spat, “First a registry, then prosecution”. His hand squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder in a bruising grip. Grantaire grimaced but did not dare move.
Gavroche nodded and added, “And that’s not all”. When attention was focused back on the teenager, he continued, “They’re planning to hit known groups of the gifted, start the process as quickly as they can before people can go into hiding”. Enjolras dropped his hand from Grantaire’s shoulder, moving past him and towards Gavroche. The cold returned to Grantaire’s bones.
“When?”, Enjolras demanded.
“Today”, Gavroche said. Dread rising, Grantaire could only stare as his friends immediately sprang to action. Papers were collected, people exited and entered the room with various materials, small groups gathered, discussing possible courses of action. No one called for Grantaire, which was of no surprise to him. He wouldn’t want his “help” either, nor did he think he was particularly inclined to help them get themselves killed.
Approaching his now abandoned table, Grantaire picked up what was left of his wine bottle and drank straight from it. Might as well. Unsurprisingly, it did not help loosen the knot that made its home at the base of his throat.
Feeling blood rushing in his ears, he sat on a random chair, numbly looking around. By the corner of the room, he could discern Joly’s tense posture, white knuckles strangling the handle of his cane as he whispered urgently to Bossuet, other hand gripping his friend’s forearm, faces pressed close together and foreheads touching. Grantaire averted his eyes, feeling like he was intruding in a moment that was not meant for him.
A few tables away, Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were also deep in discussion, forming a tight circle, heads down and close together, pointing to a map that must have been marking the location of known gifted groups. Courfeyrac quickly squeezed his friends’ shoulders and disappeared in a flash of golden light, only a strong smell of ozone left behind. Probably went to warn them, he guessed. Across the room, Jehan sat by himself, a dazed look in his eyes. From where Grantaire sat, he could almost see a milky film covering the usual bright green eyes, the sign of a prophecy forming. Grantaire frowned.
Before he could rise from his chair and go to Jehan, someone approached him from behind. Turning his head, he saw Gavroche looking determinedly at him, the only sign of nervousness in the wrangling of his hands, which he quickly hid behind his back when he caught Grantaire looking. “What do you need me to do?”, he asked eagerly. Grantaire looked back at his friends.
“Can I stop them, do you think?”, he wondered softly out loud, ignoring the question. His hands were shaking. He gazed wistfully at the table, but there was no more alcohol in sight. He sighed despondently.
“Why would you want to do that?” Gavroche squinted incredulously, “They're helping people like us”, he gestured at the room, looking uncomprehending at Grantaire. Grantaire only shook his head back.
“You mean they’re rushing to their deaths”, he retorted.
Gavroche scoffed, “And? What if we are? We can’t just lower our heads and accept what they’re doing to us!”, he exclaimed, shaking Grantaire from his stupor.
“Us? Since when is there an us? Your role here is done, Gavroche. Message received, thank you very much, now go back home, and wait there ‘till ‘Ponine tells you it’s safe to leave”, he demanded, voice hard. Gavroche scoffed, crossing his arms.
“I won't be a coward and hide; I can be useful! Just tell me where you need me and I’ll find out what the cops have planned!”, he yelled. Grantaire felt irritation rising. Is it that wrong, wanting my family to be safe?
Before he could utter a response, a voice cut off, “Can you get back to General Lamarque? Send him a message; tell him we’re going to strike first, hit them when they least expect it”, Enjolras announced, voice clear and certain, a grim set to his mouth. The whole room stopped to hear their leader’s orders, “The most well-known safe house for the gifted is Fauchelevant’s and it's right around the corner, near the Place Saint-Michel. We can get there before the National Guard, set a trap, defend our people”.
Grantaire laughed incredulously, “A trap? Defend our people? What are you saying, Apollo? We don’t even know if they’re going to strike that particular safehouse today! And sending Gavroche? He’s just a kid!”. Gavroche glared at him, turning back to Enjolras with an expression that clearly stated, Well? What do you need from me?
Enjolras looked pensively at Gavroche before turning his gaze to Grantaire, eyes icy blue. “Gavroche knows what the risk is worth. He can come and go without being detected; we have to use every man at our disposal”, he scolded.
