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The day Grantaire met the love of his life was a Friday.
When he tells the story, years later, he’ll say that he woke up that abnormally warm Friday morning and he knew in that instant that big things were going to happen to him. He’ll say that he skipped along the halls of his university, merrily anticipating the grand event that was to occur later. He’ll say that he was a ray of sunshine in the grey that was Paris.
In reality, Grantaire woke up hungover and could barely make it to the garbage can before he threw up the entire contents of his stomach. He had, in retrospect, drank maybe a bit too much the night before. A flask of raspberry vodka and 5 beers was maybe just a tad excessive. But only a bit.
He skipped his morning classes (art history and world religion) in favour of sitting in the Luxembourg and people watching with a beer by his side. He fell asleep on one of the benches, and barely woke up in time to catch his painting class (which he ended up attending drunk and groggy, as per usual). By the time he was in any sort of good spirits, it was around 8 at night and he was headed to the Musain, a bar that was frequented by poor university students like himself.
When he tells the story later, he’ll say that he spotted the blonde head immediately, as if a spotlight sought him out. In truth, it was an hour and 4 beers before he sat down with a large group of friendly men who introduced themselves as “Les Amis de L’ABC,” explaining that they were a political group on campus. Grantaire scoffed at their collective title - “Pretentious weirdos,” he muttered - but nodded as they introduced themselves individually: Combeferre, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, and Bahorel. They told him their leader was in the bathroom, Marius and Cosette were out on a date and that Eponine and Musichetta were over by the bar.
With the ease that comes with drunkenness, the group of them settled into a heated discussion on politics and religion within a small number of minutes. Grantaire was soon elected to get refills for the lot of them, but before he managed to get to the bar he collided with a stranger. Grantaire’s drunken lack of control on his fairly large self meant that both he and the stranger went sprawling on the filthy bar floor.
“Shit shit fuck sorry fucking shit I’m so clumsy,” Grantaire said, scrambling up. “Here, let me help you -” He froze as he finally got a look at the stranger. He had these curls - these beautiful golden curls - and his face... He seemed fairly tall and well built, and he had the air of a god surrounding him. The overall effect that the stranger induced was, simply put, overwhelming. “Holy shit, you are the hottest thing I have ever seen. I’m R. Well, my name is Grantaire. But you can call me R. That’s what people call me. Because, Grantaire, grande r, get it?” He was rambling and his words were too slurred to properly understand, but he didn’t care. He was too entranced by this god.
The golden stranger accepted Grantaire’s outstretched arm with a red face. “Enjolras,” he said in return.
Grantiare’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, Enj! Mon ange gardien. Comment allez-vous aujourd’hui?” He realized, in the back of his head, that he was making a fool of himself, but he couldn’t stop. In that moment, he was completely convinced that Enjolras had descended from heaven to appear before him.
Enjolras gave him a piercing look, clearly irritated by Grantaire’s antics. “Can you just leave me alone so I can drink in peace?”
Grantaire stumbled back, hands clutched over his heart. His face was the very image of indignant shock. “Apollo, must you wound me this way? Us mortals are frailer than les anges like you. Be gentler with your words, mon ange gardien. You may burn me up, after all!”
(Grantaire will say that he swept Enjolras off his feet with his biting wit and flawless flirting skills.)
“Piss off,” Enjolras said, shoving past Grantaire to get to his friends - Les Amis, of all people. Grantaire just smiled after him stupidly, utterly enamored with this god, this Apollo that walked among mortals like him.
The rest of the night wasn’t as eventful. Grantaire rejoined Les Amis, he and Enjolras got into a spirited argument, and he promised Combeferre that he’d go to one of their meetings. 4 hours and 5 beers later, Grantaire left their company to go home, filled with the adrenaline and the warm feeling that comes with making new friends.
Later, when Enjolras went back to his apartment for the night, he would check his pockets to find a slip of paper with a phone number written on it. Beside it was scrawled, “Don’t be a stranger, mon ange. xx R”