Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day Grantaire died, it was raining.

Heavy droplets drummed deafeningly against the flimsy, old windows of the Musain, contributing to the cacophony of sounds that permeated the back room of the café that autumn day. Sitting back in one of their old, mold-ridden wooden chairs and looking through the glass panes at the end of the room, Grantaire could pick out both the shiny cobblestone floor of the Rue des Grés and the overcast sky, by then painted a dreary gray that darkened the world and left a murky, bleak atmosphere behind. Outside, the smell of petrichor was heavy, but inside the Musain one could only smell the warm mix of people, wine, and cedarwood.

Turning his gaze away from the window but making sure he did not disturb his carefully maintained slouch – after all, it would do no good to look as if he was interested in, or worse, endorsed whatever suicidal plans were being thrown about – he sent a lazy glance around. Five tables were placed throughout the back room, but only one - his - was actually being used to drink or eat from. Books, newspapers and other loose papers were messily scattered on top of the remaining furniture, abandoned for now, while a group of friends were – in variable levels of attentiveness – listening to the speech being given at the center of the room.

Grantaire peered at the people sitting closest to him. Across the table, Joly sat with his back ramrod straight, tapping his cane rhythmically on the wooden floor and nodding along to whatever dear Apollo was spewing at that time, his brown hair flopping lazily with each movement.

On Grantaire’s right, Bossuet was evidently not as immersed in the discussion floating about and looked as if he was rather more interested in testing his luck. With single-minded focus, he piled three empty, grimy bottles of wine on top of each other. This was a relatively common occurrence, Bossuet testing his luck at any given time, that is; sometimes he flipped a coin, other times he made truly impressive (impressively good, but more often, impressively bad) bets; but when the right mood and creativity struck, he could also be found doing questionably stupid things that could either lead to broken bones and/or objects or, more sparingly, to amazing acts of good fortune.

Blinking at the growing tower of glass, still standing against all odds, Grantaire released an admiring whistle, chiming, “My friend, lady luck appears to have finally deigned to turn her smiling face to you”.

Startled, Bossuet turned his beaming face at Grantaire. “You think so?”, he asked eagerly, “I was just telling Joly this morning - I feel pretty good about this!”

Turning his body towards his friend, Bossuet’s elbow struck the bottom of the bottle tower with truly impressive aim, making it wobble precariously. Gasping, he turned back to his construction and tried to grasp it, but with no success; the top fell down with a loud clang and was then followed by the remaining bottles.

Grantaire winced as his friend grasped his bald head with a groan of despondency, and further slumped in his seat when a crystalline and melodious voice rang out.

“I’m sorry, are we interrupting something?”, irritation clear and sharp. A quick glance at the source of the angelical rebuke was met with a glare that could freeze hell ten times over, a shade of blue that often burned, but that, at that moment, was cold as shards of ice. An attentive observer (and Grantaire was always an attentive observer when it came to that particular individual) would be able to tell that, although the comment was directed at the two friends, the speaker knew very well who was actually responsible for the disturbance.

Enjolras stood in the middle of the dingy room of the Musain in all his righteous, painfully beautiful glory, blond curls ruffled and landing softly on his shoulders, clothes even more disheveled because – indeed, why waste precious time properly buttoning-up shirts when you could be using it to fight the system? His arms were folded across his chest, inevitably leading Grantaire’s eyes to the hint of sun-kissed collarbones peeking above it and to the pretty mole he knew made its home right on top of the bone. Enjolras’ red jacket only aided his striking figure, completing the image of an unreachable, vengeful angel that would strike down any pitiful opponent that dared get in his way. In that instance, that would be Grantaire. 

And listen. Grantaire knew better than to poke a bear, especially if that bear was glaring, irritated, bright as the sun, had a very (legitimate) grudge against Grantaire and did not miss a chance to point out how he should not waste his gift by drinking meetings away, can’t you be useful, for once?- and okay, maybe the bear metaphor got away from him there, but you got his point. It was a very tempting bear, and he wished to see it completely focused on him. In the absence of a response, Enjolras squinted, his glower turning into a scowl, and, really, how could Grantaire resist further provoking such an alluring sight?

Grantaire glibly retorted, “Interrupting us? I mean, you are, chief, but that’s alright, you know I’d forgive you anything. I was just telling our dear Laigle here that his luck appeared to be back, but alas, the goddess Tyche is not feeling merciful quite yet”, he sighed.

Enjolras scoffed, but his glare softened as he turned from Grantaire (more’s the pity) to Bossuet, still busy gloomily righting the fallen bottles. “Bad luck, still?” Enjolras muttered, looking worried, “It’s been months”.

Bossuet responded with a strained smile and a quick look at their leader, “Luck can’t be too far away. I just want to believe that when it finally comes, it will be truly miraculous”, he shrugged half-heartedly.

At that, an arm landed around Bossuet’s shoulders, Grantaire pulling him towards his chest and proclaiming dramatically, “And when that happens”, he shook his friend lively, “we will drink until Madame Hucheloup never lets our sorry selves back into the Corinthe!”, he chuckled.

Putting all his weight on top of his friend, Grantaire could feel his shoulders slowly relax, smile widening and reaching his eyes, “Aye aye!”, Bossuet exclaimed.

Faced with a newly spirited Bossuet, Joly - until then fretfully glancing at his companion - also relaxed, leaning back on his chair, grinning and raising his glass, “I’ll drink to that!”, he declared. Exchanging glances with Grantaire, the latter winked at his friend and promptly sipped from his cup of wine.

Enjolras snorted but did not comment further on the interruption. Balance was struck. Turning back to the rest of the room – where all their friends were more-or-less inconspicuously listening to what was happening in Grantaire’s table – the blond leader cleared his throat, claiming back their attention.

“As I was saying, we all know that the media is not on our side. Guillenormand’s influence on news outlets is going to be hard to shake, but not impossible. If the people have other sources of reliable information on what our gifts actually are and on what we can or can’t do, we can turn the tide to our favor”, he said eagerly. Glancing to his right, where Courfeyrac was straddling the back of his chair, chin resting on top of his crossed arms, Enjolras pressed, “What’s the word on the streets?”

Courfeyrac straightened from his sprawl and retorted, “Hmm, hard to tell. Some people are demanding equal rights, others want our heads on spikes. Sometimes on pitchforks, too”, he said good-naturedly. Grantaire snorted.

“We need to ensure that the uninformed and ignorant get access to objective, correct information”, Enjolras emphasized, turning back to his friend, “Call on your contacts, set meetings with the support group organizers and tell them about next week’s rally–”

“So we’re still doing that, then?”, Grantaire interrupted lightly, Enjolras turning back to him, a twitch in his right eyebrow, “Even after we all saw how the news channels are bashing us, how other rallies ended, with the police and the government calling for our blood?”, he stated derisively, shaking his head, “In what world is that a good idea?”

Enjolras’ glowing eyes pinned Grantaire to his chair as he gritted out, “Do you have a better plan?”

“Well, I make a point never to give advice to anyone, dear Apollo; advice only serves to be ignored, or to be followed just so that people can blame you when things don’t go their way”, Grantaire said philosophically, nodding slowly at his own reasoning. Enjolras scowled.

“Then I’m telling you, there’s little else we can do. Should we let false reports spread, allow misinformation to pollute our society and turn brother against brother? Friend against friend? Should we give up our rights to freedom? To dignity? Let society believe we are dangerous?”

Incapable of stopping himself – damn him and his inability to not poke fun at Enjolras – Grantaire rolled his eyes and cut him off, “Always so dramatic, Apollo”, he huffed, “And are we not?”, he shot back. Enjolras frowned, confused, but Grantaire persisted, “Are we not a danger to them? Are they not right to be afraid? We all know that our powers can hurt people. Have hurt people before. Should there not be restraints into what we are allowed and not allowed to do?”, he fired.

From his periphery, Grantaire could see some of his friends fidget uncomfortably in their chairs, uncertain as to whether they should interrupt the glaring pair or not. As expected, Enjolras did not seem to notice the growing tension in the room, clenching his teeth and making a muscle in his jaw twitch in a devastatingly handsome way. Settle down, R, he thought to himself, no time to pathetically focus on how beautiful he looks while disgusted by you.

“And where does that sort of thinking lead to?”, Enjolras exploded, “First, they stop us from using our gifts under some arbitrary conditions, claiming they help us get ahead of unpowered people-”

“-I mean, can you really talk of equality when some of us do have unfair, supernatural, advantages?”, Grantaire wondered, sardonically.

“-Then”, Enjolras cut him off, “Then, they stop us from using our powers at all–”

“-Now, that seems like a real jump from your first point-”

“Does it really?”, Enjolras snapped. “Do you really think the Government, the unpowered, will let people like us, like you, just walk around, unsupervised, if they knew what you could do?”, he rallied. Grantaire tensed up, and a quick glance around the room revealed that everyone was avoiding his gaze. Under the table, Grantaire felt a warm knee touch his. Joly. He looked back at Enjolras, smiling self-deprecatingly.

“Touché, Apollo”, he reclined on his chair, hands closed into fists out of sight. Smile frozen on his face, he continued, “I guess I should just be grateful I’m even allowed around such righteous and socially acceptable gifted people. I should only be so lucky as to throw my life away, fighting for rights that the common populace will never agree to give to people like me, I, who instead should be, as our dear Courfeyrac kindly put it, pitchforked to death–”

“- All right, everyone. I don’t think this discussion is being productive anymore”, Combeferre interjected long-sufferingly, raising from his seat to the left of Enjolras and on the opposite side of Courfeyrac. His tall, broad-shouldered build contrasted nicely with his soft-spoken manners and calm presence. An unmoving, steady force. Raising his eyes from where they rested on Enjolras’ face and fixing his reading glasses on his nose, he turned his focus back to Grantaire, sighing. Grantaire barely spared him a glance, fixing his gaze defiantly on Enjolras, who returned the look. Courfeyrac was also looking at the pair, eyes going from Enjolras to Grantaire like he was the spectator of a particularly amusing tennis match.

The chief, the guide, and the center, all glancing at Grantaire with some level of reproach. Oh, what a time to be alive.

“Grantaire, you know that that was not what Enjolras meant. He just wants you to truly join our cause and fight for a dignified life”. Turning his gaze to Enjolras, who avoided it, still glaring at Grantaire, he continued, “And Enjolras, you know we don’t force people to use their powers against their wishes. Grantaire should only use his gift when he feels comfortable, and–”,he raised his voice when Enjolras tried to interrupt, outraged “- if he ever feels confident that he can control it”.

Well, that was enough to break the stalemate. Breaking the intense eye contact, Grantaire lowered his eyes to the table, a wave of shame washing over him and setting his face of fire. Jesus, Combeferre really could have come to his aid in a less dignity-destroying way. No need to remind him and everyone else that his gift was so fucking useless that he couldn’t actually use it in a way that mattered without possibly landing himself in jail, or worse, before a firing squad.

Grantaire maintained his eyes down, glowering at his gloved hands while they peeled the label off one of the bottles Bossuet previously used in his poorly timed attempt at luck, leather catching on the paper. His mood officially ruined for the day, he reached for his wine glass, drinking heavily from the dark crimson liquid inside, and pretended he couldn’t hear Enjolras’ huff of “He’s powerful, if only he spent less time drinking to oblivion and tried to control his gift, he wouldn’t be so afraid to use it”. Unfortunately, pretending did not equal not hearing, and so this off-hand comment hit its target with the force of a bullet train.

Ignoring Bossuet and Joly’s worried glances, Grantaire sprang to his feet, muttering “Fuck this, I need a smoke”. Without looking around the room – God knew he could not bear to see pity in his friends’ eyes right then – he sped to the back door of the Musain.

Opening the door, he was instantly met with a burst of cold air, stray droplets hitting his face and freezing his cheeks. Grantaire muttered curses under his breath and, closing the door behind him, leaned on the doorframe, sighing and patting down his worn black jacket in search of his pack. Finally finding it in the left pocket with a mumbled “ah-ha!”, Grantaire pulled a cigarette out, flicked the lighter and watched as a small flame lit the end of the stick he held between his lips. Pulling on the cigarette and inhaling the warm cloud it produced, Grantaire allowed himself to finally relax, melting into the cold stone wall of the doorframe behind him.