Grantaire almost couldn’t believe his ears, “Gavroche is a child! He should not be risking his neck for a half-assed plan! What if he gets caught? What then? Are you going to risk even more lives rescuing him or are you just going to forget about him, use other men at your disposal?”, he snapped.
“Enough, R!”, Gavroche’s young voice rang out, “This is my choice. If you want to go home and hide from your problems, just do it! But you can’t stop me from doing this!”, frustration clear on his face, Gavroche turned to Enjolras, expectant. Grantaire wanted to rip his hair out, scream that this wouldn't work, couldn’t they just listen to him.
Sending imploring eyes at Enjolras, he was met with a stony expression, eyes cold and unreadable, chin set stubbornly. After a couple of seconds, where Grantaire felt his heart rise to his throat, Enjolras turned back to Gavroche and nodded. That was all the sign Gavroche needed before bolting, not sparing another look at Grantaire.
Feeling his blood boiling, Grantaire turned back to Enjolras and spat, “If he gets hurt, that’s on you”. Enjolras merely looked back, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
“At least he is fighting for something he believes in. Is your life even worth living, if you can’t stand to fight for it?”. Those words hit Grantaire like a bullet, aim true and cruel. Enjolras did not wait for a response, turning his back to Grantaire and rejoining Combeferre where he was still studying a map a few tables away.
Grantaire sat motionless in his chair, the image of Enjolras turning his back to him a brand on his mind. He felt his nose and eyes burning but refused to let any further emotion escape. He wouldn’t be more pathetic than absolutely necessary. He already humiliated himself enough for one day. Turning slowly back to the table, Grantaire lowered his head and put his hands on his hair. Around him, the planning continued.
The flimsiest plan in the universe went like this: Courfeyrac would teleport to every safehouse and meeting place for the gifted they knew of and would let them know that the National Guard was coming. Then, the people would get to make a choice: run, hide, or fight back. However useful his friends’ gifts were, they were not really offensive ones, so they needed to recruit every powered person they could get their hands on. Joly and Bossuet were to stay in the Musain; Joly, being unpowered, was more useful out of the way, serving as a medic to people coming in; Bossuet, because his unlucky streak could only lead to further disaster if a fight broke out, so it was decided that he should stay and aid Joly any way he could. Combeferre and Enjolras would naturally be on the frontline – Enjolras using his power to disrupt the National Guard, and Combeferre using his to protect him – and anyone else who needed protection.
Jehan was to go out with the two of them, to lead people who wanted an out to safety. At least that was the plan, if only he snapped out of his trance. Currently, he was sitting beside Grantaire, eyes glazed white and rocking his body slowly from time to time. Sometimes, soft noises escaped him, but Grantaire hadn’t figured out whether they were good or bad yet. This was one of the longest visions he had ever seen his friend have, and the only thing he could do was stay by him in quiet vigil and help him when he returned to the present.
Grantaire, meanwhile, continued to silently watch over his friends, tension gripping his body tight and pulling his muscles taunt across his shoulders and arms. He had yet to release the fists his hands were closed into, but it was all he could do to stop him from taking his gloves off and just… let it out. If he stopped focusing on the noise and movements of his friends, he would have to deal with the slowly growing scratching noise in the back of his head, the inky black void that he associated with his powers, haunting the corner of his conscience, banging in his mind’s eye, clamoring at him to do something, protect his friends, go out there and finish it before they could get hurt. But he knew better than to listen to that scratching noise, than to stare back at that void. Only death would follow.
He didn’t want to voice it yet, but his mind was already made up. He couldn’t simply let his friends die. Quite honestly, he didn’t give a damn about their stupid plan, nor did he believe common folk would ever stop chasing powered people because some college kids rallied and demanded equal rights. He knew better. Difference breeds fear, and fear breeds violence. All they could do was keep their heads down and protect the people they needed to keep safe. For Grantaire, that was his friends.
Enjolras and Combeferre stopped talking and turned to Grantaire and Jehan. In the background, he could hear Joly and Bossuet speaking softly, the metallic noise of medical tools being placed in metal trays, careful preparation for what was coming.
