Archive of Our Own ^beta

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If there is one thing you should know about Grantaire, it is that he is most commonly known as “that drunk guy”. You can always trust him to be holding a bottle of alcoholic beverage in his hand when you see him. Should you care to afford him a little more of your time, however, you will notice the case he carries on his back. It’s a black guitar case full of stickers of bands he enjoys listening to, like Oasis and the The Strokes, and the label of Budweiser glued on it. People seldom notice this; being blinded by his most destructible vice. Truth is, Grantaire’s heart does not belong solely to his drink. He also has a love affair with his guitar.

Grantaire has somehow found his way to a train station in the middle of nowhere. There’s no roof to shelter him from the wind and around him there are just empty fields. In the distance the yellow and red dots of lights show him the city where he’s walked from. He frowns as he notices how far away they are, and how much he had walked in just one day, under that heat. He had not realized this until now, something he owed to the three bottles of wine that kept him company throughout the journey. But indeed he walked all that way, judging by the soreness he felt now in the base of his feet and the stench of sweat that emanated from him.

Luckily, the only other person in that train station is far enough away to escape the smell.

He lies down on the bench, on his back, and meets a starry sky. He doesn’t reflect on the stars’ immensity and grandeur. To him they are just white dots in the sky that shine and are nice to look at. Most nights, nights such as that one, when he’s past his drinking quota, they look to him like white blurs, rather than dots, and muddle with one another.

Grantaire closes his eyes to sleep. That night he has a bench for a bed, a backpack for a pillow, a jacket for a blanket and in his pockets only change. He tries his best not to reflect upon his current miserable predicament. When flashes of the night that had started it all – or ended it all, depending on the point of view – begin to assault him, he focuses all his might in trying to picture a field full of sheep. He has not yet counted half a dozen when the memories come back, and he resigns to them with an audible grunt.

The incident took place only a week ago. Back then he was still a member of a band that went (and still go, Grantaire admits) by the name of Bagel & Bouquet, a name that Grantaire finds so ridiculous that he used to make fun of it all the time. Now, he finally finds it sort of interesting. For a bakery, that is. The origin of the name was the following: Bahorel, the drummer, once had an American girlfriend who said that his name reminded her of the word “Bagel” and that the bassist’s name, Bossuet, reminded her of the word “Bouquet”. Apparently Grantaire’s name and Feuilly’s – the singer -, failed to remind her of any American word. Grantaire was far from bitter about that, however. On the contrary, he was quite happy. And so was Feuilly.

But that was then. Now, having been kicked out of the band – and quite forcibly so -, he thinks differently. He wishes they were stuck with a variation of his name, so they would not forget him.

As to what prompted his sacking, well… Apparently one could not show up to a concert late and drunk off his wits. No matter that he had played all the songs mostly correctly, only lost his footing a mere ten times, and managed to only hit on one – one – person all evening. It wasn’t his fault that the person happened to be the representative of a record label there to consider offering them a contract proposal that they proceeded to lose.

It’s just not fair.

Even playing guitar now has turned into a difficult task, almost a chore. He can’t hold his fingers in the right way on the chords anymore, and he seems to have lost his ear for tune. He needs to, though, and quite urgently so, if he hopes to earn some change to pay for at least his basic necessities. But he’s just so mad at everything and everyone that all that comes out is gibberish. It hurts even his own ears – and he’s trying really hard to like what he hears himself play. He swears he is a very good guitarist. He really is. Please people, believe him, and give him some of the change in your pocket. That liquor store window down the block has so many goods just begging to be taken away by an individual such as Grantaire. Please have mercy.

It’s somewhere along this train of thought that he dozes off to sleep, nestled in his leather jacket that he was temped to sell just two days ago (it was a gift from his parents and it was worth a good fortune, but he needs something to keep away the cold).

Grantaire rises from his sleep alongside the sun, intolerant as he is to the light.  Opening his eyes is a painful process, but one that he has been forced to grow used to in these last few days. Immediately he dreads the impending sound of a train arriving and what it will do to his hung over ears. He has his mind set on leaving as quickly as he can – don’t ask him where, he has no idea, but is that not an exciting adventure? Yet he is still putting his jacket on when a beautiful girl seats down beside him and changes his mind. She is not just beautiful but also and intense presence beside him. Unashamedly he stares at her with a small smile on his lips.

The first thing one would notice about her would be her big protruding blue eyes, and then, if you could ever pry your eyes away, you would notice her golden hair. That morning, it is tied up in a bun, but it is radiant nonetheless. Grantaire would’ve liked to paint her if he still did that these days.

“What is that?” It’s his attempt at striking a conversation. He is pointing at the flier in her hand, which she is currently scrutinizing.

She seems surprised that he has addressed her.

“This?” She waves the flier in her hand. Grantaire nods. “It’s just a flier for a music contest in Montreuil…”

This information has Grantaire perking up in his seat. He leans over to try to have of glimpse at the flier. The girl notices and hands it over to him. Without realizing it, they shuffle closed to each other and analyse it together.

“Five thousand euros prize?” He almost squeals with joy. If he dared begin to describe to this girl the list of things he would do now if he had five thousand dollars in his pocket – heck, even five hundred -, they would be there all day.

“Yes, and a contract with 24601 Records.” She watches him with reticence as she says this.

“What’s that, a label?” He asks.