Although the weather was certainly cold, he took off one of his gloves and stared gloomily down at his hand. Objectively, there was nothing unusual about it. Ghostly pale, long, calloused fingers, bitten-down nails, knuckles either splashed by stubborn paint stains or bruised by late-night boxing lessons. Nothing that hinted at a gift that only brought pain and destruction.

Chuckling under his breath and sneering at how self-pitying he sounded even in the privacy of his own mind, he shook his head, dark curls bouncing wet and cold against his forehead and cheeks. Scratching absent-mindedly on the scruff scattered across his jaw, he pulled more smoke into his lungs and raised his eyes to the street, jumping when he was met with a familiar smiling face, right in front of him.

“Jesus! Where did you come from?”, he choked, coughing around his smoke-filled lungs.

“What is that sad look of yours for? Have you and our fearless leader been fighting again?” chirped Jehan instead of responding, a knowing look in his green eyes. He huddled closer to Grantaire, pushing him a little with his shoulder so he could fit in the tight space between the street and the doorframe that protected them minimally from the stubborn rain. He immediately felt his friend’s warmth seep into his side where their bodies touched, leaning against one another. Finally catching his breath, Grantaire responded,

“My dear Jehan, you know I cannot resist the pull of the sun on such a dreary day”, Grantaire sighed dramatically, nodding at the rain hitting the cobbled floor, “Alas, it appears as if even Helios needed a bit of respite from such a cloud of gloom and doom as yours truly, so I thought it was the perfect time to catch some fresh air”, he said, gesturing with his cigarette. Jehan's eyes followed the movement of his hand and he frowned, taking the cigarette from Grantaire and – ignoring his indignant “hey!” – putting it out against the stone doorframe of the Musain. To soften the blow, Jehan then pulled playfully on the pendant hanging from Grantaire’s neck, a gift from Éponine.

        “A pomegranate”, Grantaire pointed out wryly when she gave it to him on his last birthday, “really?”, he asked, looking at the opened fruit, small ruby-colored seeds catching the yellow lighting of their living room.

          Éponine merely responded with that enigmatic smile of hers, right side of her mouth lifting briefly, but not a second longer, “It only makes sense, doesn’t it?”. Grantaire rolled his eyes and huffed but put the pendant around his neck and hadn’t taken it off ever since.

At present, Jehan tsked, “You know I don’t need to see the future to know these things can’t lead anywhere good”, he nodded at the remains of his cigarette, abandoned on the cobbled stone. Grantaire sighed mournfully at the stick but returned a good-natured smile at his friend.

It would truly be a crime to be upset at Jehan. His twinkling eyes, elvish features and dimpled smile could melt even the coldest of hearts (read, Enjolras). One would think that someone who was able to foresee possible and inevitable tragedies on a daily basis would have a bleaker outlook on life, but Jehan always appeared to stubbornly cling to the bright side of things. It took a truly strong-minded person to acknowledge that certain events have to happen, and that, although the Fates can let you in on their secrets, that does not mean you should try to challenge them or change the natural course of events. As Jehan had once put it, “trying to stop bad things from happening just because I know they will happen can lead to unpredictable or even worse outcomes. Besides, what if me acting is what leads to the misfortune I foresaw? I find that it is oftentimes safer to just… live with the knowledge and go along for the ride”.

Grantaire was brought back to the present by the curious tilt of Jehan’s head, some copper strands of hair escaping his long braid. “You look lost in your head again, my friend. Is everything alright?”, he asked softly.

Grantaire smiled kindly in turn, “I’m fine, just tired. Didn’t sleep well”, he muttered. Jehan’s eyebrows lowered in concern.

“Nightmares again?”, he pressed, hand raising and resting on Grantaire’s elbow, squeezing gently. A gust of air blew harshly on the pair, and a stray leaf landed on Jehan’s head. Grantaire reached for it with his ungloved hand, and just as he freed it from the auburn strands, the door behind them opened, the yellow light coming from inside partly covered by the lean bulk of a figure.

Turning around, Grantaire came face-to-face with the stern countenance of Enjolras, his shining zicorn eyes quickly flying from Grantaire’s hand near Jehan’s face, to Jehan’s hand holding Grantaire’s arm and staying there. Against the glare that was inexplicably burning a hole through Jehan’s hand, the latter drew his appendage back, snorting amusedly. Enjolras' face was rose-tinted, probably from the cold, as cleared his throat and informed a now thoroughly confused Grantaire that, “Gavroche is here. He says he has a message. Urgent”. He then stiffly nodded at the pair and stood there, frozen until they started moving inside. Jehan passed Enjolras first, smiling knowingly at him, and Enjolras’ gaze met Grantaire’s, unreadable expression fixed on his face until he, too, turned inside. For what appeared to be the millionth time that day, Grantaire sighed deeply and rubbed his ungloved fingers together, walking inside. Of the offending leaf, only a faint smell of rot and the stain of ashes in his fingers remained.

The inside of the Musain was filled with noise, people slapping Gavroche on the shoulder, happy to see him after quite some time away. The little gremlin smiled widely at the attention, a cutting stretch of lips that said he wasn’t up to any good. Glancing at Grantaire, he exclaimed “R!”, and freed himself from his crowd of enthusiastic admirers, running towards the older man.

Gavroche was Éponine’s little brother and, as far as Grantaire was concerned, his little brother too. After the Thénardiers left the five-year-old at their doorstep seven years ago, malnourished and sobbing, there really wasn't any other choice but to pull up his sleeves and help a then panicked eighteen-year-old Éponine take care of her brother. Not the best care, he could admit, but he liked to think they did okay, all things considered. He taught the brat his ABCs for God’s sake, and now there he was, playing spies for their ridiculous revolutionary group.

“Hey, Gav”, Grantaire ruffled the kid’s brown mess of hair, ignoring the way he hissed and spat back like a miffed cat, shoving his hand away, “How is my favorite devil’s minion doing? Demolished the system today?”, he quipped, green garnet eyes dancing mischievously at the boy.

“You know it”, Gavroche responded, chest puffed, all ruffled feathers and pride. “But I’m actually here with some bad news. From general Lamarque”, he announced, facing the room. The name of the official swiftly brought down the mood of the crowd, silence raising and appearing to consume all the air inside. At that, a ball of lead started growing in Grantaire’s stomach.

Then, the heat of a hand on his shoulder shook him out of his thoughts, “What can you tell us?”, asked Enjolras, coming from behind him. Grantaire felt his hand like a hot brand on his shoulder, warmth seeping through his muscles and spreading to the rest of his body. He felt himself relax a little, leaning imperceptivity towards the source of the heat.

“The protest next week, you have to cancel it”, Gavroche started. Not letting anyone interrupt, the boy continued, “The Government is putting together the National Guard to fight powered people, they’re planning to use that protest to arrest you, something about starting a registry on the gifted”, he explained. Hearing this, the murmurs of the room rose to cries of outrage, uneasiness growing.

Enjolras scowled, furrowed eyebrows forming wrinkles on the top of his nose, “This is how it starts”, he spat, “First a registry, then prosecution”. His hand squeezed Grantaire’s shoulder in a bruising grip. Grantaire grimaced but did not dare move.

Gavroche nodded and added, “And that’s not all”. When attention was focused back on the teenager, he continued, “They’re planning to hit known groups of the gifted, start the process as quickly as they can before people can go into hiding”. Enjolras dropped his hand from Grantaire’s shoulder, moving past him and towards Gavroche. The cold returned to Grantaire’s bones.

“When?”, Enjolras demanded.

“Today”, Gavroche said. Dread rising, Grantaire could only stare as his friends immediately sprang to action. Papers were collected, people exited and entered the room with various materials, small groups gathered, discussing possible courses of action. No one called for Grantaire, which was of no surprise to him. He wouldn’t want his “help” either, nor did he think he was particularly inclined to help them get themselves killed.

Approaching his now abandoned table, Grantaire picked up what was left of his wine bottle and drank straight from it. Might as well. Unsurprisingly, it did not help loosen the knot that made its home at the base of his throat.

Feeling blood rushing in his ears, he sat on a random chair, numbly looking around. By the corner of the room, he could discern Joly’s tense posture, white knuckles strangling the handle of his cane as he whispered urgently to Bossuet, other hand gripping his friend’s forearm, faces pressed close together and foreheads touching. Grantaire averted his eyes, feeling like he was intruding in a moment that was not meant for him.

A few tables away, Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were also deep in discussion, forming a tight circle, heads down and close together, pointing to a map that must have been marking the location of known gifted groups. Courfeyrac quickly squeezed his friends’ shoulders and disappeared in a flash of golden light, only a strong smell of ozone left behind. Probably went to warn them, he guessed. Across the room, Jehan sat by himself, a dazed look in his eyes. From where Grantaire sat, he could almost see a milky film covering the usual bright green eyes, the sign of a prophecy forming. Grantaire frowned.

Before he could rise from his chair and go to Jehan, someone approached him from behind. Turning his head, he saw Gavroche looking determinedly at him, the only sign of nervousness in the wrangling of his hands, which he quickly hid behind his back when he caught Grantaire looking. “What do you need me to do?”, he asked eagerly. Grantaire looked back at his friends.

“Can I stop them, do you think?”, he wondered softly out loud, ignoring the question. His hands were shaking. He gazed wistfully at the table, but there was no more alcohol in sight. He sighed despondently.

“Why would you want to do that?” Gavroche squinted incredulously, “They're helping people like us”, he gestured at the room, looking uncomprehending at Grantaire. Grantaire only shook his head back.

“You mean they’re rushing to their deaths”, he retorted.

Gavroche scoffed, “And? What if we are? We can’t just lower our heads and accept what they’re doing to us!”, he exclaimed, shaking Grantaire from his stupor.

“Us? Since when is there an us? Your role here is done, Gavroche. Message received, thank you very much, now go back home, and wait there ‘till ‘Ponine tells you it’s safe to leave”, he demanded, voice hard. Gavroche scoffed, crossing his arms.

“I won't be a coward and hide; I can be useful! Just tell me where you need me and I’ll find out what the cops have planned!”, he yelled. Grantaire felt irritation rising. Is it that wrong, wanting my family to be safe?

Before he could utter a response, a voice cut off, “Can you get back to General Lamarque? Send him a message; tell him we’re going to strike first, hit them when they least expect it”, Enjolras announced, voice clear and certain, a grim set to his mouth. The whole room stopped to hear their leader’s orders, “The most well-known safe house for the gifted is Fauchelevant’s and it's right around the corner, near the Place Saint-Michel. We can get there before the National Guard, set a trap, defend our people”.

Grantaire laughed incredulously, “A trap? Defend our people? What are you saying, Apollo? We don’t even know if they’re going to strike that particular safehouse today! And sending Gavroche? He’s just a kid!”. Gavroche glared at him, turning back to Enjolras with an expression that clearly stated, Well? What do you need from me?

Enjolras looked pensively at Gavroche before turning his gaze to Grantaire, eyes icy blue. “Gavroche knows what the risk is worth. He can come and go without being detected; we have to use every man at our disposal”, he scolded.

Grantaire almost couldn’t believe his ears, “Gavroche is a child! He should not be risking his neck for a half-assed plan! What if he gets caught? What then? Are you going to risk even more lives rescuing him or are you just going to forget about him, use other men at your disposal?”, he snapped.

“Enough, R!”, Gavroche’s young voice rang out, “This is my choice. If you want to go home and hide from your problems, just do it! But you can’t stop me from doing this!”, frustration clear on his face, Gavroche turned to Enjolras, expectant. Grantaire wanted to rip his hair out, scream that this wouldn't work, couldn’t they just listen to him.

Sending imploring eyes at Enjolras, he was met with a stony expression, eyes cold and unreadable, chin set stubbornly. After a couple of seconds, where Grantaire felt his heart rise to his throat, Enjolras turned back to Gavroche and nodded. That was all the sign Gavroche needed before bolting, not sparing another look at Grantaire.

Feeling his blood boiling, Grantaire turned back to Enjolras and spat, “If he gets hurt, that’s on you”. Enjolras merely looked back, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“At least he is fighting for something he believes in. Is your life even worth living, if you can’t stand to fight for it?”. Those words hit Grantaire like a bullet, aim true and cruel. Enjolras did not wait for a response, turning his back to Grantaire and rejoining Combeferre where he was still studying a map a few tables away.

