The first time it happened was the day after Grantaire’s 21st birthday in one of the more touristy areas of Chania. The square was full of bright eyed tourists sweating profusely in the summer heat. Grantaire only lived a few streets away and often come to paint there when money was particularly tight. Not that he minded, painting kept his hands busy and his mind buzzing. The fact that it paid the bills was a bonus in his eyes.
One of Grantaire’s favourite things to do was to go down to the markets and make small things for the tourists to take home. He loved the markets, the people that wove in and around the busy stalls, laughing and chattering in the sunlight. It made him appreciate the beauty of Chania even after all that it had been through.
At around noon, Grantaire had just finished a two minute spray painting piece of the fireworks he’d seen from his window the evening before. The little girl it was meant for; a tiny little thing with blonde braids that swung, smiled brightly and took the small tile into her hands like it was something precious. Her mother smiled kindly and handed Grantaire a 10 euro note, which he hurriedly pocketed before sweeping a little bow and winking at the girl as she continued walking, her parents holding hands a few paces behind her.
“¡Qué niña más adorable!” Grantaire spun to find a man standing by his side. He was tall with flyaway brown curls and the brightest smile Grantaire had ever seen. He seemed to exude a bubbly sense of joy in every movement. “Tienes mucho talento, señor. Me encantaría pintar como usted.” Grantaire stared.
“I’m sorry?” The man looked as confused as Grantaire felt. “I don’t speak - what is that, Spanish? - I don’t speak Spanish.”
“I said ‘You’re very talented sir.’” The man repeated himself and Grantaire’s eyes widened. The man was definitely still not speaking Greek but Grantaire had understood him and warmed at the compliment.
Courfeyrac, Grantaire learned, did indeed come from Spain. Barcelona to be exact and he was a veterinary surgeon. “I was about to go home for the day when I ended up here.” Courfeyrac looked around before his gaze settled back on Grantaire. “Where is here?” He asked.
“Chania. It’s in Greece.”
“It’s beautiful. Have you always lived here?” Grantaire fiddled with the brush still clasped his hand, the purple paint smudging into his skin.
“Pretty much yeah. I rent an apartment a few streets over.” He turned to point back towards the opposite end of the market and when he turned back, Courfeyrac was gone. Leaving Grantaire blinking in the afternoon light and seriously questioning whether or not he had spent too long out in direct sunlight.
*********
Jehan was half way through Baudelaire’s ‘Le Flacon’ before he realised that he was standing in Grantaire’s front room, the latter sat with a bottle of beer half raised towards his lips in surprise.
“Hello.” He said quietly. The other man gave a small smile which Grantaire returned. He blinked. He was no longer sat in his front room, the air around him cooled slightly and smoke curled around his head like mist. Grantaire found himself sat in a cafe that looked out onto a moonlit square that was unfamiliar to him. He was one of a crowd of enraptured onlookers as the man recited poetry from the small stage at the front of the room. He had sweeping red hair that was gathered in a delicate plait over one shoulder, he reminded Grantaire of a the sprite he’d painted for a production of ‘A midsummer night’s dream’ months ago. With startling green eyes and a lilting voice that made the french poetry flow like water. Grantaire’s fingers itched to sketch him. Jehan looked unperturbed by the constant teleportation act they were both involved with and Grantaire got the feeling that he too must have already experienced whatever the hell was going on. He applauded loudly when the poet finished his poem and Jehan had smiled at him and bowed, disappearing as he rose.
Grantaire had been feeling slow and sluggish that evening but as soon as Jehan had gone he frantically pulled out a canvas and started painting. Jehan had smiled so wide Grantaire was sure his face would split when he’d gotten round to showing the poet.