Enjolras, looking at Grantaire and Jehan, hesitated for a moment, but then proceeded in a clipped voice, “We can’t wait any longer for Jehan to snap out of it. Combeferre and I are going. Keep an eye on him and tell him to get to us as fast as he can. If he has an important vision to impart, he can do it then”. His stern countenance broke just for a moment, expressive eyebrows relaxing before he added, “Know that if you join us in this fight, we will gladly welcome you, Grantaire. But if you can’t stand to take any risks for our freedom, you might as well just stay here and get out of our way”, he stated, no sign of disgust on his face, but no softness either.
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see”, was all the response Grantaire could give, stiff smile frozen on his face. Maintaining defiant eye contact with Enjolras, he committed his lovely face to memory. His strong, stern brows, bright blue eyes, bitten-red mouth, plump lower lip shaped almost into a pout. The tiny mole on the right side of it, almost kissing the corner of his frown. More times than he could count, during a particularly intense screaming match between the two of them, did he find himself distracted by that small freckle, wanting to touch it, to see if it would provoke a reaction that was not scorn or distaste. I’ll keep him safe. I’ll keep them all safe.
Enjolras’ eyes also lingered, moving constantly across his features, almost as if he, too, was checking for something in his face. Probably dissatisfied with what he found, he briskly turned to the door and left, no trace of hesitance or second thought in his movements. Grantaire’s smile immediately dropped. Combeferre looked at him for a moment and uttered, “Be safe”, before he left after Enjolras, closing the back door of the Musain behind them. Funny how just a couple of hours ago he was dramatically leaving that same door to smoke, thinking his day was ruined by some stray comment from Combeferre. Idiotic. The Fates truly were cruel.
Grantaire knew that he couldn’t remain too long in the Musain if he wanted to protect his friends. Jehan had Joly and Bossuet to take care of him. Turning to his quiet friend, glassy eyes looking at some place far away from the present, he softly tucked a stray strand of red hair behind a freckled ear. “I’ll bring them back safely”, he promised.
Rising from his chair, and turning to Joly and Bossuet, who were still engrossed in their conversation, Grantaire raised his voice, “I’m going”. His friends quieted, turned to him and, after examining his expression, nodded firmly. This was why he loved his friends. No useless words were needed.
Grabbing his jacket, previously abandoned on the back of his chair, Grantaire startled when, right as he was turning towards the door, an iron grip held him back by the wrist, fingers squeezing tight and nails digging into the soft flesh of his pulse. A sudden gasp sounded and was followed by Jehan's face turning to him, mask of calm meditation broken and horror twisting his usually sweet features, green eyes filling with tears and eyebrows squeezing tightly together, disbelief and terror clear as he muttered incoherently.
“NO! No… No, no, no, this can’t be! This wasn’t supposed to happen!”, he whispered, gripping Grantaire tighter. His nails bit harder, the skin of Grantaire's wrist peeling back against the cutting force. Grantaire hissed as he felt warm liquid run down his harm to the soft leather of his gloves. An urgent glance confirmed that Jehan was staring right at him, still muttering in increasing hysteria. Grantaire’s wrist bones grinded together, making him wince as he carefully circled Jehan’s bruising grip with his free hand.
“Jehan, you’re alright”, he said, raspy voice soothing, “Whatever you saw hasn’t happened yet”, he assured. Jehan appeared to be oblivious to what was happening around him, feverish eyes darting around until they landed on Grantaire’s face once more.
“Oh! Grantaire!”, he wept, raising his voice, “It’s so awful! I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do!”, raising his free hand, Jehan pulled harshly at the hair on the crown of his head, a punishing fist that unraveled his loose braid, “I’m so useless! Do I change it? I have to change it”, he muttered, “But will it change? What if I say something and then it happens! What do I do?! Grantaire, what do I do?!”, he cried in anguish, looking imploringly up at Grantaire, as if searching for an answer deep in his eyes.
Behind him, he could hear Joly and Bossuet rapidly approaching, Joly carefully trying to displace Jehan’s clawing hand away from Grantaire’s wrist. Grantaire barely processed the pain of his wrist being freed, meeting Jehan’s despairing eyes and feeling dread freeze his insides. He had never seen his usually carefree friend so distressed. A foreboding void grew in his chest. Something terrible was going to happen, and Grantaire would bet his soul that it would happen to one of his friends. Lowering himself into a crouch, Grantaire led his now free hand to his friend’s cheek, tenderly wiping tears with his thumb.