Grantaire sat motionless in his chair, the image of Enjolras turning his back to him a brand on his mind. He felt his nose and eyes burning but refused to let any further emotion escape. He wouldn’t be more pathetic than absolutely necessary. He already humiliated himself enough for one day. Turning slowly back to the table, Grantaire lowered his head and put his hands on his hair. Around him, the planning continued.

The flimsiest plan in the universe went like this: Courfeyrac would teleport to every safehouse and meeting place for the gifted they knew of and would let them know that the National Guard was coming. Then, the people would get to make a choice: run, hide, or fight back. However useful his friends’ gifts were, they were not really offensive ones, so they needed to recruit every powered person they could get their hands on. Joly and Bossuet were to stay in the Musain; Joly, being unpowered, was more useful out of the way, serving as a medic to people coming in; Bossuet, because his unlucky streak could only lead to further disaster if a fight broke out, so it was decided that he should stay and aid Joly any way he could. Combeferre and Enjolras would naturally be on the frontline – Enjolras using his power to disrupt the National Guard, and Combeferre using his to protect him – and anyone else who needed protection.

Jehan was to go out with the two of them, to lead people who wanted an out to safety. At least that was the plan, if only he snapped out of his trance. Currently, he was sitting beside Grantaire, eyes glazed white and rocking his body slowly from time to time. Sometimes, soft noises escaped him, but Grantaire hadn’t figured out whether they were good or bad yet. This was one of the longest visions he had ever seen his friend have, and the only thing he could do was stay by him in quiet vigil and help him when he returned to the present.

Grantaire, meanwhile, continued to silently watch over his friends, tension gripping his body tight and pulling his muscles taunt across his shoulders and arms. He had yet to release the fists his hands were closed into, but it was all he could do to stop him from taking his gloves off and just… let it out. If he stopped focusing on the noise and movements of his friends, he would have to deal with the slowly growing scratching noise in the back of his head, the inky black void that he associated with his powers, haunting the corner of his conscience, banging in his mind’s eye, clamoring at him to do something, protect his friends, go out there and finish it before they could get hurt. But he knew better than to listen to that scratching noise, than to stare back at that void. Only death would follow.

He didn’t want to voice it yet, but his mind was already made up. He couldn’t simply let his friends die. Quite honestly, he didn’t give a damn about their stupid plan, nor did he believe common folk would ever stop chasing powered people because some college kids rallied and demanded equal rights. He knew better. Difference breeds fear, and fear breeds violence. All they could do was keep their heads down and protect the people they needed to keep safe. For Grantaire, that was his friends.

Enjolras and Combeferre stopped talking and turned to Grantaire and Jehan. In the background, he could hear Joly and Bossuet speaking softly, the metallic noise of medical tools being placed in metal trays, careful preparation for what was coming.

Enjolras, looking at Grantaire and Jehan, hesitated for a moment, but then proceeded in a clipped voice, “We can’t wait any longer for Jehan to snap out of it. Combeferre and I are going. Keep an eye on him and tell him to get to us as fast as he can. If he has an important vision to impart, he can do it then”. His stern countenance broke just for a moment, expressive eyebrows relaxing before he added, “Know that if you join us in this fight, we will gladly welcome you, Grantaire. But if you can’t stand to take any risks for our freedom, you might as well just stay here and get out of our way”, he stated, no sign of disgust on his face, but no softness either.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see”, was all the response Grantaire could give, stiff smile frozen on his face. Maintaining defiant eye contact with Enjolras, he committed his lovely face to memory. His strong, stern brows, bright blue eyes, bitten-red mouth, plump lower lip shaped almost into a pout. The tiny mole on the right side of it, almost kissing the corner of his frown. More times than he could count, during a particularly intense screaming match between the two of them, did he find himself distracted by that small freckle, wanting to touch it, to see if it would provoke a reaction that was not scorn or distaste. I’ll keep him safe. I’ll keep them all safe.

Enjolras’ eyes also lingered, moving constantly across his features, almost as if he, too, was checking for something in his face. Probably dissatisfied with what he found, he briskly turned to the door and left, no trace of hesitance or second thought in his movements. Grantaire’s smile immediately dropped. Combeferre looked at him for a moment and uttered, “Be safe”, before he left after Enjolras, closing the back door of the Musain behind them. Funny how just a couple of hours ago he was dramatically leaving that same door to smoke, thinking his day was ruined by some stray comment from Combeferre. Idiotic. The Fates truly were cruel.

Grantaire knew that he couldn’t remain too long in the Musain if he wanted to protect his friends. Jehan had Joly and Bossuet to take care of him. Turning to his quiet friend, glassy eyes looking at some place far away from the present, he softly tucked a stray strand of red hair behind a freckled ear. “I’ll bring them back safely”, he promised.

Rising from his chair, and turning to Joly and Bossuet, who were still engrossed in their conversation, Grantaire raised his voice, “I’m going”. His friends quieted, turned to him and, after examining his expression, nodded firmly. This was why he loved his friends. No useless words were needed.

Grabbing his jacket, previously abandoned on the back of his chair, Grantaire startled when, right as he was turning towards the door, an iron grip held him back by the wrist, fingers squeezing tight and nails digging into the soft flesh of his pulse. A sudden gasp sounded and was followed by Jehan's face turning to him, mask of calm meditation broken and horror twisting his usually sweet features, green eyes filling with tears and eyebrows squeezing tightly together, disbelief and terror clear as he muttered incoherently.

“NO! No… No, no, no, this can’t be! This wasn’t supposed to happen!”, he whispered, gripping Grantaire tighter. His nails bit harder, the skin of Grantaire's wrist peeling back against the cutting force. Grantaire hissed as he felt warm liquid run down his harm to the soft leather of his gloves. An urgent glance confirmed that Jehan was staring right at him, still muttering in increasing hysteria. Grantaire’s wrist bones grinded together, making him wince as he carefully circled Jehan’s bruising grip with his free hand.

“Jehan, you’re alright”, he said, raspy voice soothing, “Whatever you saw hasn’t happened yet”, he assured. Jehan appeared to be oblivious to what was happening around him, feverish eyes darting around until they landed on Grantaire’s face once more.

“Oh! Grantaire!”, he wept, raising his voice, “It’s so awful! I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do!”, raising his free hand, Jehan pulled harshly at the hair on the crown of his head, a punishing fist that unraveled his loose braid, “I’m so useless! Do I change it? I have to change it”, he muttered, “But will it change? What if I say something and then it happens! What do I do?! Grantaire, what do I do?!”, he cried in anguish, looking imploringly up at Grantaire, as if searching for an answer deep in his eyes.

Behind him, he could hear Joly and Bossuet rapidly approaching, Joly carefully trying to displace Jehan’s clawing hand away from Grantaire’s wrist. Grantaire barely processed the pain of his wrist being freed, meeting Jehan’s despairing eyes and feeling dread freeze his insides. He had never seen his usually carefree friend so distressed. A foreboding void grew in his chest. Something terrible was going to happen, and Grantaire would bet his soul that it would happen to one of his friends. Lowering himself into a crouch, Grantaire led his now free hand to his friend’s cheek, tenderly wiping tears with his thumb.

Breathing deeply and trying to control the tremors in his hands, he cooed at his friend, “Jehan, Jehan. It’s ok. Shh, you’re doing great. Just tell us what you can”, he nodded encouragingly. The tremulous smile he offered felt like one of the hardest things he ever had to do, “Just tell us, is someone going to get hurt? Can you tell us a name?”, he pleaded.

Jehan shook his head in denial, dislodging Grantaire’s hands, hair disheveled and face red, “No, no, it’s not that simple, a name can lead to safety, but it can also lead to death”, he hissed. At that, Grantaire swore he felt his heart stop. Death?

“Jehan, please, can you just say a name?”, Grantaire insisted urgently, faces flashing in quick succession in his mind’s eye. Combeferre’s gentle smile at his friends’ mischief, a warm hand on his shoulder and a kind word when he felt particularly hollow inside. Courfeyrac’s selflessness, a center of light and a contagious laughter, a tight hug after a long separation, and the assurance of a helping hand when in need. Enjolras’ steady eyes, a vibrant soul and passionate heart, a hypnotic voice, capable of moving nations, but used only to move hearts. The reward of a hard-won smile, an eyebrow raising in mock-annoyance and a hard glower in real exasperation. A mole on his collarbone and a tinier mole kissing the side of his mouth. Golden hair, blinding as the sun. A red heart and soul. “Just say a name. Please, Jehan”.

Jehan froze, eyes widening as a flash of white quickly overpowered the swollen green. A second passed, followed by a quick release of breath and sorrowful understanding in the curve of his lips. “Go to Gavroche”.

Grantaire allowed himself a second to freeze, terror gripping his lungs and nailing his feet to the floor. Not a second later, he sprinted out of the Musain, jacket left forgotten on his chair. Ripping the back door open, he was just able to hear a distant mantra of “I’m sorry, please forgive me. Please work”, from Jehan before he slammed it behind himself, and ran into the rain.

In seconds, he was soaking wet, dark green sweater clinging to his skin and trousers heavy and uncomfortable, making his sprint towards Rue Hautefeuille more strenuous than the usual ten-minute walk usually was.

Gavroche was supposed to be safe. He wasn’t supposed to be part of this mess. He was supposed to be worried about which movies he should watch with his perplexing band of orphans, which meal he wanted Grantaire to cook on his birthday this year, not which way he should turn to not get shot, or which lies he should spin to not get caught and killed by the fucking National Guard. He was only twelve, for fuck’s sake. Grantaire would be damned if he let any harm get to him. He would not be the one telling Éponine his little brother died fighting under Grantaire’s watch. He would raze the world to the ground first.

Ignoring the pull of his muscles and the sting of the rain seeping into the nail marks left by Jehan, Grantaire was just reaching Rue Serpente, around the corner from Fauchelevant’s, when he heard a gunshot, immediately followed by panicked screams. Powered by fresh trepidation, he pushed his legs to the limit, muscles bunching and tensing, making him speed across the wet cobblestone, a sharp turn almost making him slip and fall and only a quick hand on the floor helping him maintain balance as he turned into the street that led to the safehouse.

Finally able to gather some measure of focus, Grantaire raised his eyes from the floor and felt himself recoil at the picture that greeted him on that street. Although the rain was pounding mercilessly on the floor, there was no hiding the pools of crimson that stained the stones, seeping into the cracks in the pavement and looking almost black by the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings.

There was no time for hesitation, though. Grantaire ripped off his gloves, throwing them carelessly behind his back, the wet sound of leather hitting stone lost to the peals of screaming and gunfire as he rushed towards what could only be called a massacre. Bodies littered the narrow street, broken, twisted limbs haunting his periphery, hair matted on the bloodied floor, and the smell of blood and gunpowder permeating the air. Grantaire swallowed a gag. A street that used to mean protection and security, now a mass grave.

Heart pounding against his ribcage and stomach turning, he forced himself to carefully look at the faces of the dead that now forever laid to rest in Rue Hautefeuille. He had to make sure he did not find any familiar faces among the dead.

All strangers, he exhaled heavily. Lifting his eyes from the carnage around him, he sent a quick prayer to whatever entity may be watching from above that he was not too late, ignoring the wave of guilt that hit him at finding relief in the slaughter of strangers.

Going further into what felt like a never-ending war zone, Grantaire finally reached the epicenter of the fight. He immediately located Courfeyrac, zipping his way around the crowd in quick flashes of yellow, grabbing civilians and teleporting them to safety, and just as swiftly appearing behind national guards and sending them far away, where they couldn’t cause further harm. Confirming that his friend had everything under control, he kept making his way to the end of the street, twisting his way around the crowd, shoulders bumping against panicked people, and continuing his search for a small head of dark hair.

There were more powered people in that street than he had ever seen grouped together in a single place before. Some were using their abilities to fight back, lightning bolts hitting guards, acid raining on top of them, melting their helmets into their skulls, screams deafening and pounding in Grantaire’s eardrums. Others, probably unpowered supporters or people with passive gifts, were mostly trying to get away, ramming into Grantaire or hiding behind more powerful allies.

