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Today is supposed to be the day Grantaire spends time at the bus stop around the Notre Dame, sketching for tourists and tourist children, smiling when he’s asked to say certain words (“your accent is so cool!” is what he gets from kids older than eight, because before that age he gets fits of giggles). But alas—rain has him hiding in a small cathedral down the road, hidden due to the magnificent architecture not two blocks away.
It’s quiet and cool, the rain making spattering sounds against the stained glass windows, thunder rumbling in the background, muffled by the wooden supports of the small church.
(He hasn’t been to a service since he was eight, hasn’t believed in God since he was fourteen, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate the glory of beautiful designs where he finds them.)
From his place on his back, the ceiling is decorated with golden-white paint, angels sweeping around the heavenly-blessed sky, dominating the foreground with rosy cheeks and thin-pressed lips. Most of them have curls, weaved of gold, it looks like, though a few brunettes flutter toward the altar, hands outstretched in praise to a God that is nowhere to be found in the oil-painted sky.
(There aren’t any angels of colour either.
“Hi, my name is Grantaire, would you like your ceiling repainted?”
“It’s over a hundred years old!”
“Well, everything needs updating everyone once and a while—“
That conversation wouldn’t go well, even if he knew where the priest for this church was to start this debate.
But still, it makes him smile to picture it.)
He hears the doors open at the back of the church, close enough to where he lies on the back pew to bring in a stream of watery-gray light and the intensified sound of rainfall, though it lasts only a moment until the door falls shut and two sets of footsteps echo through the cold and the quiet.
“Grantaire!” And that causes him to sit up (his knapsack was making the muscles in his neck tense in at any rate, and they were probably going to stiffen into rigor mortis at some point or another) and look toward the door, where Eponine and Gavroche at her side are standing, an umbrella hanging dripping from her right hand.
A coffee cup is held aloft in her left.
“Right over here,” he calls quietly, reaching preemptively for the coffee cup and sighs in bliss when it’s fit into his palms. “Bless you,” he tells her gravely, pulling his legs up to himself as she and her brother sit down.
“This is the third church we’ve checked,” she explains irritably, wiping rainwater from the knees of her jeans. “You really ought to start relocating closer to the bus stop when it rains.”
The coffee burns his tongue just enough to make him forget for a moment that he’s almost one day out from his last drink. “I’ll keep that in mind when I attempt to avoid the deathtrap that’s closely monitored called the Notre Dame which would rather not have homeless people in it,” there is no bitterness in his tone. In fact, considering the damp outside, he considers himself pretty happy. The second scald on his tongue burns away half his taste buds. Good start. “Gavroche, what artwork can I interest you in today?”
The boy brightens when he’s spoken to (he’d been starting to fidget), and holds his hands up, small fingers forming into claws. “Godzilla chewing on the Arc de Triumph!” Eponine glances at him from the corner of her eye, arching a perfect brow in disapproval. “Please,” Gavroche adds, carefully epmhasising the word to Eponine’s satisfaction.
“Certainly. One radioactive monster eating a priceless country landmark, coming right up.”
Gavroche hisses with joy as Grantaire sets his coffee aside to pull out his drawing tools (and he keeps Eponine carefully in his periphery—because recently she’s become more and more distressed over his living arrangements, or lack thereof, and when she brings him coffee every two weeks, she seems to be mentioning it more often).
“It’s raining today,” Eponine announces as Godzilla’s frame starts to bloom around the vaguely-shaped Arc.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Grantaire replies, swaying only slightly when she punches his bicep (but Christ, her knuckles are like spikes). “Ouch.”
“I’m trying to be nice,” and he can hear her eyeroll, even though he’s busy working on the architecture of the Arc. “Do you want to stay at mine tonight? I have a perfectly all right sofa, and I doubt anyone would mind.”
“Anyone? You say that because…?”
“I’m having friends over,” her tone is smooth, much like honey, and that is a little bit unsettling. “And I intend to have beer. Probably even some vodka.”
“Raspberry?” Grantaire asks, just as casually.
“Perhaps.”
He taps the tip of his pencil against the page, creating an interesting scale effect on around the lizard’s eyes, but is more of a symbol of his thought process than anything intentional. “All right. I’ll take you up on your offer.”
Neither of them say he’s going to be there for the alcohol and he’s grateful for that.
(He’s also grateful for the roof over his head, just for a night, and knows he should probably call his sister while he’s there.)
-
Eponine hasn’t returned to her modest (and currently rather crowded) flat yet, but she has, via text, assured everyone that it’s all right, she’ll be home soon, make yourselves comfortable. Bahorel texts from his place on the couch will there be booze soon and he announces that yes, indeed, there will be, calm down or there won’t be.
Simple rules.
The migraine Enjolras had been sporting throughout midterm exams has finally relaxed into a dull ache (which is surprising, because every chance he gets, Feuilly shows that damn picture to everyone and he’s just waiting to show it to Eponine).
At six, or thereabouts, Eponine is heard unlocking her door, chatting with someone who sounds like a man, and Gavroche’s voice joins them both (the static of rainwater a soft nuance). The door is opened and Gavroche swings in on the arm of—
On the arm of—
On the arm of the dark-haired man from the Metro station, a sardonic tilt to his lips, though he’s smiling when he enters, his blue knit cap damp on his head (and his black knapsack is clutched to his chest). Eponine follows them in, holding up bags of alcohol and her umbrella. “Hello, everyone, sorry I’m late, someone was getting picky with the booze choices.”
The dark-haired one grins and says, “you all guessed it, it was Gavroche,” (who protests not at all, instead jogging toward the kitchen with a damp sheet of paper clutched in his hands). “Hello,” he greets when his arm is free, and his eyes find and stick to Enjolras.
(It feels like a hand is pressing down on his windpipe, because recognition is very clear in his eyes.)
“That’s Grantaire,” Eponine goes to the kitchen and back in record time, passing out beers and handing over a full bottle of raspberry vodka over to Grantaire, who holds it like it belongs in his palm. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“From school?” Jehan asks, sprawled on the floor (which helps his creative process or something).
“Classics and Art History double,” Grantaire informs them, popping the lid of his bottle and pouring a portion of vodka that’s more than healthy down his throat. “Now, introductions?” Eponine’s lips are pursed. Enjolras can’t venture a guess as to why, except that she’s just as appalled by the display as he is.
It’s a sweep of the room as Eponine takes a seat on the floor at Jehan’s feet—Bahorel, Bousset, Jehan, Joly (standing in a corner with his hands tucked in his pockets), Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Eponine (“but you already know me, you tool,” and Gavroche), Marius (and his girlfriend Cosette, whom Grantaire regards with interest), Feuilly (with that picture poking just enough out of his pocket), and finally Enjolras himself in Eponine’s armchair, introducing himself through a throat the size of a straw.
“Oh, I know you,” Grantaire says, leaning against the wall like this flat is his. “Not just from the Metro, of course,” (oh shit Feuilly is putting something together, he can see it). “But I think I’ve seen you on the ceiling of a church before, too.”
And that is the first time he meets Grantaire.
He still isn’t sure how he feels about it.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be sure.