Breathing deeply and trying to control the tremors in his hands, he cooed at his friend, “Jehan, Jehan. It’s ok. Shh, you’re doing great. Just tell us what you can”, he nodded encouragingly. The tremulous smile he offered felt like one of the hardest things he ever had to do, “Just tell us, is someone going to get hurt? Can you tell us a name?”, he pleaded.
Jehan shook his head in denial, dislodging Grantaire’s hands, hair disheveled and face red, “No, no, it’s not that simple, a name can lead to safety, but it can also lead to death”, he hissed. At that, Grantaire swore he felt his heart stop. Death?
“Jehan, please, can you just say a name?”, Grantaire insisted urgently, faces flashing in quick succession in his mind’s eye. Combeferre’s gentle smile at his friends’ mischief, a warm hand on his shoulder and a kind word when he felt particularly hollow inside. Courfeyrac’s selflessness, a center of light and a contagious laughter, a tight hug after a long separation, and the assurance of a helping hand when in need. Enjolras’ steady eyes, a vibrant soul and passionate heart, a hypnotic voice, capable of moving nations, but used only to move hearts. The reward of a hard-won smile, an eyebrow raising in mock-annoyance and a hard glower in real exasperation. A mole on his collarbone and a tinier mole kissing the side of his mouth. Golden hair, blinding as the sun. A red heart and soul. “Just say a name. Please, Jehan”.
Jehan froze, eyes widening as a flash of white quickly overpowered the swollen green. A second passed, followed by a quick release of breath and sorrowful understanding in the curve of his lips. “Go to Gavroche”.
Grantaire allowed himself a second to freeze, terror gripping his lungs and nailing his feet to the floor. Not a second later, he sprinted out of the Musain, jacket left forgotten on his chair. Ripping the back door open, he was just able to hear a distant mantra of “I’m sorry, please forgive me. Please work”, from Jehan before he slammed it behind himself, and ran into the rain.
In seconds, he was soaking wet, dark green sweater clinging to his skin and trousers heavy and uncomfortable, making his sprint towards Rue Hautefeuille more strenuous than the usual ten-minute walk usually was.
Gavroche was supposed to be safe. He wasn’t supposed to be part of this mess. He was supposed to be worried about which movies he should watch with his perplexing band of orphans, which meal he wanted Grantaire to cook on his birthday this year, not which way he should turn to not get shot, or which lies he should spin to not get caught and killed by the fucking National Guard. He was only twelve, for fuck’s sake. Grantaire would be damned if he let any harm get to him. He would not be the one telling Éponine his little brother died fighting under Grantaire’s watch. He would raze the world to the ground first.
Ignoring the pull of his muscles and the sting of the rain seeping into the nail marks left by Jehan, Grantaire was just reaching Rue Serpente, around the corner from Fauchelevant’s, when he heard a gunshot, immediately followed by panicked screams. Powered by fresh trepidation, he pushed his legs to the limit, muscles bunching and tensing, making him speed across the wet cobblestone, a sharp turn almost making him slip and fall and only a quick hand on the floor helping him maintain balance as he turned into the street that led to the safehouse.
Finally able to gather some measure of focus, Grantaire raised his eyes from the floor and felt himself recoil at the picture that greeted him on that street. Although the rain was pounding mercilessly on the floor, there was no hiding the pools of crimson that stained the stones, seeping into the cracks in the pavement and looking almost black by the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings.
There was no time for hesitation, though. Grantaire ripped off his gloves, throwing them carelessly behind his back, the wet sound of leather hitting stone lost to the peals of screaming and gunfire as he rushed towards what could only be called a massacre. Bodies littered the narrow street, broken, twisted limbs haunting his periphery, hair matted on the bloodied floor, and the smell of blood and gunpowder permeating the air. Grantaire swallowed a gag. A street that used to mean protection and security, now a mass grave.
Heart pounding against his ribcage and stomach turning, he forced himself to carefully look at the faces of the dead that now forever laid to rest in Rue Hautefeuille. He had to make sure he did not find any familiar faces among the dead.
All strangers, he exhaled heavily. Lifting his eyes from the carnage around him, he sent a quick prayer to whatever entity may be watching from above that he was not too late, ignoring the wave of guilt that hit him at finding relief in the slaughter of strangers.