“Yes. It’s relatively new, which is probably why you have never heard of it. But it is growing by the day,” she says.

“What’s your name?” Grantaire hands her back the flier and contemplates her with what he hopes are friendly eyes. He imagines they are still red and puffy, not only from all the drinking but also from the sleepiness and the little time he has had to adjust to the relentless sunlight.

“Cosette.” She smiles, so Grantaire assumes he succeeded in his attempt.

“Dear Cosette, are you a musician? I can see you are dying to participate.”

“Yes… well I think I am a good singer. I love singing. But I’m not going to participate.” She seems quite sad as she admits this.

“Why not?”

“What about you? Are you going to participate?” She deflects, and Grantaire points to himself and mouths ‘me? Nooo’ “Why not? I can see that you play guitar.”

The stench of alcohol from the previous night must be gone then – and he hopes the smell of sweat is too – because she managed to see it. Even as half hidden underneath his legs as it was.

“I’ll tell you why not, because I don’t believe in judges. They can be bought, or biased, most of the time they already know whose going to win before sign ups have even started.” He deadpans, and the fall of Cosette’s face all too evident. “Don’t tell me I have murdered your dreams in cold blood, dear Cosette.” Despite the harsh words, he says them kindly, blaming his still empty stomach for this behaviour.

“That’s just it.” She says. “My father owns the label, and he’s one of the judges. I don’t want him to award me unjustly, especially since I hardly need the money and I don’t want to be signed onto his label. I want to get all those things on my own.”

As she talks about her dreams, there is a voice inside Grantaire’s head murmuring to him about how she dreams too much and how, most certainly, she will never do what he is saying she wants to do. She will give in eventually. He’s probably looking at the contest winner right now.

Still he cannot help it but feel strangely fond of the girl. There is an earnest quality in her smile and her big eyes, the same colour as his.

She bends over and rummages through her big pink duffel bag. From it she retrieves a Polaroid camera. It’s seems entirely too large and out of place in her fragile hands, but it doesn’t appear heavy.

Cosette turns to him.

“Want to take a picture… stranger?” She concludes after realizing that, despite the fact that she confided in him her name, he did not do the same. Grantaire agrees to it with a nod and shuffles closer still to the girl. He puts his hand on her cheek that in on the opposite side of him and squeezes their heads together by their free cheeks. She laughs and he laughs with her.

Cosette hands him the camera because he has longer arms and that way he can hold it further away from their faces and get them both in the shot.

Before he presses the snap button he says:

“Say: Grantaire!”

Caught off guard by the unusual way by which Grantaire chooses to let her know his name, she moves her head as he snaps the photograph. When the photograph slides out of the camera and their faces are slowly revealed, they laugh. Cosette’s startled eyes and Grantaire’s cheeky grin are perpetuated in it.

“Another one.” Cosette asks.

Grantaire concedes, and this time their initial pose is successful. When that photograph, too, is developed, Cosette holds it out to him.

“One for you, one for me.” As she says this, her smile falters and Grantaire notices she is no longer looking at him but at something or someone behind him. Curious, he turns around and sees an older man walking toward them. He wears a long maroon coat that reaches his knees on top of a dark grey suit, and his shoes are so well polished that their reflection of the poor sunlight rivals that of a mirror.

“Is that the record label owner himself?” The tone in his voice is only half condescending, he swears.

Whether Cosette was going to answer his jib or not, it’s likely he’ll never know. His words are still hovering in the air when a mechanical voice announces the train to Montreuil is arriving.  Cosette straightens up, hurriedly hiding her picture and the camera back inside her duffel bag.

The man that Grantaire knows to be the 24601 label owner, regardless of Cosette’s lack of answer, approaches his daughter and holds a hand out to help her stand. She shakes him off in return, ignoring that hand and the one that tries to grab her bag for her.

“Ready?” He asks her.

“Yes, papa. You go ahead, I need to check something in my bag.” She says to him.

“Are you sure? That bag must be heavy.”

“Yes, papa. I will be right behind you.” She assures him. The man nods and smiles to his daughter. As he turns away, his face hidden from Cosette, a fraction of a second passes in which he spares a distasteful glare towards Grantaire, letting him know all at once that he had witnessed the exchange between him and his daughter, that he did not approve of it and that he disliked him.

As soon as he is gone, Cosette turns to the young man she has just met. Her smile is back, he notes.

“It was nice meeting you, Grantaire.” She extends her hand for him to shake in a rather awkward manner, most likely unsure how to go about saying goodbye to someone she has known for mere minutes but already regards with friendly feelings. Grantaire shakes her hand, firmly at first, and then playfully waving their hands up and down.

“Likewise, dear Cosette.” He goes for a hug and Cosette returns it. There is a slight uncomfortable turn in his stomach that manifests itself when he thinks she is leaving now. She was the first person with whom he had a decent conversation since his band members kicked him out.

“I’ll be in the stands, hoping that you show up and kick everyone else’s ass.” When Grantaire looks lost, she says, “The contest, Grantaire!”

And now she has disentangled herself from Grantaire’s arms and is walking away.

“I won’t be there!” He calls out to her.

“Yes you will! I’ll be waiting for you in Montreuil!” She retorts before the train doors close and she’s just a head behind a dirty window.

