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“Grantaire!”
The dark haired man turned around as he heard a familiar voice call his name. His eyes found his friends, Joly and Bossuet, seated at a table. He smiled and quickly walked over to join them.
“Hello, friends, what brings the two of you here?” He asked, grabbing a small piece of cheese from the platter resting on the table as he took a seat.
Joly made a disapproving tsk sound, but from the little grin on his face, Grantaire knew the medical student wasn’t truly upset by his helping himself.
“Bossuet and I decided to eat a late lunch together, seeing as Musichetta is having a day with her companions.”
“’Aiiiiiire, hello, friend!” Bossuet slurred, already more than a little tipsy. His arm was draped around Joly’s shoulder, his fingers playing with the younger man’s light brown hair.
Grantaire chuckled and grabbed another piece of cheese. “I see you are well today, dear Laigle de Meaux.”
Joly laughed and shrugged off Bossuet’s arm. “No, he’s drinking away the horrors of bad luck.”
“What was it today?”
“Chamber pot,” Bossuet mumbled sadly.
“Pardieu!”
---
“Ohhh, d’you recall the day’ou ‘it your ‘ead on nearly every ‘anging sign in Pariiis?”
“Hard’y! Tha’ ‘ole day’s mostly blur’; I ‘member bein’ on m’back in the streets most o’tha day!”
“You were! Your clothes ‘ere all muddied, and Joly, Jolllly, you’ere in near ‘ysterics, worry for his brains!”
“And right’y sooo!” The medical student cried before taking a long swig of wine from one of the many bottles now littering their small table. “’ere coulda been sa terr’ble damage!”
Grantaire chuckled and tilted his head back, draining the bottle in his hand. His gaze drifted to the nearest window, where he saw the sun beginning to set on the city.
The three men had been eating and drinking (mostly drinking) for the majority of the afternoon, recalling the days when Bossuet’s luck got the best of him.
A comfortable silence fell on their table, as they attempted to regain some sobriety. Bossuet had lost consciousness, his head resting on the table. Joly made sure he was breathing well, before calling to the barmaid for coffee.
Grantaire closed his eyes, a smile still pulling at his lips at the memory of Bossuet’s injuries. His brow furrowed, though, when he thought of the same happening to Enjolras. Knowing the blond leader, he was likely to get himself into trouble and be seriously injured, more so than Bossuet’s luck. That was terrifying and snapped Grantaire out of his drunken haze. Before he could stop himself, his thoughts started spilling out of his mouth.
“I do understand why you were upset, though. If Enjolras were ever injured, I’d be terribly worried. He’d likely be seriously injured; his radical words often stir the wrong people. Marble can chip, after all. I can’t imagine him being injured; I’d go mad with worry. I adore him; love him far too much to see him hurt.”
Grantaire froze, realizing what he’d just admitted. “I—I mean…perhaps, I misspoke--those words were too strong. I didn’t mean—“He cut himself off, burying his face in his hands, too afraid to look at Joly, too afraid of what he might see in his eyes.
A warm, gentle hand curled around his wrist, prompting him to look up.
Joly smiled kindly at him, “My friend, you have no need to be afraid.”
Grantaire sighed shakily, still avoiding Joly’s eyes. “And why shouldn’t I, Joly?” He asked sarcastically, his words bitter. “Do you not now find me even more of an abomination?”
Joly’s brow furrowed. “Grantaire, I have never thought you an abomination and—“ He paused as the barmaid brought over the coffee. He continued in a low voice when she left. “You have no need to be neither afraid nor ashamed because we are similar in that respect.”
“Joly, what the devil are you talking about?”
Joly sighed exasperatedly and rolled his eyes. “I mean that Bossuet and I share more than Musichetta.”
“You mean, you’re…” Grantaire trailed off with a vague gesture.
Joly nodded, a light smile on his lips.
“But what about Musichetta?”
“We both love her and she loves the both of us. And Bossuet and I, well,” Joly replied, bringing a hand up to push lightly at the unconscious man’s shoulder. Receiving a soft grunt in return, Joly grinned and continued, “We are incredibly fond of each other.”
Grantaire looked from Bossuet to Joly. “I had no idea,” he said, exhaling softly, relieved that his sudden admission did not end tragically.