Going further into what felt like a never-ending war zone, Grantaire finally reached the epicenter of the fight. He immediately located Courfeyrac, zipping his way around the crowd in quick flashes of yellow, grabbing civilians and teleporting them to safety, and just as swiftly appearing behind national guards and sending them far away, where they couldn’t cause further harm. Confirming that his friend had everything under control, he kept making his way to the end of the street, twisting his way around the crowd, shoulders bumping against panicked people, and continuing his search for a small head of dark hair.
There were more powered people in that street than he had ever seen grouped together in a single place before. Some were using their abilities to fight back, lightning bolts hitting guards, acid raining on top of them, melting their helmets into their skulls, screams deafening and pounding in Grantaire’s eardrums. Others, probably unpowered supporters or people with passive gifts, were mostly trying to get away, ramming into Grantaire or hiding behind more powerful allies.
In the midst of the chaos, a glimpse of gold made Grantaire falter. Enjolras, soaking wet but not any less glorious, was standing back-to-back with Combeferre, angrily shouting at a group of three national guards, while Combeferre was busy raising a shield that stopped two more foes from advancing. Before Grantaire could do anything, his ability hissing and scratching angrily in his mind, the three guards facing Enjolras suddenly turned against the pair approaching Combeferre. In an unexpected turn of events, the two guards were quickly incapacitated and a few words from Enjolras were enough to put the remaining guards to sleep. Combeferre turned to Enjolras, quickly gripping his forearm in gratitude before releasing him and focusing on helping other civilians.
Awe softening his panic, Grantaire took a moment to blow out a breath of relief. Enjolras was capable and, most of all, powerful. He would be safe for now. As if alerted by the weight of his gaze, Grantaire was suddenly looking straight at Enjolras’ eyes, two bright topazes, burning in righteous passion. Grantaire only had time to see Enjolras raise his eyebrows in surprise before he sprang away, leaving his friends behind.
Right as he was sprinting past a tight alleyway, Grantaire heard a young voice yelping. Abruptly stopping in his tracks, almost slipping on the wet pavement again, Grantaire quickly retraced his steps until he reached the mouth of the backstreet. Impatiently blinking raindrops from his eyes, he almost missed the two figures struggling against the side of a building.
The difference in size between the two grappling forms propelled Grantaire forwards, and a squeaky yell of “Fuck off, nationalist scum!” wiped any doubt from Grantaire’s mind as to who the owner of the voice was. The two figures continued struggling, and just as Grantaire grabbed the guard’s shoulder, a glint of metal was the only warning he got before a booming noise filled the street, and the smaller figure convulsed against the wall. Ears ringing, the only thing Grantaire saw was Gavroche’s shocked face, mouth slightly open in a gasp and eyebrows slowly rising in pain. As if losing all strength, the small boy fell to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut off.
Suddenly, the void in the back of Grantaire’s head was screeching.
Turning towards the guard, Grantaire only caught a glimpse of a pale face before he pushed him to the wall, pinning him. Gripping his wrist and slamming it against the building behind him, a gun went flying from the assailant’s hand and Grantaire could finally take a proper look at his face. The guard couldn’t be older than nineteen. A kid himself, bottom lip trembling and eyes wildly looking from Grantaire’s face to his hands, still gripping the collar of his uniform tightly. He tried to squirm away, but Grantaire was stronger, shoulders muscled from boxing and used to grappling with bigger and more experienced adversaries. The scratch-scratch-scratch of his mind was deafening, a door about to be broken down.
“P-please! I didn’t mean to, he just wouldn’t stop struggling-“, the guard gasped, grasping at Grantaire’s wrist, right above the marks left by Jehan’s nails. At the first contact with Grantaire’s skin, however, he paled even further, choking on air, eyes widening in uncomprehending pain.
“W-what? W-what is-“.