Grantaire doesn’t stay long enough to see the train disappear in the distance. He is up and moving from the moment the doors close. The picture he took of him and Cosette goes into the back pocket of his jeans and his leather jacket ties around his waist. The sun is barely up yet and the weather is already blazing.

While he walks away, he reflects on his next move. For more than a week now he has been spending his days just walking and walking, not knowing where he’s going. He has even walked in circles for a while. Where will he go? He concedes this question a long time to be answered. Even with time to ponder, he still can only come up  and answer that is vague and hardly helpful, but it’s the only one he’s got so he’s embracing it.

He’s going far away from here.

That is how he ends up on the side of a road with his arm extended, asking for a kind soul to let him hitch a hike, and hoping that whoever does is not a rapist or murderer, or a rapist and a murderer. He is not expecting the stereotypical ragged old truck driver, but he surely never imaged that luck would strike him that day.

But it did. Oh yes, it did.

He was on the side of the road for no longer than ten minutes, walking in short steps and already melting under the blazing sun. The car that pulls over ahead of him is a Volkswagen van with flowers in all colours hand painted on it. It looks so ridiculous it would go well with his band’s name. Old band’s name. Whatever. 

The door is loud as it opens. Grantaire tentatively gets closer, sneaking a glance at the windows. He does not, however, have any time to register what he sees there before the man that steps out of the van takes up all of Grantaire’s attention at once. Just like that, Grantaire is struck and smitten. It does not happen in such a way that allows him to assess the young man in front of him before he feels his stomach tighten in an almost painful way and he knows he is done for. It is a rather instinctive thing that happens; wherein all he has to do is land his eyes on the man and the damage is done. The inevitability of the event is overwhelming.

Grantaire lingers in the same spot, lost as to what to do or say. Only his eyes know to cling to the other man, and nothing else. He notices more about him as he lingers there. Saying he is beautiful is a redundancy by now. There are other feats he possesses that are more worthy of describing, such as the way the sunlight embraces him as if it belongs there, highlighting particular features of him in gold. These features comprised mainly of his blond hair, neatly cut short, and his ivory skin.

In return, he concerns Grantaire with an aggravated expression. A light stubble graces his features, the same blond shade as his hair, and Grantaire imagines it is soft instead of harsh like his own. It is a good thing that he does not smile but rather purses his lips together, because Grantaire thinks he would not be able to handle it if he did.

He is the God Apollo impersonated, Grantaire concludes. All of this goes through his head in the short period of mere seconds.

“Well are you just going to stand there or are you coming in?” He says, and Grantaire forces himself not to dwell on the wonders of his voice. He simply takes in the strength and self-confidence behind it.

Grantaire almost jumps up and down on his way to the van. He cannot believe that fate has finally decided to stop being so cruel to him, and that it has decided to reward him at last. He is smiling when he enters the van and faces six more people - five boys, one girl - all around the same age as Grantaire himself.

The atmosphere inside is homey and friendly, despite Apollo’s unfriendly words. There’s an ever-present sound of chatter and laughter going back and forth and Oasis’ Wonderwall is playing in the background. The boy lying down on a mattress that takes up most of the space of the interior of the van looks up at him with a ridiculously cheeky grin and raises up his legs so Grantaire and Apollo can find a place to sit. He has a Pink Floyd shirt that is too small on him and shows his belly button. Whether this is intentional or not, Grantaire is willing to guess it’s the former.

All around him there are books, flowers and plants, clothes and shoes scattered and discarded. Only the plants look tended to. There is also a cooler that Grantaire prays really hard will have booze inside. A boy with face-long blond hair is seating down with his back leaning on it. There’s a free spot beside him that Grantaire decides to occupy. The boy has a pencil and is scribbling small shy words on small notebook. When he notices Grantaire’s prying eyes, he hides the notebook in a flash, unable to prevent the flush in his cheeks from showing.

“Oh—hi.” He rouses his bum from the floor and uses the back pocket of his jeans to keep the notebook, all the while trying to look inconspicuous. Grantaire already wants to laugh, but refrains from it, as it seems the boy is easily flustered. “You’re not a dangerous drug dealer or member of the mafia, are you?” He asks.

“Welcome, hitchhiker!” Greets the boy lying down on the mattress. He has a mischievous quality in his eyes that goes so well with his carefree persona. Excitement and joy transpire out of him, and Grantaire notices that all the others seem to orbit him - even Apollo, who is already clinging to a book and ignoring everyone else.

“Cheers,” Grantaire replies.

“Where are you headed?” He affords Grantaire next to no time to reply before he turns away. He slaps the book Apollo is holding in his hands, making him lose his grip on it and let it fall. This incites an irritated expression in Apollo.

“Man, you suck at making dares fun.” He complains, and Apollo shrugs and picks his book back up from where it fell in between the other boy’s legs. “Guess I’ll just have to top it next time. Where were we? Oh yes, where are you headed?” He asks Grantaire again.

“Nowhere in particular.” Grantaire says, but the boy is already distracted again with being crushed by another, taller boy and the girl who sat next to him.

“Nowhere in particular?” Repeats the boy seating next to him.

“Yes. You lot can just drop me off where you’re going.”

“We’re on a 2-week-long road trip that only started yesterday, mate. You’re going to have to be more specific than that. I’m Jehan, by the way.” The boy smiles as he talks. “That one who keeps asking questions and then ignoring you is Courfeyrac. This was all his idea. Somehow he got us to sign a contract so now we can’t do anything but be at his mercy for the next two weeks. The designated driver at the moment is Combeferre, the one riding shotgun is Joly, and the two stupid individuals tackling Courfeyrac are Marius and Éponine.”