*************************
There were eight of them in all. Eight strangers that would flit back and forth from wherever they lived around the world to Grantaire’s shitty apartment in Chania. Jehan and Courfeyrac were the first by sheer chance. There was Feuilly from Warsaw, who had appeared in Grantaire’s bathroom covered head to toe in bright purple fabric dye from working for so long in the clothes factory near his home. Grantaire had almost fallen over in fright. Feuilly had shrugged and stepped past him to use the shower himself. Bossuet was a florist from Boston who had been sat on Grantaire’s sofa one evening when he arrived home drinking and laughing wildly to himself. Grantaire had had a shit day. Bossuet had taken one look at his pinched and angry face, offered him a beer and immediately cracked a joke about how much they’d save on air travel this way. Grantaire had met Joly through Bossuet, Joly was a medical student studying in Boston, he and Bousset made a great couple and he was often there when Granatire visited Bossuet’s shop. All three of them usually ended up sitting on Bossuet’s sofa, bitching about anything and everything that crossed their minds.
He’d met Bahorel one night in a dark alleyway in Morocco when Jehan had called for help across the stratosphere after being cornered after one of his readings. Grantaire had arrived on the scene to see Bahorel landing a brutal upper cut to the attackers. The guy had gone down screaming leaving Jehan stood there with blood dripping down his fist and a shocked expression on his face. Bahorel had given a loud booming laugh and clapped Grantaire on the back before asking if they wanted to get a drink.
Grantaire had grown to love them all, this small group of people he was bound to. The endless enthusiasm of Courfeyrac and Bahorel, the wisdom of Feuilly and Combeferre and the downright three musketeers-esque comradery Bossuet and Joly had pulled him into. He found it comforting that these people would be here for him and that as long as he had them he wouldn’t be alone.
The only person Grantaire hadn't met was Enjolras who, according to both Combeferre and Courfeyrac was from Paris and was studying to be a lawyer.
“Picture the startling good looks of an angel,” Courf had told him as he checked a cat's claws in his surgery. Grantaire was swinging his legs from the table he was perched on, “combined with the fury and intensity of the sun. That’s Enjolras.”
“He helped Bahorel appeal for compensation when his grandmother's shop was vandalised.” Combeferre told him. “He cares a lot about people and that’s something you don't see on such a level anymore. Especially after what he’s been through in his own life.” Grantaire cocked his head to one side.
“Why, what happened?” He was aware he was being intrusive but he couldn't help it. He really wanted to meet Enjolras. Having one person whose thoughts and feelings regularly entered his own head made him ache to meet the person they belonged to, such passion and intensity must make for an astounding person and an amazing friend. If anything was upsetting him Grantaire wanted to know; wanted to help. Combeferre bit his lip and shook his head.
“Let’s just say that his parents don't respect him for who he is.” Grantaire frowned, picking at the hem of his shirt but he knew better than to push Combeferre for more information than he wanted, if he felt that Grantaire shouldn’t know about something then Grantaire knew it was because he was respecting Enjolras’ wishes.
Grantaire thrived off the stories that others told him. The ones where Enjolras was a shining beacon of justice in his law firm and how he would volunteer at a whole magnitude of charities in and around Paris. Grantaire listened to all those stories whilst clinging to the hope that whatever was drawing all of them together simply hadn’t gotten around to throwing he and Enjolras together yet.
It wasn’t like he couldn’t feel Enjolras’ presence, that’s what made it even more infuriating when Grantaire couldn’t see him. There were days when Grantaire would walk around Chania with a fire in his bones that he’d never experienced before like he could do anything he put his mind to if he just tried hard enough. He felt the rage and the passion of this man that he had never made and his whole body ached for the feeling to remain. He became addicted to it - to the way it made him feel invincible and happy and whole but he inevitably went to sleep and awoke his old cynical self.
********
Grantaire awoke feverish and gasping. He spared a moment to look down at the empty bottle still clasped in his hand and sighed before collapsing back against his sofa. He knew it hadn’t been a good idea to take up Andras’ invitation the previous evening but Grantaire had felt lonely and more than a little pathetic since Eponine had left a week ago to visit Cosette and Feuilly for the first time so he’d figured it would be good for him. The splitting headache and nausea he’d woken up with begged to differ. At least Eponine would be back that evening.