In the midst of the chaos, a glimpse of gold made Grantaire falter. Enjolras, soaking wet but not any less glorious, was standing back-to-back with Combeferre, angrily shouting at a group of three national guards, while Combeferre was busy raising a shield that stopped two more foes from advancing. Before Grantaire could do anything, his ability hissing and scratching angrily in his mind, the three guards facing Enjolras suddenly turned against the pair approaching Combeferre. In an unexpected turn of events, the two guards were quickly incapacitated and a few words from Enjolras were enough to put the remaining guards to sleep. Combeferre turned to Enjolras, quickly gripping his forearm in gratitude before releasing him and focusing on helping other civilians.

Awe softening his panic, Grantaire took a moment to blow out a breath of relief. Enjolras was capable and, most of all, powerful. He would be safe for now. As if alerted by the weight of his gaze, Grantaire was suddenly looking straight at Enjolras’ eyes, two bright topazes, burning in righteous passion. Grantaire only had time to see Enjolras raise his eyebrows in surprise before he sprang away, leaving his friends behind.

Right as he was sprinting past a tight alleyway, Grantaire heard a young voice yelping. Abruptly stopping in his tracks, almost slipping on the wet pavement again, Grantaire quickly retraced his steps until he reached the mouth of the backstreet. Impatiently blinking raindrops from his eyes, he almost missed the two figures struggling against the side of a building.

The difference in size between the two grappling forms propelled Grantaire forwards, and a squeaky yell of “Fuck off, nationalist scum!” wiped any doubt from Grantaire’s mind as to who the owner of the voice was. The two figures continued struggling, and just as Grantaire grabbed the guard’s shoulder, a glint of metal was the only warning he got before a booming noise filled the street, and the smaller figure convulsed against the wall. Ears ringing, the only thing Grantaire saw was Gavroche’s shocked face, mouth slightly open in a gasp and eyebrows slowly rising in pain. As if losing all strength, the small boy fell to the floor like a puppet with his strings cut off.

Suddenly, the void in the back of Grantaire’s head was screeching.

Turning towards the guard, Grantaire only caught a glimpse of a pale face before he pushed him to the wall, pinning him. Gripping his wrist and slamming it against the building behind him, a gun went flying from the assailant’s hand and Grantaire could finally take a proper look at his face. The guard couldn’t be older than nineteen. A kid himself, bottom lip trembling and eyes wildly looking from Grantaire’s face to his hands, still gripping the collar of his uniform tightly. He tried to squirm away, but Grantaire was stronger, shoulders muscled from boxing and used to grappling with bigger and more experienced adversaries. The scratch-scratch-scratch of his mind was deafening, a door about to be broken down.

“P-please! I didn’t mean to, he just wouldn’t stop struggling-“, the guard gasped, grasping at Grantaire’s wrist, right above the marks left by Jehan’s nails. At the first contact with Grantaire’s skin, however, he paled even further, choking on air, eyes widening in uncomprehending pain.

“W-what? W-what is-“.

Grantaire did not let him finish that sentence; his mind went blank, a dark fog filling his vision. Lifting his hands from where they kept the guard pinned to the wet building, Grantaire grasped the boy’s face, grimacing at the way his expression immediately twisted, eyes opening impossibly wide, looking heavenwards and losing focus, choked breaths stolen from his lungs. Grantaire’s hands kept the guard’s face in a vice, nails digging in as he was slowly filled with warm, overwhelming ecstasy. As his powers pulled that warm bright energy to him, he could see the veins in the back of his hands slowly darken, black lightning rising from the tips of his fingers to his hands, up his arms and spreading until they were almost completely covered in inky blackness. In his mind, the void was purring, an everlasting thirst finally quenched.

The guard kept squirming in his grasp, mouth agape and twisting his features into a macabre mask of pain. Struggles slowly losing strength, his hands dropped from where they were trying to get away from Grantaire’s iron grip. However - and in a move Grantaire would, to this date, not be able to understand - he used the last of his strength to scramble for something fastened to his belt. Suddenly, a sharp pressure erupted in Grantaire’s chest, making him gasp in shock, and startling enough to make him drop his hold on the guard, who then fell to the floor, desperately gulping for air.

Before Grantaire could react, the boy rose from his place on the floor and sprinted towards the entrance of the alley, powered by pure terror and will to live, staggering and hitting every building on the way out until he disappeared around the corner. Struggling to put air into his lungs, each pull a different scream of agony, Grantaire looked down and saw a handle stuck to his chest.

Uncomprehending, Grantaire touched the foreign object, appearing to him so alien, just hanging from his chest, that for a second, he could not understand what he was seeing. What the fuck? What the fuck happened?

Then, he remembered feeling the guard scrambling for something in his belt – a knife. He got fucking stabbed. “Shit”, he gasped, feeling his legs shake and lose the strength to hold him up.

Feeling dizzy and nauseous looking down at the object lodged in his chest – and trying to breathe around a growing sense of drowning from inside – Grantaire finally looked at the floor and was struck by the reminder of what he was doing in that alleyway in the first place. Gavroche.

Shaking off the ringing in his ears and a sudden spell of dizziness – especially ignoring how his mind was screaming that he should go after that guard, he got away!–  he stumbled towards Gavroche. He had to make sure he was- he had to be- he just had to make sure.

Finally reaching the small figure, Grantaire dropped unceremoniously to his knees, choking on the next inhale and tasting metal on his tongue. Ignoring this, he frantically tried to look for signs of life, putting his shaking fingers against Gavroche’s nose and waiting. For two heart stopping seconds, Grantaire didn’t feel anything. Squeezing his eyes shut and ignoring his screaming body, he focused, finally feeling a cold gust of breath against his hand. Gavroche was still breathing. Air rattling wetly in his lungs, Grantaire pushed the collar of the boy’s jumper down, revealing a heavily bleeding shoulder and a small round wound surrounded by charred skin. Touching the back of the child’s shoulder, he felt a matching wound. The bullet went through him.

“I guess we’re matching”, he wheezed arduously at the wound on the boy’s chest. Leaning towards the boy, he felt the pain in his own chest scream, knife moving imperceivably in its holding place. He couldn’t help Gavroche like this. He knew he wouldn’t be able to reach the end of the alleyway to get help by himself, let alone avoid the National Guard. He also knew that that was probably it for him. Knife in the chest was not usually conductive of a long, healthy life. Quite the opposite. He knew he could maybe wait for someone from his side to find them, to maybe be on time to get Gavroche to the Musain to get Joly’s help, and that the boy may even survive if, somehow, all that happened. But he would not bet Gavroche’s life on that chance.

What he could do, however, was something possibly – certainly – stupid. Something he hadn’t tried since he was a kid and thought his gift was actually cool and could maybe even help people.

Contrary to what most people thought – due to Grantaire’s refusal to even speak about it – his gift did not simply kill. In reality, it could be seen as having two sides. Grantaire could take; could fill in the void inside him, consume life until that God damned scratching stopped for a while; but he could also give, take that stolen light and put it in another recipient. Heal it. Stealing life from one to give to another. He hadn’t ever tried it in animals – only plants – much less humans, but desperate times and all. He didn’t actually think he stole enough lifeforce from the guard to completely heal Gavroche – that guy was able to run away, after all – but he still had plenty life left of his own. He figured he wouldn’t need it anymore.

So, faced with a choice between being brave and being smart, Grantaire took a page out of his friends’ book and chose the first. In fact, he proceeded to do the stupidest thing someone with a foreign object stuck in them could do – no second guessing, he ripped the knife out.

“F-fuck!”, he choked, warm liquid instantly streaming from his body in red rivulets, further soaking his already rain-heavy sweater. The pain made him hack, a spray of blood hitting his hand where he covered his mouth. Not long, then.

Immediately focusing on the task at hand, Grantaire wheezed and touched a shaking hand to his chest, wiping his hand against it until it was completely covered in warm redness. Then, he took his blood to Gavroche’s bare shoulder, closing his eyes and focusing of that door at the back of his mind. Suddenly, that constant scratch-scratch quieted, and the door slowly opened.

In his mind, Grantaire was looking at an abyss, and that abyss was staring back. That black inky void that he associated with the source of his powers was a twisting, swirling cloud, tendrils of shadows reaching for Grantaire and just as quickly pulling away. He could feel energy pulsing inside it, pure life, ready to strike or to take. It was its turn to be stolen from.

Brushing his mind against that void, he focused on that ball of energy and pulled. The void hissed, sending a throb of pain through Grantaire’s brain that made him grimace, and fought him for it. Feeling sweat bead on his forehead, and breathing noisily through wet rough rasps, he continued pulling, until the void finally relented, reluctantly letting go of that hoarded energy. Immediately, Grantaire could feel pure life flowing through his veins, travelling from his chest, towards his arms and hands. Opening his eyes, he could see his blackened veins slowly fade back to normal as he lent that inky power to Gavroche, darkness seeping into the young boy’s skin, where it disappeared inside. Distantly, Grantaire thought it was like what he did to the guard, filmed in reverse.

Continuing to pull energy from that void and to push it towards Gavroche, Grantaire flinched as he suddenly felt himself collide with a mental wall. His dark void had no more stolen life to give. Choking on his next breath, Grantaire pulled from it anyway, feeling his body screaming in pain, the darkness hissing, twisting and trying to escape his grasp, trying to save itself. Unfortunately, Grantaire had made his choice. There was no more hiding in the shadows.

Grantaire could tell that his body was slowly shutting down, eyelids heavy and appendages shaking until he could no longer hold himself up. With a last forceful pull of energy, he saw Gavroche gasp, sitting up as if struck by lightning. Grantaire was too far gone to see what expression he made as he came to his senses in that filthy, waterlogged alleyway.

Drawing a faint smile, Grantaire let himself fall to the stone floor, flat on his back. He could feel the coldness of the rain and the cobblestone on his back, heavy drops landing unforgiving on his cheeks, on his opened eyes, on his lips.

A child’s cry of “R! Please, look at me!” was the only thing that really registered at that moment. With herculean effort, Grantaire shakily turned his eyes and was met with Gavroche’s panicked face, horror twisting his features. “Hold on, R! I’ll get help!”, he trembled, “Courfeyrac will take you to the Musain!”. Not waiting for a response, Gavroche rose from his crouch and ran to the mouth of the alleyway. No one would be able to tell that he had also been lying right where Grantaire was, dying as well, just moments before.

Grantaire followed Gravroche’s path with his eyes but did not have any strength left to move his head towards it. He could hear a soft wheezing sound, and distantly reasoned that it was coming from him, trying to breathe around a gaping wound that he was now almost certain must’ve punctured a lung. Thick, metallic blood was pooling on the back of his throat, eager to escape, but Grantaire found himself too weak to even cough it out. The rain kept falling.

Turning his gaze back to the sky, feeling so cold, he could only think that he hoped Jehan would not beat himself up too hard over this. After all, he had finally been able to use his gift for something good. Not just taking. He was able to protect his family. Even if only once. At least in death, he wasn’t a coward, or a burden.

God, he hated the rain. He wished the sun was out when he went. I guess I was destined to always chase it but never reach it.

His heaving breaths slowing, chest trembling from the effort it took to simply let air in and out, he remembered selfishly wishing that his friends would miss him, that Enjolras would miss him, even if just a little.

On his final rasping exhale, surrounded by the immense gray of the sky, Grantaire comforted himself with the thought that, even if no one was to miss him, at least the sky was weeping.

For the first time in his life, Grantaire happily embraced the void, and knew nothing more.

Three years later, Grantaire wakes up.

Chapter Text

Grantaire comes to with a heaving gasp, dry eyes opening to complete darkness. Head pounding and disoriented, his first thought is that he’s spectacularly hungover. Mouth stale and feeling like sandpaper, he tries raising himself from the soft covers where he’s lying; however, he’s stunned as he bashes his head hard against a cold, unyielding surface, stars bursting behind his eyes.

“Fuck!”, he yelps hoarsely. Bringing his hand up in confusion, he touches a wooden wall above him, a few centimeters away from his face. Tapping at it in growing alarm, hands sliding frantically across what he can now identify as some kind of wooden boards, he realizes he’s surrounded by the material on all sides. “W-What the fuck is going on?”, he calls out.