“And him?” Grantaire nods toward Apollo, who is half reading his book, half glaring at him. He seems to be the only unfriendly soul in that van, so it is puzzling to Grantaire that these people ever chose to befriend him. Perhaps he has enchanted them all with his dazzling looks, the way he has done with Grantaire. He breathes confidence and certainty, has an air of superiority that might just be Grantaire’s associating him with Apollo talking. All of those traits make him both attractive and irritating. It is just that unfortunately the attractive side of him trumps the irritating one with not much difficulty.  It must say something about Grantaire that he loves the blue eyes of this man despite the hostility with which they regard him. Still, his heart beats just a fraction of a second faster at feeling them on him.

Grantaire needs a drink desperately.

“Of course he didn’t tell you his name… That is Enjolras, our fearless leader.” Jehan says.

“Your fearless leader? I would’ve assumed that was Courfeyrac. Enjolras seems more like his bitch to me.” Grantaire laughs and Jehan joins him.

“If he ever heard you say that…”

Grantaire wiggles his eyebrows and smiles.

“For God’s sake, is there alcohol in this van?” Grantaire asks at no one in particular, and Enjolras’ eye roll doesn’t go by unnoticed. He pays it no mind, as he is already starting to realize that that is something he will have to get used to, like one gets used to an itch they can’t scratch.

“Of course there is, whom do you take us for?” On his knees, Courfeyrac makes his way to Jehan and out of the cooler extracts a beer for everyone. Before handing one to Enjolras he says “Remember you already reached the limit once. Do you really want it to happen twice on the same day?”

That seems to convince Enjolras, who takes the beer in his hand and opens the can with just one move of his finger, displaying not only great strength and agility but also the flexing of the muscles in his arm that are just teasing. Grantaire does not notice this, neither does he notice Enjolras’ throat as he gulps down the first sip of his beer. He really doesn’t. He’s focusing on Jehan instead. The boy looks the youngest of all of them and the most curious one. His hair compliments him nicely and his eyes remind Grantaire of chocolate. He barely knows the boy and already he thinks it is impossible to imagine him every hurting a fly or saying something demeaning about someone.

“Am I missing something here? What does he mean by ‘the limit’?” Grantaire asks in a quiet voice.

“It’s something that was on the contract Courfeyrac persuaded us to sign.” Grantaire knits his eyebrows into one. “We can only answer ‘no’ to questions three times a day. If we say it more than three times we’ll have to carry out a dare that Courfeyrac sets for us. Trust me when I say that you never want to give Courf the chance to dare you.” Jehan explains.

“Was I a dare?” Grantaire already knows the answer but asks anyway. Jehan nods and gulps down on his beer. “I will do right by Courfeyrac, then. I like him already.”

Indeed he intends to make Courfeyrac not repent having dared Enjolras to pick up Grantaire. By doing that Courfeyrac has granted Grantaire the best day he has had for a while. It does help that Enjolras seems to be the type to get riled up very easily, and that just makes Grantaire itch to get him there.

On they go through roads in empty fields. Grantaire never asks where their next stop is or how long it’s going to take for them to tire of him and throw him out. He thinks that will happen once they realize Grantaire has drank all the booze they still had inside the cooler. Jehan doesn’t seem to mind, but that is probably because Jehan is a flower and it would take a lot more than that to rile him up.

He gets to know all of the others a little bit as they go, with the exception of Enjolras who is still reading Voltaire in his corner. Marius appears to be an awkwardly excited but good-hearted kid, Joly has to include at least one illness in every sentence he speaks, Éponine is nice and curious, and all he can say for Combeferre is that he is a good driver.

They are all nice to him and are intrigued beyond belief when Grantaire tells them he is not joking, that he legitimately is headed nowhere. None of them seem to feel pity for him, something Grantaire is pleased about. Most of them just seem to be in awe of him. Jehan even sighs, “To be free and to know nothing of duty’s demons.” They all laugh and Courfeyrac ruffles his hair. Even Joly comes to join them eventually, saying he misses his girlfriend, Musichetta. He arrives asking if Grantaire has, by any chance, any illnesses they should know about. Grantaire fakes a fit of coughing in lieu of answer and the mortified expression in Joly’s face is the funniest thing he has seen all day.

Grantaire takes pride in the fact that he succeeded in forgetting about Enjolras’ presence inside the van for the time they spent talking. They were at it for hours, all through the morning and during lunch (which consisted of left-over birthday cake from Jehan’s birthday the day before). With empty stomachs, the conversation dies down and all of the friends lie down on the small mattress almost on top of one another and doze off to sleep. It is only then that Grantaire is faced again with Enjolras, who is wide-awake and still reading.

Taking advantage of their unconsciousness, Combeferre, the designated driver, changes the radio station to one that is airing classical music, humming along with the melody. He feels like Combeferre is a limousine driver and there is a dark window separating him from Grantaire, Enjolras, and his unconscious friends. Perhaps what’s at fault here is the fact that Grantaire has nothing to entertain himself with now that the people who actually like him are asleep and the music is one he doesn’t know or enjoy. Nevertheless, he can no longer ignore the disdainful looks Enjolras throws his way from behind his reading glasses, and how much they make Grantaire’s skin crawl.  Still, he tolerates them for a while, in an effort to avoid causing a fuss, and also because he does not want to be kicked out just yet. Inevitably, his curiosity ends up taking the best out of him.