Grantaire did not let him finish that sentence; his mind went blank, a dark fog filling his vision. Lifting his hands from where they kept the guard pinned to the wet building, Grantaire grasped the boy’s face, grimacing at the way his expression immediately twisted, eyes opening impossibly wide, looking heavenwards and losing focus, choked breaths stolen from his lungs. Grantaire’s hands kept the guard’s face in a vice, nails digging in as he was slowly filled with warm, overwhelming ecstasy. As his powers pulled that warm bright energy to him, he could see the veins in the back of his hands slowly darken, black lightning rising from the tips of his fingers to his hands, up his arms and spreading until they were almost completely covered in inky blackness. In his mind, the void was purring, an everlasting thirst finally quenched.
The guard kept squirming in his grasp, mouth agape and twisting his features into a macabre mask of pain. Struggles slowly losing strength, his hands dropped from where they were trying to get away from Grantaire’s iron grip. However - and in a move Grantaire would, to this date, not be able to understand - he used the last of his strength to scramble for something fastened to his belt. Suddenly, a sharp pressure erupted in Grantaire’s chest, making him gasp in shock, and startling enough to make him drop his hold on the guard, who then fell to the floor, desperately gulping for air.
Before Grantaire could react, the boy rose from his place on the floor and sprinted towards the entrance of the alley, powered by pure terror and will to live, staggering and hitting every building on the way out until he disappeared around the corner. Struggling to put air into his lungs, each pull a different scream of agony, Grantaire looked down and saw a handle stuck to his chest.
Uncomprehending, Grantaire touched the foreign object, appearing to him so alien, just hanging from his chest, that for a second, he could not understand what he was seeing. What the fuck? What the fuck happened?
Then, he remembered feeling the guard scrambling for something in his belt – a knife. He got fucking stabbed. “Shit”, he gasped, feeling his legs shake and lose the strength to hold him up.
Feeling dizzy and nauseous looking down at the object lodged in his chest – and trying to breathe around a growing sense of drowning from inside – Grantaire finally looked at the floor and was struck by the reminder of what he was doing in that alleyway in the first place. Gavroche.
Shaking off the ringing in his ears and a sudden spell of dizziness – especially ignoring how his mind was screaming that he should go after that guard, he got away!– he stumbled towards Gavroche. He had to make sure he was- he had to be- he just had to make sure.
Finally reaching the small figure, Grantaire dropped unceremoniously to his knees, choking on the next inhale and tasting metal on his tongue. Ignoring this, he frantically tried to look for signs of life, putting his shaking fingers against Gavroche’s nose and waiting. For two heart stopping seconds, Grantaire didn’t feel anything. Squeezing his eyes shut and ignoring his screaming body, he focused, finally feeling a cold gust of breath against his hand. Gavroche was still breathing. Air rattling wetly in his lungs, Grantaire pushed the collar of the boy’s jumper down, revealing a heavily bleeding shoulder and a small round wound surrounded by charred skin. Touching the back of the child’s shoulder, he felt a matching wound. The bullet went through him.
“I guess we’re matching”, he wheezed arduously at the wound on the boy’s chest. Leaning towards the boy, he felt the pain in his own chest scream, knife moving imperceivably in its holding place. He couldn’t help Gavroche like this. He knew he wouldn’t be able to reach the end of the alleyway to get help by himself, let alone avoid the National Guard. He also knew that that was probably it for him. Knife in the chest was not usually conductive of a long, healthy life. Quite the opposite. He knew he could maybe wait for someone from his side to find them, to maybe be on time to get Gavroche to the Musain to get Joly’s help, and that the boy may even survive if, somehow, all that happened. But he would not bet Gavroche’s life on that chance.
What he could do, however, was something possibly – certainly – stupid. Something he hadn’t tried since he was a kid and thought his gift was actually cool and could maybe even help people.
Contrary to what most people thought – due to Grantaire’s refusal to even speak about it – his gift did not simply kill. In reality, it could be seen as having two sides. Grantaire could take; could fill in the void inside him, consume life until that God damned scratching stopped for a while; but he could also give, take that stolen light and put it in another recipient. Heal it. Stealing life from one to give to another. He hadn’t ever tried it in animals – only plants – much less humans, but desperate times and all. He didn’t actually think he stole enough lifeforce from the guard to completely heal Gavroche – that guy was able to run away, after all – but he still had plenty life left of his own. He figured he wouldn’t need it anymore.
So, faced with a choice between being brave and being smart, Grantaire took a page out of his friends’ book and chose the first. In fact, he proceeded to do the stupidest thing someone with a foreign object stuck in them could do – no second guessing, he ripped the knife out.