The Enjolras in his dreams had been heaving and gasping, his breathing picking up as he curled himself up on a bed in a room Grantaire had never seen before, muttering to himself as he fought to regain control of himself. The bitter taste of tears hung heavy on Grantaire’s tongue and he reached up to wipe them from his face, blinking in confusion when his fingers came away dry. It’d seemed too real to him, like he was the man in his dream and yet there was no evidence that he’d left his apartment at all. Maybe he’d traveled in his sleep and he’d missed meeting the only member of the group he had yet to meet. He frowned at that thought. He hoped not, it would be way too unfair and completely like him to miss out on meeting Apollo incarnate because he was snoring.
He scooped up the sketchpad balanced on the table in front of him, turned to a new page and started lazily sketching out the man’s face, tears sliding down soft cheeks, expressive eyes framed by thick eyelashes and strong but delicate features. His hair curling around him like a halo, radiant and angelic. Being from France Enjolras’ voice was strong and passionate but the words were softer than his own slightly harsher Greek, more melodic, the words often fast; too quick for Grantaire to even start to recognise it. He loved how it sounded.
He spent the whole morning drawing that face over and over again. Filling page after page with sketches of the crying man. When Grantaire finally sat back to admire his work his fingers were blackened by the charcoal he held and the sun had long since started to dip in the sky. It had been a long time since he'd spent so long on one subject, let alone felt joy in continuing his work. His commissions were for the money more than anything, a way to keep up with his ever-growing rent. He didn’t even notice Eponine standing in the doorway until she interrupted him as he was trying to mix the right shade of gold for the sunrise he was painting on the canvas in front of him.
“Grantaire that canvas is for Angelo’s Painting.” Grantaire didn't answer. The image of the golden boy; golden and beautiful and smiling finally was already starting to drift from his mind. He swirled yellows and and golds together and started the background with long broad strokes.
“Grantaire you know what will happen if you don't finish Angelo’s Painting on time! Be serious!” Grantaire turned to her, eyes alive with passion and happiness that he hadn't felt for weeks.
“I am wild.”
*******
He didn’t finish Angelo’s painting. Grantaire stayed up all night painting Enjolras and then Joly and Bossuet smiling and kissing Musichetta and then he repainted one of his old sketches of Combeferre laughing at something he’d said in bright acrylic paints. He half assed a replacement in the early hours of the morning but he knew that wasn't likely to win Angelo over.
************
He had hoped to go home and soak his aching face without anyone being there to see him but alas his shitty luck continued. Eponine was waiting for him with a raised eyebrow.
“I told you this would happen.” She said as she bathed his black eye with a cold beer bottle.
“You’re really going to pull the ‘I told you so’ card whilst holding a cold beer bottle to my eye?” She slapped him lightly on the shoulder and winced when Grantaire hissed and recoiled away from her clutching his bruised shoulder.
“You don't have any ice numbskull. All you’ve got is beer in your fridge, what was I supposed to do when you get beaten up by one of his thug art patron because he was painting his boyfriend?” Grantaire scowled and then stopped because it hurt his eye.
“He is not my boyfriend I haven’t even met him yet.” Eponine made a dismissive gesture and swapped the now lukewarm beer for a fresh colder one.
“That’s not true R, you’ve got that bond thing right? You’re practically linked and anyway, Look at me and Sette, we’ve only just met and we’ve been dating for a month.”
“You and Cosette were flirting via Feuilly and I the second you knew of each other’s existence.” Eponine could be very forward when she chose to be and Cosette had done nothing but fan the flames.
Eponine gave a sort of ‘that's-neither-here-nor-there’ gesture and the two of them fell into a comfortable silence for a few moments whilst Eponine continued to gently cool Grantaire’s wounds.
“Why didn’t anyone come to help you?” Eponine muttered quietly as she helped Granatire with his shirt to get a better look at his shoulders.