“Okay, what is your problem with me, oh mighty Apollo?” He blurts out.

Enjolras raises his eyes from his book and looks as if ignorant to the reasoning behind Grantaire’s question.

“There is no problem,” He lies perfectly. Had Grantaire not just witnessed the distaste in his features with his own eyes he would have believed Enjolras’ words.

“Yes, there is. You’re making sure I see you glaring at me, probably because you can’t kick me out and you want to coerce me into leaving. Probably because you’re Courfeyrac’s bitch and he doesn’t let you do it yourself.” Grantaire feels a flimsy wave of joy as he says what Jehan had warned him against a few hours prior. Enjolras’ features contract and Grantaire thinks he hit the nail in the head.

“Fine, I do have a problem with you.” Enjolras confesses but doesn’t evolve.

“Well, are you going to share?” Grantaire asks.

“No.” Enjolras opens his book again and proceeds to ignore Grantaire. The forbidden word he uttered does not go by unnoticed by Grantaire who, witnessing him saying it, is hit by an idea. He shakes Courfeyrac’s leg with his foot to wake him and hopes he does not make a show out of being woken up. Thankfully he only snaps an eye open and remains silent. Grantaire puts a finger on his lips and somehow manages gestures for him to close his eye again without Enjolras noticing. Courfeyrac does as he’s told.

Grantaire tests his theory again - that Enjolras thinks he is ignorant of Grantaire being in on a certain term that is under a contract he signed. Just to make sure.

“You’re not going to tell me why you have a problem with me?” Grantaire asks.

“No. Are you deaf as well as dim-witted?”

Grantaire wants to slap his carved-by-the-gods face so hard that he has to close his hands into fists. One sneaking glance at Courfeyrac and he can see the boy is amused by their exchange and onto Grantaire’s plan.

“No. Are you scared as well as rude?” Grantaire retorts, leaning forward and demanding Enjolras’ attention. He gets what he demands. Enjolras must feel his gaze burning a hole in his head because he puts down his book and stares back, as if accepting a challenge.

“Fine. If you insist, I’ll tell you. I don’t trust you. You have no goals in life, you care about nothing, in the space of four hours since you came in here you drank at least a whole six pack of beer on your own and you barely ate. You’re an irresponsible drunk, and from the redness in your eyes I suspect you might even be a druggie. And on top of that you’re a hitchhiker. I don’t trust hitchhikers, their relentless trust in strangers is dubious at the least.” Enjolras speaks in a calm voice, assessing Grantaire as he speaks.

“So you’re saying I’m a drunk loser and you’re a prejudiced prick?” Grantaire looks harder still.

“That’s not what I said. But if that’s how you choose you see it, go ahead.” Enjolras says.

“I could say the exact same thing about people who pick up hitchhikers.” Grantaire retorts.

“Except I only did it on a dare.” Enjolras crosses his arms over his chest. His thin, white shirt shows almost the entirety of his arms and as infuriating as he is, Grantaire cannot help but notice how firm and delicate they look at the same time.

“You did it, nonetheless. Which means you’re Courfeyrac’s bitch all right.” Enjolras cringes at this. "So you don’t like me and you want me to leave?”

“No!” He exclaims. “You seem to like putting words in my mouth. I want you to do whatever you want to do. You’re a free man and you’re old enough to make your decisions, I just deeply disagree with every single one of them.” Enjolras loses the coldness in his voice and looks down from Grantaire’s eyes. Alas, he chooses to land his gaze on Courfeyrac and sees his friend with his eyes closed but clearly trying hard not to laugh out loud. Finally Grantaire gets his wish: in one second Enjolras is transformed into a ranging being, fuming at the mouth and cheeks burning red. “Were you two—“ He never gets to finish his sentence.

Courfeyrac jumps upright.

“Three ‘no’s in less than five minutes. And the award goes to dim-witted Grantaire!” He shrieks.

Jehan, who was lying half on top of Courfeyrac, wakes up and looks dazedly back and forth from all the other three boys.

“What happened?” Jehan asks in a husky voice.

“Enjolras was tricked into reaching the ‘no’ limit. Again! ” Courfeyrac is delighted with joy as he tells this to Jehan.

“No matter.” Enjolras declares. “You’re not going to fool me again. Combeferre, pull over, I need to take a piss.”

Combeferre is already pulling over when, still half asleep, Éponine says, “I want to pee too, and I am not going to pee on the side of the road!”

“You aren’t?” Courfeyrac asks her. There is malice in his voice.

Éponine opens her mouth to answer but closes it again.

“I… am… not.” She says.

“’Not’ is equivalent of ‘no’. That’s your second one today, by the way.” Courfeyrac gives her a triumphant wink.

Éponine looks like she is cursing him inwardly and very hard.

“I swear I am going to find out where you keep those contracts and I am going to burn them. Enjolras will help me, won’t you, Enjolras?” She turns to the said man.

Enjolras is already opening the door but he stops to regard her with a bitter smile.

“Definitely.” He says.