Slapping the hard surface above, he yells, “Hey! Is someone out there?! Hey! Help!” but finds that his rasping voice isn’t strong enough to be heard anywhere other than where he currently lays enclosed. Coughing around his parched throat, hands stinging as he repeatedly hits the wood, he comes to the horrifying conclusion that, somehow, he’s been trapped in some sort of coffin.

Thoughts in disarray, he tries recalling the events that led him to this place, coming up empty, at first. Then, flashes. The Musain, Bossuet playing with some bottles, a fight with Enjolras, and then-

The rally, the dead bodies on the street, Gavroche. Using his ability against a young guard. Being stabbed in the chest.

Bringing his hand to his breast, he feels at the skin but finds no sign of a wound. Likewise, when he tentatively presses on that spot, he feels no pain. The sweater he’s wearing is the same, though; he can tell by the feel of a tear on the fabric, the stiffness of dried blood around the place he was stabbed.

“Alright, R”, he whispers to himself, raising his hands to his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyelids until he sees bright spots, “You’re alright. Just- just think. You just have to find a way to get out of here and you’ll be fine”. You can freak out later. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he forces himself to calm his panicked breathing and take slow, measured breaths. Carefully, he presses his fingertips to the wooden panels above him once more, looking at faults or cracks in the material.

The wood that makes up his resting place is clearly old, feeling brittle and dry to the touch, and as one of his fingernails catch on the corner of a looser board above his head, he feels a glimmer of hope. Trying to squeeze his fingers further into the tiny space between boards, he’s somehow able to find purchase with the tips of his fingers. Using all the strength he can muster, he pulls at it, hearing a groan and then a crack.

With a grunt of effort, Grantaire is finally able to break off the panel, letting it fall inside. However, a wave of dirt immediately starts filling the casket, covering his face and entering his nose, his mouth. Spluttering and spitting it out, he quickly starts pushing the dry soil away from his face and towards the lower half of the casket. Pulling the collar of his sweater to his mouth and nose to protect himself from further fall, and reaching towards the newly made hole above, he grabs another plank and pulls, even more dirt raining from above, promptly shoved away too.

Eyes closed to protect his sight, he palpates the space above until he figures the newly made passage is big enough for a fully-grown man to pass through. Dirt continuing rushing in, he quickly turns belly-down, curling up and bringing his legs below him. Placing both hands on the comforter below, he pushes with all his strength. With a hoarse cry of strain, muffled by his sweater, he’s able to slowly get up, head passing through the hole and immediately buried. Feeling himself suffocate on the soil, he frantically raises his arms and starts clawing his way up, digging through the earth and simultaneously using it as purchase to propel his body upwards. Muscles screaming and lungs squeezing from the lack of air, he kicks at the dirt, feet finally passing through the passage of the coffin. Clawing his way up and twisting his body this way and that – trying to create as much movement as possible to help him reach the surface faster – he finally feels his right hand break the earth, cold humid air immediately reaching it.

Dizzy from lack of oxygen, but powered by newly incensed hope, he’s able to use his other hand to punch through the hole he had made on the ground and grasp at the edge of it. Two hands freed, he opens his arms, widening the space he had created. With a final burst of power, he’s able to push himself up, head bursting from his grave in an explosion of soil and rock, mouth opening wide as his starving lungs are finally able to drink in the fresh air around him.

With heaving breaths, Grantaire stands still for a moment, eyes closed, head and arms freed from his cage of dirt, even as the rest of his body is still immersed in it. After a moment, blood still rushing in his ears and muscles screaming from the strain, he finally rolls himself completely out of the passage, laying on his back and dizzily gulping in the cold air.

Slowly opening his eyes, he’s met with the soft pinks, oranges and purples of an afternoon sky. No noise can be heard around him, not the busy hums of passing cars, nor the melodious warbles and chirps of birds flying above. Just total, dead silence. Straining his neck, he slowly raises his head from the floor, finally able to take a look at his surroundings.

He’s currently in the middle of a decayed forest of some sort. Around him, what once could have been tall, heavy trees are now just dried trunks, branches bare and twisting towards the sky. Below, the ground is yellowed and withered, the soil brittle and devoid of any moisture. Sluggishly raising himself to a sitting position, and then pulling himself upright, staggering for a dizzying moment as blood rushes to his head and his legs get used to carrying his whole weight again, he spins around to check for any landmarks or signals that can tell him where he is, but to no avail. As far as the eye can see, at any direction, all he can discern is that quiet, stale view that makes the hairs on the back of his arms raise. It looks as if something had completely depleted the forest of its life.

Staring at the place he just climbed out of, he sees a big hole, soil overturned and disturbed from where he freed himself. Near it, stands a couple of boards sadly nailed together in the shape of a cross, tilted and falling apart. Feeling his insides freeze over, he turns his face away from the morbid sight. He has to get out of here.

Following a random direction, he starts walking, feet dragging on the arid floor and head pounding in time with his heartbeat. Wherever he is, he has to find civilization, to find a way to contact his friends, and quickly.

The sun is starting to set, shadows elongated on the ground, when he finally finds signs of life. First, a patch of green grass here and there; then, a tree with some leaves still stubbornly clinging to its branches. After a while, this becomes more frequent until, at last, Grantaire finds himself roaming through a healthy, exuberant forest, the dreariness and lifelessness of the place he woke up left completely behind. Overhead, birds can now be found singing, leaves ruffling together in their branches in a calm soundtrack, air smelling fresh and sweet.

Grantaire could have been walking for a couple of minutes or for several hours; he’s lost track of time, still dazed and exhausted from his escape. All he knows is that, as the sun dives into the horizon, his ears are starting to pick out the sound of moving cars. Raising his eyes from the forest floor, he’s able to discern lights through the foliage – streetlights.

A couple of steps more and he is finally out of the woods, finding himself on the side of an asphalt road. Looking both ways and seeing no sign of cars, he picks a side at random and starts walking down the road. Each time a vehicle passes him by, he raises his hand in the universal sign of please stop and give me a lift, I’m fucking exhausted, but is unsuccessful. His guess is that people don’t really feel like letting a random man that looks like he crawled out of a hole – which he did – into their cars. Go figure.

By the time the moon is completely visible on the sky, waning gibbous dimly illuminating the path Grantaire walks, he finds himself near a few farmhouses. Approaching the only property with lights clearly on, he doesn't let himself hesitate; he climbs the small porch and rings the bell.

After a few seconds, he can hear soft steps approaching and, at the sound of a bolt unlocking, he straightens and tries to quickly pat himself down to dislodge some of the dried dirt that is clinging to his clothing, with very little success. Door opening, an aged face peeks from the space between door and doorway, looking up at Grantaire. As eyes process what they’re seeing, they open wide, and the door is torn open.

“Dear God! Are you alright, young man?”, an elderly woman asks urgently. She stands considerably shorter than Grantaire, greying hair pulled back into a carefully coifed bun and dressed in a flower-patterned pinafore, the ones he remembers his own grandmother wearing, back in a time before his powers manifested. She looks him up and down and gasps in alarm at his blood-covered sweater, crying out, “Are you hurt?!”

Looking down at himself, he grimaces; between his date with the wrong end of a knife and that time rolling out of a grave, his once-green sweater looks more like a dirty gray now. He winces at the lady’s question, mind scrambling for a convincing excuse that doesn’t involve fighting with the authorities or miraculous resurrection.

“I’m sorry to bother you, madame. I was hiking nearby and got hit by a car”, he cringes at the half-assed story, gesturing at himself, “My fault, I’m afraid, I didn’t notice I was near a road and then it was too late”, he claims, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. “Unfortunately, the driver ran away, and my phone broke so I couldn’t call for help”, he continues. Drawing on his most pathetic expression – which, in the state he is in, is no hard feat – he looks at the sympathetic old woman, “I was wondering if I could trouble you by asking to borrow a phone so I can call my friends. I promise I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I get in touch with them”.

Thankfully, the older lady doesn’t appear suspicious of Grantaire’s story, and tuts in commiseration, “People these days, I can’t understand them! It doesn’t bear thinking about, running someone over and then escaping!”, she exclaims. Moving away from the door, she nods at Grantaire, “Come on over, dear, we’ll get you cleaned up and in some new clothes in no time. You can use our landline to call your friends; it will be no trouble at all”. Turning her back to Grantaire, she navigates further into the house and Grantaire has no choice but to follow her, closing the front door softly behind him.

Passing through a hallway filled with family portraits and religious symbols – crucifix on the wall, tiny statuettes of various saints on a shelf – he stops by the open door of a warm, cozy kitchen, light wooden table on the center of the division illuminated by a small but carefully crafted matted glass lamp strung from the ceiling. On the corner of the room stands a small counter and stove, something aromatic bubbling inside an old but clearly well-cared for cooking pot, the scent of warm wine, meat, and herbs filling his nose. Grantaire feels his mouth water and stomach squeeze, hunger almost impossible to ignore at this point. Considering the last thing he ate was a piece of dry toast on the morning before that fateful meeting, as well as a couple of glasses of wine during the meeting itself, it’s no wonder he’s ready to drool all over the nice lady’s ceramic floor.

“Let me just turn the heat down so I can help you properly”, she says, approaching the stove and rotating a small nob, fire losing some of its strength. Turning back towards Grantaire, she then exclaims, “Look at you! I bet you’re starving, having to walk all the way here from those terrible woods! They’re cursed, you see", she tells him urgently. "I’ll show you the way to the bathroom and you can get cleaned up; I’ll even lend you some of my husband’s old clothes, they should fit you alright”, she says kindly, “He was also a strong handsome man like yourself, once”, she finishes as she guides him by the elbow further down the corridor, “And where are my manners! I’m Geneviève, and my husband is Alain; he went out to get some groceries and must be on his way back any moment now”, she explains.

“You can call me Grantaire, madame”, he answers dumbfounded, “Everybody does”. Recovering quickly, he tries to gather some of his usual charm (he frequently used it against unsuspecting old ladies that visited the Garden Luxembourg when he was also there, looking for some sort of artistic inspiration). “I really can’t thank you enough for this, you must be heaven-sent. I’ll be sure to repay you any way I can”, he says humbly, bowing his head.

“None of that!”, she tsks, cheeks rosy. Having reached a small bathroom, pink and white tiles covering the floor and walls, Geneviève says, “Now, have a nice hot bath and then meet me back in the kitchen, dear, you saw where it was. Take your time. Oh! And there’s a first-aid kit under the counter, for your scrapes. I’ll leave a change of clothes by the door”. Not waiting for a response from a stunned Grantaire, she turns to leave the bathroom, but adds off-handedly over her shoulder, “You’ll dine here with us before your friends pick you up, of course”, with the authority only an elderly woman who doesn’t take no for an answer can deliver.

Grantaire merely nods, overwhelmed by the kindness of a stranger who gains nothing from letting him in her home and helping him get back on his feet. He can almost hear Apollo’s voice in his head, smugly stating, See? People don’t always have second intentions. Some just do what’s right.

Considering wholesome thoughts of universal kindness such as these usually give a cynic like Grantaire the hives, he shakes his head, dispelling the image of an illuminated Enjolras from his mind, and quickly sets to close the bathroom door, pulling at the bottom of his sweater and groaning as he throws it over his head, back muscles and shoulders tense and sore from the strain of the day.

Unbuttoning his pants and grimacing at the way they cling to his legs, he pulls them down and kicks them off, dirt and humidity scratching his skin and feeling like sandpaper on the way down. Underwear similarly dispatched and thrown on top of the small pile of soiled clothing, Grantaire – avoiding the mirror hanging from the wall – quickly enters the small bathtub, opening the plastic curtain and putting one leg after the other inside the tight space.

Without hesitating, he twists the knob marked by a red dot, the showerhead sputtering a burst of cold water for a moment, before quickly warming and becoming almost unbearably hot. Regulating the temperature by cranking the blue-painted knob a little, Grantaire finally allows himself to go under the spray, water hitting his face and sluicing down his neck. Roughly scouring his nails through his matted hair, he sees the water land on his feet a dark brown, heavy with pieces of dirt, grass, and God only knows what else. As he scrubs his face, neck, shoulders, torso, and legs, he sees the water turn a light brown, and then finally run clear.