Joly shrugged and took a long sip of his coffee. “Like you, we choose to keep it unknown.” He reached out his hand to gently grasp Grantaire’s wrist again. “It is not something to be ashamed of. You do know that?”
Grantaire sighed, his fingers running along the rim of his own cup. “Many would disagree with you, Joly.”
“And many would agree with me. It was, indeed, decriminalized for a reason.” Joly paused, his chest filling with worry. “Grantaire, is this why you…”
Grantaire looked at the younger man, a scowl pulling at his lips. “What, Joly, is this why I drink myself into oblivion?”
Joly’s eyebrows furrowed, his face showing an expression of frustrated sympathy. “’Aire—“
“Joly, it is all very well and good that you and Bossuet are fine with the way you are, but not all of us have the luxury of self-acceptance. Some of us loathe these undesirable portions of ourselves and wish to execute them by whatever means necessary.”
Joly swallowed hard, his eyes watching Grantaire steadily.
Grantaire continued, “Being told, repeatedly, that there is nothing worse than being a sodding bugger is quite effective. One begins to believe it. One begins to hate oneself.” Grantaire paused, his throat closing up as tears filled his eyes. “How do you do it, Joly?”
Joly remained silent for a few moments, his mind trying to find the right words. “’Aire, you did not choose this. I didn’t choose this, nor did Bossuet, nor does any man. It cannot be changed. It can be disguised, hidden, but never erased. Perhaps, it is for the best that it cannot be changed; love is not a mistake.” Joly reached forward to grasp Grantaire’s hands tightly. “We are not mistakes.”
Grantaire sighed shakily, tiny tears falling onto his cheeks. “I do not wish to be this way, Joly.”
“I know. But we are.” Joly inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “You are this way, and I am this way, and we can do nothing but accept it.”
---
It was about a week later, after an evening Les Amis meeting, when Bossuet took a seat next to Grantaire.
“So, my friend,” He grinned, stealing a sip of wine from Grantaire’s bottle. “Joly told me about the discussion the two of you had last week while I was unconscious.”
Grantaire lightly punched Bossuet’s shoulder playfully, but his face fell when he realized what the other man had said. “He did?”
Bossuet nodded and looked at Grantaire carefully. “He told me about the struggles you’ve been having.”
Grantaire nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on the table before them.
“I know how you feel, ‘Aire.”
The dark-haired man raised his eyes to look at Bossuet questioningly. “You do?”
Bossuet nodded and continued, “My father was very vocal about his distaste for ‘deviants’; that was the most polite word he used. I loathed myself for a very long time, and I cursed my bad luck for making me this way.”
“What changed?”
Bossuet smiled. “I met Joly. And for the first time I didn’t hate myself for what I was feeling. I came to realize that love is far too valuable to let slip away.”
“And if one’s love does not feel the same?”
Bossuet paused. “If I understand you, he has never shown any attention to women.”
Grantaire sighed. “Nor to men.”
“Did I hear you furtively murmuring my name, Laigle?” Joly called, a huge grin on his face as he approached the table with a bottle of wine. “Are you spreading gossip about me?”
Bossuet gasped playfully, an expression of mock horror covering his face. “Never, Joly, how dare you even suggest such a thing?”
Joly laughed and dropped himself into an empty chair next to the bald man. “What are we discussing, friends?”
“The same as the two of you spoke of while I was…um…”
“Inebriated,” Grantaire supplied, pouring himself some wine.
“Inebriated,” Bossuet repeated, grinning at his lover.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Joly said, taking a swig straight from the bottle. “There’s a group that meets Saturday evenings at Café Voltaire, very nice young chaps from what I’ve heard. They play billiards and drink and such.” Joly raised his eyebrows playfully. “I think you should go.”
Grantaire spluttered and coughed as he practically inhaled his sip of wine. “You are not serious, Joly.”
“I am very serious, ‘Aire!” Joly cried indignantly. “You should go, perhaps you’ll meet someone.”
“Perhaps I don’t want to meet someone,” Grantaire countered.
“There can’t be any harm in going,” Bossuet chimed in, his voice barely disguising his amusement.
“True,” Grantaire admitted. “But I’m not going.”
“The password is Aristogeiton,” Joly smirked.
“Joly!”