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Grantaire in combat mode is nothing like his playful brawls with Bahorel or bar fights with a handsy patron. The moment he steps into that ring, he transforms from man to prowling beast, circling his opponent with the look of a predator zeroing in on tonight’s dinner.
It’s not that the other guy isn’t good – he is, really. But Grantaire is better by leaps and bounds, and the moment he goes in for the kill, everyone knows it’s over. The fight doesn’t last long, barely ten minutes of dodging and circling and throwing well-aimed punches.
As the crowd goes even wilder and the referee crowns R the winner, the Amis stand in what is possibly post-traumatic shock (“Because it is traumatic,” Courfeyrac would argue, “that those abs be covered up by t-shirts.”).
Perhaps that’s why they don’t notice Grantaire walking towards them until it’s too late.
“Uh, guys?” call Courfeyrac. “He’s heading our way.”
It’s a mad scramble to the exit, but there are too many people and not enough time. Grantaire reaches them just as they get to the door, hands grabbing onto Bahorel to stop their escape.
“Hello,” he says, grinning bemusedly. “Fancy meeting all of you here.”
Courfeyrac, who is a little distracted by the scantily-clad girls hanging off either shoulder of Grantaire’s, smiles at him. “Uh. Yeah. Heh, see, it’s a long story…”
At Grantaire’s unimpressed expression, Eponine steps forward. “How come you never told us you’re an underground boxing champion?”
“You never asked,” he shrugs, careful not to dislodge the girls. They look bored by the conversation, their hands running reverently up and down Grantaire’s well-defined arms. “But seriously, what are you guys doing here?”
“We came to see you fight!” says Bahorel, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We found out through Facebook, you little shit.”
More people are crowding around them, trying to talk to ‘R’ and take pictures with him. They form a ring around the group of friends, pushing and shoving until it’s a little hard to breathe.
“Look,” shouts Combeferre, trying to be heard over the din of another fight starting. “We should continue this conversation elsewhere.”
“Yeah!” inputs Courfeyrac. “We’ll meet tomorrow at Enjolras’ flat.”
Enjolras, who has been subconsciously eyeing the girls clinging to Grantaire with obvious distaste, startles at hearing his name. “Why at my flat?”
Clapping him on the back cheerfully, Courfeyrac grins. “Because yours is the largest, duh! ‘Taire, you’re very welcome to bring along those two lovely ladies.” He backtracks at Enjolras’ glare. “Or not, that’s cool too. But you totally should,” he leans in and stage-whispers the last part, winking at the barely-clothed girls.
After setting up a date and time, the Amis filter out of the building, leaving Grantaire behind to do whatever it is an underground boxer does after winning a fight.
“Tomorrow should be interesting,” murmurs Combeferre to Enjolras as they watch Bahorel drag Feuilly into a headlock and Bossuet play referee. Eponine and Cosette are talking quietly, and from the look on Marius’ face, it must be a continuation of their earlier conversation, seeing as he is a not particularly flattering shade of green. Jehan is looking at Courfeyrac reproachfully, presumably about his invitation to the girls. Joly is panicking about pneumonia as he huddles in his coat.
“Tell me about it,” groans Enjolras.