Minimally clean, Grantaire lets out a deep sigh, grabbing a random bottle of body wash and squeezing some of the product to his hands, proceeding to work it harshly on his hair and body. All he wants is to feel clean again.

Suds running down his body, and feeling marginally better about his state of hygiene, Grantaire finally allows himself to relax for the first time since he woke, confused and scared, inside a coffin.

Speaking of. A fucking coffin? Belatedly allowing himself to freak out a little, Grantaire leans his head against the wall in front of him, water spraying harshly on his back as he tries to give any sort of meaning to what is happening.

So, what- he actually died? He was pretty confident in his demise as he healed Gavroche – at least some good came out of that whole mess – and he clearly remembers bleeding out on that waterlogged alleyway. There is no way his friends were able to heal him. And even if they did – why on earth would they bury him afterwards, knowing he was still alive?

So- he died. Expired. His friends probably buried him – he’s still uncertain about why they chose that particular place, some random forest away from Paris – but he’s sure it was his friends’ handiwork. No family members around who cared enough to give him a proper burial, after all.

That still doesn’t explain how he was able to get back from the dead or wake up completely healed. Bringing his hand back to the place he got stabbed, now clean, he’s able to feel a slight blemish disturbing the smooth patch of skin. Turning the water off and abandoning the bathtub, he absent-mindedly grabs a clean fluffy towel that’s hanging from a towel rack and wraps it around his waist as he approaches the fogged-up mirror. Wiping a hand against it, he’s finally able to get a proper look at himself, the first time since he awoke in this bizarre second chance at life.

His first instinct is to recoil. If he was pale before he woke, he’s sickly pallid now, skin pasty and ashen, veins stark against it, eyelids tinted pink and eyebags almost purple under his eyes. Those, thankfully, have maintained the same startling shade of green, so at least there’s no difference there. Lowering his gaze, he takes a better look at his chest. Squinting, he can clearly discern a ragged line of scar tissue following a path from his left pectoral to the bottom of his collarbone. He probably opened the wound further when he stupidly took the blade out in his desperate attempt at accelerating Gavroche’s healing. His pendant is missing, probably lost in the scuffle in the alleyway or in the dirt during his escape from his ill-timed grave site. He tries not to be heartbroken about it and promptly fails.

Hands now clean of blood and dirt, he notices that his fingertips, where they lightly touch the scar, are tinged a bluish purple, like his blood can’t properly reach his extremities. Pressing his thumbnail to the tip of his forefinger, however, doesn’t register any difference in his sense of touch. Small mercies. Sickly look notwithstanding, he doesn’t look too different – he wasn’t ever going to win any beauty pageants anyway.

Self-examination over, he finishes drying himself with the borrowed towel. Head peeking outside the bathroom, he sees a small pile of folded clothes right by the door, which he swiftly grabs before going back inside. In his hand, he holds a soft black sweater, some scruffy blue jeans, a pair of underwear, socks, and a belt. The sweater fits him well, albeit a little tight across his toned shoulders, and the jeans fit him alright after securing the belt around his waist. Putting on warm socks, he grabs his boots – still filthy but nothing he can do about it now – and pile of dirty clothing. As far as he’s concerned, there’s no salvaging the latter; he would probably throw the pieces out.

Opening the bathroom door, Grantaire moves cautiously towards the light coming from the kitchen before he hears two voices exchanging words. Stopping in his tracks, he merges with the shadows of the corridor and shamelessly eavesdrops.

“-Some man you don’t know into our house!”, a gruff male voice sounds out. It isn’t too hard to figure out who they are talking about.

“Oh, don’t you start”, Geneviève’s voice responds, miffed, “He was clearly lost and hurt! What sort of person would I be if I just slammed the door in his face?”, she asks.

“A prudent one”, the man immediately responds.

“Hush. He has been nothing but a well-mannered young man since he got here and I’ll be damned if I don’t get him the help he clearly needs”, she says decisively. The man grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t argue any further.

Understanding that that’s his cue, Grantaire makes sure to make some noise to announce his presence, moving towards the kitchen. As he enters, he’s met with a set table, a large baking dish of stew steaming at the center and three plates spread around it. Standing, Geneviève is busy putting some dirty cutlery in the sink, back turned to the door; on the table sits a sturdy man with salt and pepper hair and a respectable mustache, one elbow on the table and hand holding a newspaper. At Grantaire’s entrance, the man looks up over his reading glasses, a scrutinizing glance that makes him feel ill at ease.

“And what did you say your name was, lad?”, the man immediately shoots, ignoring the soft slap Geneviève gives his shoulder at the brusque introduction.

“My friends just call me Grantaire, so please, call me that too”, Grantaire says politely, “You must be Alain; Geneviève told me about you”, he says with a strained smile.  

“Hmm… Grantaire, is it? That’s an unusual name”, Alain observes.

“Surname, actually”, Grantaire explains, “First name’s so bad it’s not even worth mentioning”, he jokes, eyes jumping tensely from Alain to his wife and back.

“Hmph”, is the only reply the older man gives to that. “Well, boy? Sit down, before the food gets cold!”, he orders. Grantaire doesn’t need to be told twice, pulling out a chair and sitting down. Geneviève busies herself taking his plate and filling it with stew. From what he can tell, it’s some sort of beef bourguignon, carrots and mushrooms swimming in a thick, rich dark sauce. It smells so good he could cry.

Waiting just long enough for the old couple to start their meal, Grantaire dives in, making a gargantuan effort to eat slowly and not shovel food down his throat. He can still feel a pair of eyes scrutinizing him, so he makes sure not to give away that he feels as if he hasn’t eaten in days.

“So, what brought you to Giverny?”, Alain inquires gruffly. Grantaire, slowing his chewing, forces himself not to startle at the words, but his bewilderment must be obvious in his face, because the older man continues, “Young man like you, I’m surprised you didn’t come with friends or were closer to the museums. So, what brought you to this road? Not much to see around here”, he adds, side-eyeing the brunet.

Thinking on his feet, he replies, “I’m an artist, actually. Thought I could get a better grasp at what painters experienced back in the day if I surrounded myself with nature instead of museums. Trying to see the world that inspired them through their eyes, so to speak. Clearly, I should’ve thought that one through a little bit more”, he chuckles self-deprecatingly.

At that, Alain relaxes imperceptivity. “An artist, huh? That makes sense”, he mutters as he studies Grantaire from top to bottom. Grantaire tries – unsuccessfully – not to feel offended at the stare.

“Did you visit the gardens, then?”, Geneviève intervenes, “Oh, Alain, do you remember when we used to go there every summer?”, she glances at her husband eagerly, “Now it’s so full of tourists I can barely stand it”, she tuts sorrowfully.

“No, actually. Didn’t get the chance”, Grantaire answers. Better not to lie about a place he’s never seen in his life.

“Hmph. ’Tis a shame, what happened to you”, Alain finally concedes, appearing to have reached the conclusion that Grantaire couldn’t be too suspicious or dangerous, what with the whole being alone, unharmed and without a way of contacting the outside world business.

“Well, I have always been of the opinion that, one way or the other, when bad things happen, they usually happen to me, so I figure it could be worse”, Grantaire jokes. Geneviève shakes her head disapprovingly.

“Bet it was one of them freaks that did it to you”, Alain spits, vitriol stark in his voice.

“What do you mean?”, Grantaire asks, confused.

The older man squints, “You know, those devils”, he sneers, “I’d bet an arm and leg they were the ones who hit you and ran; probably didn’t want to get caught by the government and thrown in a cell, rot there as they deserve”.

Feeling himself tense up, Grantaire stares as Geneviève interjects, “Oh, Alain, stop with all this unpleasant talk at the dinner table! You know we don’t talk about those creatures at mealtimes, it ruins my appetite”, she sniffs.

Grantaire feels his body freeze, muscles tensing as fight or flight instincts kick in. Suddenly, he doesn’t feel as safe in this warm, cozy kitchen anymore. The closed-off looks of Alain and the gentle, motherly behavior of Geneviève now look terribly insidious.

Knowing he has to provide an answer anyway, Grantaire merely offers a tense smile.

“See! You made the poor boy uncomfortable!” Geneviève exclaims. “Now, let’s leave that sort of talk behind us. Tell us, dear, do you need to call the police, to press charges?”, she asks sympathetically.

“No!”, Grantaire exclaims. Alain side-eyes him again, suspicion glimmering in his eyes once more. Scrambling for an explanation for his outburst, Grantaire continues, “I’m not too hurt and one of my friends is a lawyer; I’d like to get his point of view on all this and see what my options are”. Geneviève nods in commiseration.

“Alright dear, as long as you’re sure. Now, are you finished eating? Come, come, I’ll show you to the landline, you can call your friends from there”.

Rising from the table chair, the older woman starts walking back to the corridor, not waiting to check whether he's coming or not. Quick to follow, Grantaire approaches, leaving Alain behind but feeling the weight of his eyes on his back. Approaching Geneviève in the hallway, he looks at the device that she points to him, standing on a telephone table by the wall. “Take your time, I’ll be back in the kitchen”, Geneviève assures. With a small pat on his shoulder, she turns back.

Heart pounding and thoughts racing, Grantaire tries to plan his next moves, but his thoughts keep going back to what was said in the kitchen. Mostly, he’s confused about the animosity he felt coming from the elderly couple regarding powered people. He knows that the media isn’t painting them in too friendly a light, but as far as he knows, public opinion is ambiguous at best; not like the disgust clear on Geneviève’s face, or the hatred on Alain’s.

The existence of powered people was only made public a couple of months ago, and only because Guillenormand announced their existence to the world and immediately called for prosecution. First incredulous and mocking, the population was quick to quiet down as family members and friends, some of whom had been hiding their abilities all their lives, came out and – very publicly – proved him right. News spread worldwide and more gifted revealed themselves.

The point is, the revelation that there were people with superhuman powers among them is too recent; people are still drawing their own opinions about them and there’s no legislation or rules in place yet. In fact, that was the whole point of the rally his friends were preparing – and that fateful day was the first time the government took actual action against the gifted.

So, that contrasted greatly with the couple’s attitude towards people like him; a possible explanation is that they know someone with powers who did them incredibly wrong. Another is too grim to think about – that somehow, something happened while he was dead that turned the public opinion dramatically against the powered. He only hopes he was the only casualty among his friends’ group that day.

He shakes his head, shying away from the course his thoughts were taking. Regardless of his doubts, he’s more determined than ever to get the hell away from fucking Giverny – what the hell, guys? – and get back to Paris, to his friends, tell them what happened and try to figure out how it happened.

Picking the phone up, he dials one of the two numbers he has memorized – Courfeyrac. After all, it is pretty convenient to be able to call his teleporting friend to give him lifts any time he’s too drunk to get back home by himself; in fact, he has lost track of how many times he has abused that privilege. His good-natured friend is also the best option if he wants a quick escape from the plight he has somehow found himself in.

Pressing the phone to his ear, he feels his heart jump at the sound of a voice, but quickly deflates, knot in his stomach forming as he listens to an automatic message informing him that “The number you are trying to call is not available at this time”.  

Disconnecting the call, he dials the second number. Éponine always picks up her phone – even when she doesn’t know the caller – in case something has happened to Gavroche. Surely, she will pick up. However, his hopes are in vain, and the same automated voice starts reciting its message. Muscles tensing, he jumps as a voice rings from behind him.

“Is there a problem?”, Alain questions. Startled, Grantaire swivels around, Alain’s figure half hidden in the darkness of the hallway.

“No one seems to be picking up”, he rushes to lie. “I’ll just have to walk towards the town center, see if I can get back to my hotel and call my friends from there”.

“At this time of night? Unacceptable. Please, stay and rest. Tomorrow, I’ll give you a lift and take you back to the hotel myself”, Alain insists.

“Oh- no, I couldn’t possibly impose-“

“-None of that”, he interrupts, “It’s no trouble. Geneviève and I both agree that we would feel better if you could stay here for the night and go on your way tomorrow. She’s preparing the spare bedroom as we speak”.

Feeling cornered, but unable to find a plausible excuse to deny the invitation, he can only nod and mutter, “If it’s no trouble, then…”

“As I said – no trouble at all. Let’s go, the room is probably ready”, he grumbles. Passing Grantaire, Alain steps further into the darkness of the hallway, towards a room whose light illuminates the opposite wall. Cautiously following, they reach the small room where Geneviève is finishing fluffing up the pillows.