“Bahorel was there, he came off worse than I did actually and Combeferre gave the guy a huge lecture but that might have just made things worse now that I think about it… Listen Ep I’ll be fine. You know me; I just need a shower and some food and about a week of sleep to regain my fragile pride.” Eponine gave an exasperated sigh.
“I do know you and you are a pain in my ass” There was affection in the statement, Grantaire was sure of it and he smiled at her. She shook her head but returned it with a chuckle.
********
Grantaire waved as Eponine walked towards the staircase and then shut his door and fought the urge to slump against it. He trudged his way to the bathroom and turned on the water. He was half way through washing his hair when he heard a noise from the front room like someone gasping loudly. Grantaire shut off the water and listened for a moment. The gasping was escalating - rapidly turning from gasping to hyperventilating: loud and uncontrollable.
Grantaire hurriedly climbed out if the shower. He pulled on the sweat pants still lying in a heap by the shower door and roughly towel dried his hair before stumbling back towards the living room. He tried to prepare himself to whichever of his friends had travelled in such a state. It could be Jehan or possibly Combeferre, Grantaire remembered him saying there was a young patient he was particularly worried about before his last shift. Maybe they'd died and Ferre was taking it hard which was understandable for someone who cared as much as Ferre did.
It wasn't Combeferre. It wasn't Jehan. In fact, Grantaire was sure he hadn’t met the person before. At least, not in person.
Blonde hair pulled back into into a messy bun at the nape of his neck, pale skin blotchy and red from tears. The man sobbing on his ratty old sofa was Enjolras. In his hand he held one of Grantaire’s sketch pads. One that Grantaire knew contained page after page of sketches of the eight friends he'd made over the last six months and more than a few of Enjolras himself. Grantaire flushed red and brought his arms up over his chest.
“Do- do you like them?” He said quietly. Enjolras jumped up like a shot and frantically wiped his eyes. His breathing calming slightly. “Would you like to see my favourite?” The blond just looked at him and Grantaire became suddenly very aware that he wasn't wearing a shirt.
He left the room for a moment and went into his studio to grab his favourite painting of the blond. In it Enjolras reached for the horizon, his hair whipping in the wind and his eyes alight with fire. Grantaire thought it gave Enjolras a good likeness to Apollo - commanding the sun to rise just because it was him asking.
When Enjolras saw it he burst into tears once more and Grantaire didn’t know what to do. He awkwardly put his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders and the other man choked on on a sob, letting himself slip sideways into Grantaire’s embrace.
He squeezed Enjolras tighter to him and heard, for the first time, the muttered French words he was mumbling into Grantaire’s bare shoulder.
“Thank you. Oh god thank you so much. This is such an amazing feeling oh this is-I can't even explain it just thank you…” Grantaire turned his head to reply.
“I- you’re welcome?” The picture wasn’t that good, that much he knew. He blinked. The room around them changed from Grantaire’s front room to a balcony overlooking a little courtyard. Grantaire looked into the room behind them and recognised Enjolras’ bedroom from his dream. The heavy door was locked but there was an incessant knocking coming from the other side. Enjolras pulled back to glare at the door but he didn’t call out.
“Geneviève Enjolras stop crying and come downstairs!” Grantaire felt a hot jolt of anger course through him and he put his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder.
“Are you okay, who’s-” Oh. Oh. ‘His parents don’t accept him for who he is’. The rage was his now and Grantaire resisted the urge to throw open the door and pummel Enjolras’ mother and father. Instead he blinked again and they were back in his apartment.
“You’re the first person to actually see me the way I wanted to be seen.” Enjolras said quietly, Grantaire’s fists were still clenched in anger, his insides twisting violently. He sat down on the sofa and took the blond’s hands in his.
“C'est toi? Monsieur Enjolras, vous êtes parfait” His French was very weak and he was sure that he’d mispronounced almost every word but Enjolras only clung to him tighter.