“F-fuck!”, he choked, warm liquid instantly streaming from his body in red rivulets, further soaking his already rain-heavy sweater. The pain made him hack, a spray of blood hitting his hand where he covered his mouth. Not long, then.
Immediately focusing on the task at hand, Grantaire wheezed and touched a shaking hand to his chest, wiping his hand against it until it was completely covered in warm redness. Then, he took his blood to Gavroche’s bare shoulder, closing his eyes and focusing of that door at the back of his mind. Suddenly, that constant scratch-scratch quieted, and the door slowly opened.
In his mind, Grantaire was looking at an abyss, and that abyss was staring back. That black inky void that he associated with the source of his powers was a twisting, swirling cloud, tendrils of shadows reaching for Grantaire and just as quickly pulling away. He could feel energy pulsing inside it, pure life, ready to strike or to take. It was its turn to be stolen from.
Brushing his mind against that void, he focused on that ball of energy and pulled. The void hissed, sending a throb of pain through Grantaire’s brain that made him grimace, and fought him for it. Feeling sweat bead on his forehead, and breathing noisily through wet rough rasps, he continued pulling, until the void finally relented, reluctantly letting go of that hoarded energy. Immediately, Grantaire could feel pure life flowing through his veins, travelling from his chest, towards his arms and hands. Opening his eyes, he could see his blackened veins slowly fade back to normal as he lent that inky power to Gavroche, darkness seeping into the young boy’s skin, where it disappeared inside. Distantly, Grantaire thought it was like what he did to the guard, filmed in reverse.
Continuing to pull energy from that void and to push it towards Gavroche, Grantaire flinched as he suddenly felt himself collide with a mental wall. His dark void had no more stolen life to give. Choking on his next breath, Grantaire pulled from it anyway, feeling his body screaming in pain, the darkness hissing, twisting and trying to escape his grasp, trying to save itself. Unfortunately, Grantaire had made his choice. There was no more hiding in the shadows.
Grantaire could tell that his body was slowly shutting down, eyelids heavy and appendages shaking until he could no longer hold himself up. With a last forceful pull of energy, he saw Gavroche gasp, sitting up as if struck by lightning. Grantaire was too far gone to see what expression he made as he came to his senses in that filthy, waterlogged alleyway.
Drawing a faint smile, Grantaire let himself fall to the stone floor, flat on his back. He could feel the coldness of the rain and the cobblestone on his back, heavy drops landing unforgiving on his cheeks, on his opened eyes, on his lips.
A child’s cry of “R! Please, look at me!” was the only thing that really registered at that moment. With herculean effort, Grantaire shakily turned his eyes and was met with Gavroche’s panicked face, horror twisting his features. “Hold on, R! I’ll get help!”, he trembled, “Courfeyrac will take you to the Musain!”. Not waiting for a response, Gavroche rose from his crouch and ran to the mouth of the alleyway. No one would be able to tell that he had also been lying right where Grantaire was, dying as well, just moments before.
Grantaire followed Gravroche’s path with his eyes but did not have any strength left to move his head towards it. He could hear a soft wheezing sound, and distantly reasoned that it was coming from him, trying to breathe around a gaping wound that he was now almost certain must’ve punctured a lung. Thick, metallic blood was pooling on the back of his throat, eager to escape, but Grantaire found himself too weak to even cough it out. The rain kept falling.
Turning his gaze back to the sky, feeling so cold, he could only think that he hoped Jehan would not beat himself up too hard over this. After all, he had finally been able to use his gift for something good. Not just taking. He was able to protect his family. Even if only once. At least in death, he wasn’t a coward, or a burden.
God, he hated the rain. He wished the sun was out when he went. I guess I was destined to always chase it but never reach it.
His heaving breaths slowing, chest trembling from the effort it took to simply let air in and out, he remembered selfishly wishing that his friends would miss him, that Enjolras would miss him, even if just a little.
On his final rasping exhale, surrounded by the immense gray of the sky, Grantaire comforted himself with the thought that, even if no one was to miss him, at least the sky was weeping.
For the first time in his life, Grantaire happily embraced the void, and knew nothing more.
Three years later, Grantaire wakes up.