“There you go, young man. Just rest up and tomorrow we’ll see that you get back safely”, she claims, moving towards the door where Alain is leaning against, gaze inscrutable.

Grantaire glues a smile to his face, mouth tense and strained, “I can’t thank you both enough for your kindness”, he declares, “I won’t forget it”.

“You look like a fine lad. It was no problem”. Dislodging himself from the doorway, Alain approaches him, close enough to extend his hand. Reaching his own hand to shake it, Grantaire feels his smile strain further as the older man squeezes his hand, looking calculatingly down at his dark fingertips. With a considering hum, he drops it. Grantaire tries to be discrete as he puts his hands behind his back but has no doubts his gesture is picked up by the shrewd man.

“Good night, dear. Sleep tight”. Smiling kindly, Geneviève grabs her husband by the arm and pulls him outside the room, closing the door softly.

Finding himself finally alone, Grantaire blows a harsh gust of air, adrenaline pumping in his veins. Approaching the single bed, he lets himself drop on top of it, smushing his face against the pillow as he thinks.

Geneviève seemed completely oblivious to the rising tension between Grantaire and her husband. Alain, on the other hand, seemed highly suspicious of him, but not particularly hostile – not yet. He has to be on high alert around him in the morning, make sure no cracks show in his mask. He also has to plan for tomorrow – the older man couldn’t find out Grantaire wasn’t actually staying at a hotel. He was already stupidly lucky he wasn’t asked the name of the place.

Turning his face away from the pillow, his gaze lands on a bookcase filled with various books and trinkets. On one of the shelves, he can identify some framed diplomas and medals. Figuring he should probably try to find out more about the owners of the place, he rises from the bed and approaches the piece of furniture.

Some frames hold pictures of a uniformed Alain, clearly depicting him at different times of his life, spanning from a young, fresh-faced cadet, to a gruffer, more current picture of him, various medals hanging from his coat. Faint alarm ringing in the back of Grantaire’s mind, he moves his eyes towards the medals framed and placed in display boxes. Some just appear vaguely familiar, generic honors for services made for France.

His gaze then freezes on a display box proudly presenting a golden medal shaped like a cross, the center a circle in which he can read, engraved in the gold material, “Croix de la valeur militaire”. Under it, on the box, a message also reads, “As a reminder that humanity will always prevail over the powers of evil”, followed by a date and a dark blue emblem with an image of a castle surrounded by fleurs de lis.

At that, two things make Grantaire freeze where he stands:

   First, that emblem – the familiar insignia of the National Guard.

   Second – the date engraved, which marks two years after that rainy day in Paris.

Two years. Two years.

He’s been dead for at least two years.

He doesn’t know how to react. He actually feels as if his brain isn’t capable of computing the overload of world-shattering information he has been feeding it since he woke up in a grave- an old grave, because he died more than two fucking years ago.

Two complete years. Just- lost to him. And that isn’t even accounting for the very real possibility that that picture of Alain wasn’t taken this year. For all he knows, it could have been taken five years ago. Seven. God.

What year is it? What in the hell happened during the time he lost? Where are his friends? Are they okay? Are they even still alive?

Mind punching him with an image of Enjolras’ defiant blue gaze, voice determined as he coldly challenged Grantaire, “Is your life even worth living, if you can’t stand to fight for it?”. Stupid Apollo with his suicidal plans better not be dead or so help him God. He will bring him back to life just so he can kill him again.

No wonder Alain was so suspicious of him – he was fucking National Guard and could probably sniff Grantaire’s shitty lies a mile away. At his age, he was probably even a high-ranking officer. And one who apparently did good enough to receive a cross of military valor.

Change of plans. He has to get out of here now. He sure doesn’t want to find out what the “powers of evil” Alain thinks he fought against are, considering his choice of words about powered people back in the kitchen.

Crossing the room and opening a wooden built-in closet on the wall, Grantaire reaches inside and looks through the clothing hanging there, shuffling through various uniforms and old dresses. He ends up picking a long black coat, passing his arms through the sleeves. Warm enough.

Going back to the bed, he opens a drawer on the bedside table and looks at its contents; just random trinkets and some coins, forgotten on the bottom of the case. He quickly grabs a couple of abandoned coins, around five euros total. Not a lot, but enough to use a payphone on his way if somehow, he finds one still in service this day and age. Maybe his friends will pick up then. If they still even have the same phone numbers. If they are still even alive. Shaking his gruesome thoughts from his mind, he shoves the coins in his coat pocket and approaches the bedroom window, looking out.

Thankfully, the farmhouse he’s staying in is in the middle of nowhere, illumination only provided by the light posts occasionally spread across the road. Turning the metal knob that locks the window slowly clockwise, wincing at the slight squeak it produces against the unoiled hinges, he opens the two glass panes and puts his legs outside, hanging for a moment before he jumps. As he is on the first floor, the distance to the floor is negligible and, as he lands, secure on his feet, he is quick to jog towards the darkest side of the road, taking shelter on the heavy blackness of the unilluminated street.

He now knows he’s in Giverny, which is around a day’s walk away from Paris, maybe more if he includes rest stops. Without any money, and not willing to approach a stranger for a lift after what he just went through, it’s a walk he’s willing to make.

Exhausted from a day spent on his feet – not to speak of that whole crawling-out-of-a-grave moment – he drudges towards a group of lights he can identify in the distance, gathering that it must be the village of Giverny.

Hidden in the shadows, he carries on.

It’s pitch dark by the time he forces himself to stop for rest, sleep making his eyes feel dry and gritty, eyelids heavy. Having passed Giverny about two hours ago, he’s definitely reaching his limit, and figures he should probably stop and get some sleep under a tree or something before he collapses. God, couldn’t his friends have buried him with some fucking pocket money? He could’ve used it to rent a room for the night instead of having to cuddle outdoors with the cold and some country rats.

As he passes a garden that overlooks an old castle by the main road, only illuminated by the moon, he can tell he’s reached another small village. Looking up to the hill to his left, he can discern a stone tower, proudly standing on its summit. Squinting at the sight, realization suddenly hits: he’s looking at La Roche-Guyon. Smothering a groan, he forces himself to trudge through some narrow stone streets as he enters the village. If he’s in Val-d’Oise, he still has about fifteen more hours to go, fucking hell. Someone please kill him again.

Unwilling to walk a single kilometer more, feet sore and legs screaming, he walks just long enough to reach a sandstone church relatively hidden from the main road. Surrounded by small houses, it also has the added benefit of being mostly safe from the elements. Taking a look around – making sure no one’s watching – he goes around the building and, reaching the side of it, approaches a particularly well-hidden corner and lays down, bringing his knees to his chest to save heat, arm serving as a pillow, back against the wall and front facing a small garden growing on the lateral of the church.

Not necessarily dignified, but certainly not the worst place he has ever slept in. Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire could write a book on the worst and most uncomfortable places to sleep in Paris after getting black-out drunk. On a particularly memorable venture, he woke up bewildered in a kayak, floating serenely in the middle of the Seine, no idea how he got there, or where the kayak even came from. Courfeyrac spent about ten minutes howling in laughter when he called for a lift, and even Enjolras huffed a chuckle in amusement as Grantaire was teleported back to the trio’s apartment, hair a mess, socks soaked-through, and disgruntled expression stuck to his face.

(That almost made it worth it).

Warmed by thoughts of happier times, he closes his eyes as he lies on the hard ground, the sounds of crickets a lullaby that finally sends him to sleep.

Grantaire jolts awake from dreams of screaming and gunfire to closer, but not any less distressing, sounds of shouting and police sirens. Instantly alert, he sits up, ignoring how his muscles scream from the strain of sleeping on the hard floor of the churchyard. From the iron grates nearest to him, he can catch a glimpse of two hooded figures running and breathing frantically, followed closely by a group of uniformed officers, rushing towards the other end of the street.

With the whole old-couple-who-at-first-sounded-nice-but-were-actually-bigoted-assholes debacle of last night, Grantaire is not about to risk getting to know what an angry mob is running towards; so, heart pounding, he quickly rises from the floor and, crouching, sneaks towards the front gate, looking both ways before delving into a narrow side street. He had to get back to the main road. Hopefully, he doesn’t run into any trouble and can reach Paris by tomorrow morning.

Speedwalking through the streets but making sure not to run or look any more alerted than a disgruntled twenty-something guy can look by walking in the opposite direction from a running crowd, he’s just rounding a corner when he rams harshly with someone, heads colliding hard. Grabbing his head where it banged on the other person’s forehead, grunting in pain, he glares.

“Fuck! That hurt”, he exclaims, looking at the figure before him. A middle-aged man stands, balding and with a noticeable gut, also grabbing his head but straightening when he sees Grantaire looking back in irritation. Squinting, Grantaire is confused as the man’s appearance appears to flicker, almost as if some sort of layer is sitting on top of his skin and is hiding something under it.

He starts, eyes blowing wide. “What-“

Suddenly, the man pounces on him, grabbing him by the arms and pushing him towards a wall. Bizarrely, the hands that grip him feel significantly smaller than you’d expect from a man his size, and likewise, Grantaire is surprised by the way his assailant feels light as he grunts in effort, trying to immobilize him.

Snapping out of his surprise, and survival instincts kicking in – looks like he does have them after all – he’s quick to dislodge the man’s hands and to shove him away, putting his weight behind the movement. Now incredibly confused by the way the man’s body seems to give easily under his strength, the man grabs for the lapel of Grantaire’s jacket, a grip that tells him he wants to use that leverage to throw him to the ground.

Like hell. Grantaire grabs at the wrist holding him and calls on that familiar scratch-scratch at the back of his mind, feeling his power readily answer the call; as always, hungry for life.

Grantaire only has time to see the man’s face twist in surprised pain, a – strangely high – gasp of anguish escaping before he hears the cock of a gun behind him, and something hard presses to the back of his head.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I would advise you to stop it, right now”, an unfamiliar male voice says, hard and unyielding.

Not really wanting to press his luck and doubting his ability to somehow come back from getting shot in the head, Grantaire raises his arms and lets the older man go.

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, hm?”, he says lightly, slowly turning from the first man – now gasping and slumping against the wall in pained relief – to the mysterious voice. He ends up turned to the side, trying to maintain both men in his periphery.

A quick glimpse at the new man – now positioned to his right – allows him to see a dark head of hair framing a freckled face and dark, serious eyes. The hand holding the gun is steady, no sign of hesitation. This is someone who is used to wielding it and isn’t afraid of using it against him.

“What did you do?”, the man demands, glancing at his older companion, still weak after Grantaire’s assault.

“In my defense, your friend here started it, I was just minding my own business”, he continues, nodding towards the man leaning against the building, face grim from leftover pain, “So how about we lower that weapon before someone gets hurt? And then we can talk? I really hate guns”.

For the first time, the man hesitates, exchanging glances with his companion for a moment. As the older man nods, the other slowly lowers his weapon, quickly hiding it in the back of his pants, under his t-shirt.

“Not here. You’ll come with us”, the man orders, now more relaxed but not any less alert.

“Now, why would I do that? Going by your friend’s quickness to attack me here, it seems as if you’re running from something. And considering I just passed a whole squad of angry national guards, I’d bet it’s you they’re looking for”, he says, forcing himself to relax and slouch a little, non-threateningly, “So, what’s stopping me from yelling for help and letting the police take care of it, hm?”, he asks, slight smile twisting at the corner of his mouth.

“Because”, the younger man says, squinting in slight confusion, “You just used your powers. So they’d arrest you too”.

Trying not to let his alarm show, Grantaire keeps smiling. So powered people are actually being persecuted now. Guess Apollo was right after all. Who knows what sort of laws are in place to oppress people like him. It’s been at least two years since he had any idea what the hell was going on. Looking at the dark-haired man, he figures this can actually be good for him; maybe these guys can get him up to date, give him some information on the current world, help him figure out his next moves.

“Alright, alright. I guess you got me there”, he says glibly, shrugging. Gesturing at the street behind the man, he bows his head. “Please. After you”.

Exchanging one more inscrutable look with his companion, the younger man turns his back to Grantaire and starts walking back the way he came from.