It turns out that Enjolras and Éponine were not the only ones with full bladders. They all spread across the empty field and relieve themselves. Grantaire in particular, feels like he peed a whole person when he is finished. And already he wishes they had more beer inside. Maybe he shouldn’t have drank it all at once. He should’ve made it last.

There is no use dwelling on the past, though.

When he makes his way back, only Enjolras is already back at the van, seating down with his legs hanging outside. Éponine’s curses can be heard echoing in the distance, as well as Courfeyrac’s laughter.

Grantaire approaches Enjolras. He stands in front of him, blocking the sun from his face with his body, while Enjolras remains seated. Stubborn as he is, Enjolras does not look up at first, but eventually, most likely due to annoyance, Grantaire is conceded the attention. Enjolras looks up at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak what is on his mind. Grantaire intends to, but then Enjolras licks his lips and his train of thought escapes him.

“Come to rejoice in your victory? You know, I’m sure there is a clause in that contract that says it doesn’t even count if the person asking the questions isn’t one of us.” Enjolras says.

Grantaire regains control over his wits and laughs amiably, choosing to ignore the undoubtedly intentional choice of words. “I’m pretty sure there isn’t. But then you don’t have to worry about it as long as you don’t say it again, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Enjolras stands up while he admits this reluctantly, as if compensating for the demining admission by facing Grantaire head on and never wavering.

“But then, does that mean that you would have to do whatever I asked you to do right now?” As he speaks Enjolras faces him with a glare that only grows in intensity. Grantaire has never seen eyes as focused as Enjolras’.  “What if I asked you to—“

But he never does get a chance to ask anything because Marius breaks the moment with a violent slap on the van’s door, saying, “Let’s go boys!” to which Jehan follows with a loud whimper.

“Did Rose ever do you any harm, Marius?” He asks in all seriousness.

Marius regards him quizzically.

“Who’s Rose?”

“The car!” Jehan is genuinely offended.

“Sorry…er… Rose.” Marius says awkwardly, and attempts, even more awkwardly, to pet the car. “All right then, can we go now? We’re almost there!”

“Where is there?” Grantaire asks now, curious due to the excitement in Marius’ voice.

“Marseille,” answers Combeferre. “And I am not driving there. Give me a break, I want to feel my legs when we get there.”

“And what exactly is so exciting about Marseille?” Grantaire asks as they all stumble back inside the van and collapse on the mattress, with the exception of Enjolras who has agreed to drive the rest of the way.

“You mean not counting the amazing sights?” Says Jehan, but it’s Courfeyrac who gives him the answer he was looking for:

“Beautiful beaches. And by beautiful beaches I mean skinny-dipping at night.”

Grantaire cannot believe his ears. The night’s plans include skinny-dipping and Enjolras is out of ‘no’s to give.

He is this close to believing he has stumbled into some kind of luck spell.

It’s been a little more than half and hour since they left from their pit stop. The radio is again tuned into the cool station (“Combeferre you should never be allowed near music, ever,” were Courfeyrac’s words when he had finally realized the music that was playing), and everyone was talking amiably. This time, even Enjolras joined in, despite the driving. Combeferre was riding shotgun and they mostly talked to each other. Grantaire assumed they were best friends, judging by the smiles they threw back at each other and the fact that Enjolras had not been worried that Combeferre could hear him say ‘no’ before.

The first time he notices Courfeyrac making kissy lips to Jehan he discards it as being something he would normally do. But it doesn’t take long for him to realize that Courfeyrac is making kissy lips to everyone except him. Jehan only blushes, but Éponine elbows him hard in the ribs.

“Ouch!” He moans. “Come on, let’s play my favourite game.”

“No one is going to play Kiss or Dare, Courfeyrac. Have you no idea the amount of germs that are passed on in that game?” Joly trembles at the thought.

“Courfeyrac has made a dare for himself.” Jehan explains to Grantaire in his ear. “He says that by the end of the road trip he will have kissed all of his – I quote – “fellow road trippers” at least once.”

“I would say yes if only there were more girls in here, dude. I don’t want to kiss you lads.” Says Marius.

“I would kiss you, Courf.” Grantaire smirks and Courfeyrac bites his lip. “Unfortunately, I am not on your list so there’s little I can do for you.”

“Oh but you can join us. I like you. We’ll keep you.” He says. “Do you hear that, you sorry sons of bitches, you should all learn from Grantaire.”

Enjolras’ scoff can be heard clearly even from where they are seating. Grantaire is trained in ignoring it by this point. He says “Thanks but no thanks,” albeit only half-heartedly.

“Marius, are you feeling all right?” Éponine has a hand on his shoulder and is looking at him with worry. Marius looks as if he has stopped breathing. He picks something up from behind Grantaire and caresses it in his hand.

It’s the photograph Grantaire took with Cosette at the train station that morning.

“What is it?” Éponine asks.

Almost in slow motion, Marius turns to Grantaire.

“Who is she?” His voice falters, Éponine’s face falls.

“Cosette.” Grantaire tells him.

“I need to see her. Will you introduce us?”

“I can’t. I just met her today at a train station. She left and I stayed.” He says, conveniently forgetting to mention that he knew a way to see her again. Marius would soon forget her.

“Can I keep this?” Marius asks.

“No, that was a gift.”

Marius tears the picture at the middle and hands over the part with Grantaire’s face on it. He is slightly taken aback by this and fails to take it from Marius’ hand. There is silence. And then Joly breaks it by singing, “Marius is in looooooove!”

“Oh, Cosette, put your hand on my courgette!” Sings Courfeyrac.

They all laugh, except Éponine, who only smiles slightly.

It is nightfall when they arrive at their destination. Enjolras stops the car at the edge of a cliff. The frail sunlight that is still present lets them see the sea in the distance, the moonlight already shining like silver on the surface of the water. The sky is a shade between purple and dark blue and Jehan is contemplating all of this with a kind of wonder in his eyes that Grantaire has not seen in a long time.

“I do not know what it is about you that opens and closes. Only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses. Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.” Jehan recites to no one in particular and to the entire world at the same time. Courfeyrac ruffles his hair and hands him a flower the size of his pinkie finger. The little thing is torn and missing a few petals, but it seems to mean the world to him, nonetheless. He puts it in his hair before following behind Courfeyrac.

“Give Jehan a flower and a poem and you have conquered his heart.” Says Enjolras from beside Grantaire. His voice is unexpected but welcome.

Give me an annoying and impossible impersonation of Apollo and there goes mine too, thinks Grantaire.

Courfeyrac shows up holding a paper and a pen. “Item two: skinny dipping in Marseille.” He says, and makes a show out of scratching the item off the list.

“We are not following that list, Courf.” Says Éponine.

“Oh, yes, we are.”

“If I get pneumonia out of this, Courfeyrac…” Joly sighs.

“It will have been for the sake of fun.”

Enjolras puts his arm around Joly and they both walk away. Grantaire can see that Enjolras is telling him something, but he cannot hear what it is. He also notices that everyone is carrying a towel except him, and that he cannot see a beach anywhere near.

Combeferre approaches him then, with a spare towel for him to use. He says it’s his, that he always packs up a spare of everything. He then proceeds to tell Grantaire that the beach is down the cliff, that there is a flight of old stone stairs leading down to a beach that no one ever goes to because no one likes to use those stairs anymore.

Grantaire gulps down and accepts the towel. Enjolras is not even attempting to get out of this, there is no way he is going to miss item 2 from Courfeyrac’s list.

The way down is tricky. Grantaire is only holding Combeferre’s towel in one hand and carrying his guitar case on his back, but even that little weight plays with his balance on the uneven steps. He wonders if he will ever be able to leave after seeing Apollo in his naked glory. He also wonders how is it that he will ever manage to avert his eyes from Enjolras once they set on him, and he unashamedly pictures Enjolras in his head.

Grantaire is picturing a certain trail in Enjolras’ belly and loses his footing.

“Careful there!” Warns Combeferre. He decides to focus his attention on the steps from then on.

When he finally makes it to the beach, everyone is already half stripped down and Enjolras is nowhere to be seen. Éponine is the only one who is still fully clothed. She has her eyes tightly closed and is facing away from the boys.

A naked-from-the-waist-down Courfeyrac is heading straight to Grantaire. He grabs him by the wrist and urges Grantaire to strip down quickly, that they all must run toward the water at the same time and that if anyone chickens out that will earn them a “Courfeyrac Dare”. 

Courfeyrac does not seem to notice Enjolras’ absence or care, so Grantaire hides his disappointment and strips down quickly.

“Let’s do this.” He says.

And they do. All of them, except Éponine, run toward the water and dive, and no one chickens out, to Courfeyrac’s dismay. The water is so cold; Grantaire can instantly feel his bones freezing. But when he comes back to the surface there is laughter everywhere and he doesn’t regret going in.

“No one chickened out? Not even Joly?” Courfeyrac jokes. Joly is right beside him and sinks his head back under the water in response. When he comes back to the surface, he yells, “We’re all brave fuckers!”

“Except Éponine,” Grantaire says.

“Give her a break, she is the only girl.” Marius tells Grantaire. “Come on, Éponine, you’re the bravest of us all!” Marius urges her, smiling and infecting her with his smile.

“Fine!” She yells and slowly begins to strip.

It is as if Enjolras waited for the right moment to appear, purposely saving Éponine from gawking eyes. Grantaire is the first to spot him. He sees a figure moving in the distance, on top of a severely high rock. It must be some four meters high and it is so far away and up that although Grantaire can tell he is indeed undressed, he cannot possibly hope to discern anything from anything. All he sees is blond hair and white skin.

“Is that… Enjolras?” Grantaire gawks.

“He’s quick.” Says Combeferre.

“And there, Monsieur’s and Mademoiselle, is the bravest fucker of us all. Enjolr-arse.” Courfeyrac says in awe.

“He’s going to die.” Says Joly.

“He’s going to jump from there?” Grantaire asks.

As if he’s heard Grantaire’s question, Enjolras dives at that moment, head first, and lands perfectly in the water, barely making any splash or sound. They don’t see him after that and Joly actually climbs out of the water, wraps himself around a towel and goes out looking for his friend.

Grantaire prays silently for him to not only to appear, but also to do so still out of his clothes, be it in the water or in the sand. His prayers are, of course, not answered. When Enjolras does show up later with Joly they are both dressed in their clothes, their hair still dripping wet and lips slightly purple from the cold. Watching him there, embracing Joly and looking immensely happy about his friend’s worry for him, smiling genuinely to Joly, stirs something in Grantaire, something that urges him to slip out of the water. Grantaire quickly rinses his body with Combeferre’s towel and puts his dirty clothes back on again. Already clothed, he waits a while for Joly to disentangle himself from Enjolras and when he finds his opening he approaches Enjolras.

“Oh, it’s you.” Enjolras says as he notices Grantaire’s presence.

“There you go again. Is disappointment really all you see when you look at me? That I am a drunk, irresponsible, potential druggie?” he is standing with slightly hunched shoulders, looking up into Enjolras’ eyes that in the darkness of the night in that abandoned beach seem more like windows into the universe.

Enjolras takes a while to consider his question.

“I see the guitar you carry around with you everywhere, too. You even carried it down here for no reason at all since you cannot even play it anymore. When I look at you I see the drunk Grantaire and I see the talented Grantaire. But talent in itself is nothing if neglected. And all you do is neglect it. You waste it and mock it by drowning yourself in drink. When I look at you I see an individual who wastes his talent everyday and who will keep doing it until the end of his days.” Enjolras speaks with a neutral and resigned expression, unaware that his words are making Grantaire’s hand tighten into fists and his nails carve into the palm of his hand. “But I am always willing to be proven wrong.”

“That is a bunch of crap.” Grantaire says.

“Is it? Well then, take out your guitar and play something for me. If you impress me I’ll admit I am wrong, and if you fail, if you can’t even go a minute without sounding terrible like I am certain you can’t, then you’ll have to go dive off that crag like I did. What do you say, are you up for a challenge, Grantaire?” Enjolras is grinning and Grantaire is torn between wanting to punch it and wanting to kiss it off.

He knows Enjolras is right, though. There is no use in denying that he hasn’t been able to play anything decent since his friends kicked him out of the band, completely blocked. He also admits that might be because he has been drinking more since then. It might also not be because of that. What does Enjolras know about drinking or playing guitar, anyway?

“Fine.” He says, and he holds Enjolras’ gaze as he begins stripping out of his clothes again. All the while neither of them look away, and if Grantaire feels immensely turned on by that intense look on him, well, he can’t be blamed. Enjolras, on the other hand, doesn’t show any sign of feeling any arousal whatsoever. His lips are tightly shut in a line, and not a muscle in his face moves. Grantaire has no idea what thoughts are going through his mind right now, but he wishes really hard that he could find out.

When Grantaire is fully undressed, he stays chained to the spot by Enjolras’ eyes. Breaking away from them requires much will power that he didn’t know he possessed. Eventually, he succeeds and makes his way to the damned crag. But then Enjolras reaches for him and stops him with a firm grip on his wrist.

“Forget what I said, that was a stupid idea. I do have those occasionally.” He says.

“No, I’m not one to back away from a challenge.”

“Grantaire, you’re drunk, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“You underestimate my alcohol tolerance.” Grantaire forces himself to leave Enjolras and his cold grip behind and heads for the god-forsaken crag. He tries not to picture how high it must be and how intimidating the sea must look from that high. He focuses on good happy thoughts like Courfeyrac giving a flower to Jehan, Cosette’s face when he told her his name, his guitar, and the feeling of being on stage playing for other people. He thinks of Enjolras’ stare as he stripped off his clothes and let them fall down on the sand, feeling the warm summer breeze in his skin that he imagined were ghosts of Enjolras’ hands.

The crag is only a feeble presence in his mind.

When he finally gets there the sound of the waves crashing against the rock is enough to frighten him. He opts for the ‘throw and hope’ method, holds his breath, and without looking down, jumps without thinking.

His dive has to be shameful compared to Enjolras’. It is loud, it makes an enormous splash and it hurts all of his bones, that freeze so much harder than before.  As his body collides with the water he imagines his bones are icicles breaking into pieces because that is what it feels like. Still, it must be his imagination, because he manages to come back to the surface and swim to the shore, where he stays lying down on the sand and looking up to the stars. It’s while he is there, feeling his bones still vibrating from the impact, that he makes his decision. He cannot take it any longer, everyone’s lack of belief in him – first his band, then Cosette’s father. Enjolras was the icing on top of the cake.

There must be something he can do to prove them wrong.

Jehan shows up then, to help him up to his feet and to support Grantaire’s weight in his shoulders as they walk back to the place beach where Jehan’s friends are. He has Grantaire’s towel and his clothes, which Grantaire takes gladly and puts on once again, in spite of how sick he is of them and how dirty they are.

When they get back, Grantaire sits down next to a still naked Courfeyrac who is lying down on the sand.

“Did Enjolras make you do that? I will kick his ass.” He says.

Grantaire shakes his head. “Listen, your road trip is on for two more weeks, right?” Courfeyrac nods. “And what is the last item on your list?”

Courfeyrac smirks.

“Road tripper’s orgy. Its only fitting.”

Grantaire laughs.

“Do you think that orgy could happen in Montreuil?”

Courfeyrac seats up and frowns.

“That’s a bit far, but we could do it…” He says. “Wait a minute, are you letting me keep you, dim-witted Grantaire?”

Grantaire smiles and turns to Marius, who is still dressing himself.

“Marius, I am going to take you to Cosette.”

Marius seems confused for a moment, but then the words sink in and he is striding over to Grantaire and hugging him.

“And as for you, Courfeyrac, I guess it is fair game to kiss me now.”

“You don’t have to ask twice, Monseiur.”