“Uhhh”, Grantaire interjects, “I’m pretty sure the cops went that way. Aren’t you risking getting caught?”

“They weren’t looking for me”, the man responds simply, glancing over his shoulder. Grantaire mimics him and looks at the tail-end of their ridiculous, three-manned-parade, where the older man meets his gaze, still without uttering a word. So they were looking for this guy. The younger of the two continues, understanding Grantaire’s inquiring glance, “Don’t worry. They won’t recognize him either. Besides, they’re looking for two people, and there’s three of us”.

Looking forwards, the stranger keeps walking, evidently confident in his destination. As has been the case since he woke up in this fucked up timeline, Grantaire is completely confused, but figures he should just go along for the ride. Humming consideringly, he keeps any further comment to himself and follows the man.

After crossing God-knows how many sinuous streets, they finally reach a dilapidated house, clearly abandoned and falling to ruin, but still somehow standing. With no hesitation, the man goes through a creaking iron gate that serves as a side entrance to what once was a flourishing garden; now, all that’s left is knee-high dry grass and stinging nettles that they have to navigate through. As they get to the back of the house, they enter the building through a wooden backdoor, immediately facing a living room. Grantaire is pleasantly surprised to see that, although dark, the inside of the house is clearly well-maintained and even welcoming. Light enters through a boarded window and allows him to see two comfortable looking chairs facing a hearth and clean, albeit old carpets covering the floor. Along the walls, bookshelves can be found, each filled orderly with books.

Grantaire gets pulled out of his reverie by movement in his periphery. Glancing towards it, he raises his eyebrows in surprise as the two men passionately embrace, the younger of the two gripping the older man tightly, whispering reassurances and words of relief to his ear. The older man nods, loving smile on his face.

“Oh wow”, Grantaire says, “Didn’t see that one coming”. The two men finally separate, and the older one speaks for the first time.

“I’m sorry for what happened back there”, a feminine voice comes from his mouth. Grantaire feels his eyes bulge out of their sockets, “I thought you were one of them and when you looked so suspiciously at me, I panicked”, his sweet voice states. The contrast between that voice and the look of a middle-aged, balding man almost throws him for a loop before what he's saying clicks.

Realization hits.

“In the alley”, Grantaire says, “It looked like you- flickered. A shapeshifter, then?”, he asks curiously, head tilting in consideration.

“Not quite”, the man with the high voice says. At that, he glances at his companion and, receiving a reassuring nod from him, starts flickering again. Suddenly, the older man is gone. In his place, Grantaire is looking at an almost opposite image.

Light blond, wavy hair lands lovingly on delicate shoulders and reaches the waist of a small figure. Delicate nose and straight brows are balanced by a rosy soft mouth, drawn into a kind, but reserved smile. Grantaire feels like he’s looking at some sort of angel. If he's used to comparing Enjolras to a celestial being as described in the Old Testament, a vengeful angel, warrior of God, ready to strike the unworthy, then the woman before him can only be compared to a rosy-cheeked, kind angel, like the ones you pray to at night to bring you protection.

“I don’t actually change shape”, the woman clarifies, “I just… create illusions”. Turning towards her companion, her smile widens, sweet and loving. The whole “passionate hugging in the middle of the living room” of a few minutes ago suddenly makes a lot more sense.

The other man, in turn, smiles back just as widely, face completely changing from the stern expression of before to an almost goofy one now. All possible intimidation effect he provoked disappears. Poof. The man looks ridiculously enamored.

“My love”, he says, approaching the woman and grabbing her small, delicate hand, thumb rubbing the back of it, “You know I’ll adore you no matter what shape you choose; but I have to admit I’m glad to see your face again”, he sighs adoringly. The woman smiles sweetly up at him, going on her tiptoes and stealing a quick kiss. The man looks like he can die happy now.

The woman turns back to Grantaire.

“It was only when you used your powers against me that I knew you weren’t really on their side”, she admits, embarrassed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “That; and then I saw your face”. Grantaire jolts.

“What do you mean”, he asks.

“You’re Grantaire, of course”, the woman answers simply. Grantaire officially gives up on understanding what the hell is going on. “We all know you, and your face. It’s all over the country, after all. Yours and your friends’, that is”, she clarifies.

Grantaire’s heart starts pounding, both at the information that, apparently, the whole country knows his face – was his death not common knowledge? And why is he even considered relevant enough to be of interest? – and that his friends are somewhere out there, probably considered wanted criminals.

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, Grantaire approaches the pair, “Do you know them? My friends? Do you know where I can find them?” he asks, urgency leaking to his voice.

“Of course, we know of them”, the woman answers, confusion touching her expression, “You’re Les Amis”, she states, as if him and his friends being sort-of famous was an obvious fact. “And what do you mean, «do you know where to find them»? Shouldn’t you know that?”, she fires back, brows furrowing a little.

“It’s a long story”, Grantaire admits. Making a split-second decision, he continues, “But I have to reach them and don’t know where they are”, he states. Having known these guys for less than an hour he can’t help but feel that he… can trust them. Maybe it was that nauseating display of pure, unadulterated love from before or the way they were now looking at him, completely open and trusting. Besides… Grantaire is sick of feeling lost, confused, alone or all of the above. He could really use some allies right about now.

“We have time”, the man interjects, dark eyes kind. “The National Guard doesn’t know we’re staying here and doesn’t know my face. I can come and go safely, get us what we need”, he finishes.

“What do you mean?”, Grantaire asks.

“We can’t stay in Val-d’Oise”, the woman explains, after exchanging glances with her companion and nodding in certainty. “My illusions can only get me so far before they figure we’re hiding here. Rumor is that Les Amis’ base is in Paris, so we’ll take you there, find shelter”.

“You’ll help me? Why?”, Grantaire can’t help but blurt out, incredulous. His cynical side – and that is basically all the side he has – can’t help but look for some sort of ulterior motive behind the proposal, but other than leading him to a trap set up by the National Guard, he comes up blank; he just doesn’t have enough information on the rules of this unknown world to try to unwrap the offer. “I don’t even know your name, and you’re just going to risk your lives for me? What do you get out of this?”, he presses.

“I’m Cosette” the woman says clearly, “And this is Marius”, she gestures to her companion. “And to answer your question: it’s simple, really. You’re Les Amis, so you’re on our side. And you’re the ones who will tear down this system and bring back our freedom”.

Chapter Text

Cosette, Marius and Grantaire sit at a dining table on the old house. The living room they’re staying in is softly illuminated by the fire burning on the hearth, warm glow casting dancing shadows along the peeling wallpaper. In front of him sits a cup of steaming lemon peel tea – all Marius and Cosette could offer with their meager supplies – sending a pleasant citrusy scent to his nose that almost masks the smell of mildew permeating the house. Breathing deeply and warming his hands on the chipped ceramic of his cup, he turns his bright green gaze to the couple sitting in front of him.

“So, any idea how we’re supposed to get to Paris without getting caught? If my face is as well-known as you say, it’s a wonder no one’s recognized me yet”, Grantaire says, thinking of Alain’s suspicious looks and insistent questions back in Giverny. There’s no way he hasn’t alerted the National Guard by now. And he knows his name and face. Shit.

“The National Guard isn’t looking for Marius, and I can glamour the both of us, make us unrecognizable”, Cosette states, gesturing at Grantaire. She’s currently sitting beside Marius, leaning against his shoulder as he taps his fingers on the table, lost in thought.

“As powerful as I’m sure you are, even you must have your limits. Paris is almost a day’s travel away; isn’t that going to be a stretch?”, Grantaire asks dubiously. Cosette grimaces but concedes.

“We’ll have to take frequent breaks, or risk showing our faces for small periods of time”.

“What about you, lover boy? What can you do?” Grantaire shoots at Marius, who startles.

“Me? Oh no, I don’t have a gift”, he says, a little embarrassed. “But I know how to shoot, and I know how to fight”, he assures.

“Is that so? How come?”, Grantaire wonders, studying the other man closely; therefore, it doesn’t escape him how Marius tenses up at that question. Interesting.

“My grandfather was military; taught me everything I know”, Marius mutters vaguely.

“Military, was it? National Guard, by any chance?”, Grantaire asks, maybe a little too sharply.

“We’re not in touch anymore”, Marius cuts-off, eyes serious and hard. “My father, he was powered. My grandfather never even let me visit him, I only found out he had a gift after he… he-”, he chokes, frowning. Cosette is quick to grab his trembling hand, still laying on top of the table. Marius squeezes it like a lifeline, knuckles white.

“Marius can’t be blamed for his grandfather’s crimes”, she says defensively. Grantaire raises both hands, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“I’m not pointing any fingers here; just being cautious”, he responds calmly. “So, an illusionist and a man with a gun. Not exactly what I’d call an offensive force”, he comments.

“We also have you”, Cosette affirms, studying him. “Whatever you did to me back there, it was… awful”, she shudders. Grantaire snorts.

“Story of my life”.

“I couldn’t even move it hurt so bad”, she continues, ignoring his comment. “It was like you were gripping my- my soul, or something… trying to rip it out”, she says with a haunted look, grabbing at her chest. At Marius’ worried glance, she seems to shake herself out of her reverie, “So I’d say we have plenty of firepower”, she ends.

“Well, be that as it may, let’s save my power for when we have no other choice; we can’t be dropping guards like flies and expect not to have the whole Government fall down on our heads”, Grantaire argues. They both nod in assent.

“So Cosette will hide you with her powers, and I’ll do the talking with outsiders”, Marius interjects. “I have some money saved” – at that, Grantaire almost wants to shout in glee – “Enough that we can stop on the way and rest in a hotel for one night; we’ll need it, especially with Cosette using her powers full-time”, he says, worrying at his bottom lip.

Cosette clears her throat, drawing their attention, “We also still need to figure out how to get in touch with your friends”, she nods at Grantaire.

Grantaire picks at the skin of his thumb, thinking. His friends hadn’t answered their phones but that may not mean they are out of reach. Even before the rallies, they had connections – ways of staying in touch with their contacts inside the Government. In fact, he was very familiar with one of them; after all, he used to live with him.

Although involving Gavroche in this whole revolutionary business – he snorts at that – was what got him into this whole mess in the first place, he was still their best bet: a child – although it’s probably more accurate to say a teenager now, fuck – can hide in plain sight without raising any brows, especially one with Gavroche’s gift, so he’s probably not hiding underground. In fact, if Gavroche still hangs out with his band of orphans, Grantaire can probably reach him that way; send a message through his network and wait until he gets back at him. There’s no way the little devil doesn’t know where the rest of his friends are hiding.

“I think I may have that part figured out. I just need to get in touch with a contact of mine in Paris”, he says vaguely. He’s not too eager to reveal his whole hand to the duo in front of him quite yet; better be safe than to put Gavroche’s life at risk, again. “We just need to get there first”, he states.

“Alright”, Marius announces, rising from his chair, “I’m going to grab some supplies from the supermarket and then we can leave; the faster we get out of here, the less likely are they to arrest you, or Cosette”, he nods at them. A light kiss to Cosette’s hair, and he goes back outside, through the backdoor they used to get in a few hours ago. Grantaire turns back to Cosette.

“About that”, he says casually, attention fixed on the woman, “I get why I’m being hunted down, if only because of my connection to my friends. But how about you? Why are they after you?”, he asks, head tilted in curiosity.

“Well, I guess you could say it’s for the same reason as you; I’m connected to someone the Government chased down”, she says, lowering her gaze to her own cup of tea, fingers fiddling with the handle.

“Who?”, he can’t help but blurt out, wincing at his lack of tact.

“My father”, she answers in quiet melancholy, “He was the head of a shelter for gifted people. Was arrested three years ago, in an ambush organized by the Government”, she explains. Something about that makes Grantaire sit up in attention, a memory itching to be remembered.

“An ambush? What’s your father’s name?” he presses.

“His name is Jean Valjean”, she starts, understanding slowly drawing on her face, “But he was hiding from the National Guard even then. You might’ve known him as Ultime. Ultime Fauchelevant”.

Ah. That explains it. That’s three years lost, then. He tries not to grimace but is sure he’s not too successful.

“Were you there, that day?” Grantaire asks, studying her. Cosette nods sadly.

“Yes. It was terrible; I only just escaped because one of your friends got me out of there” – that’d be Courfeyrac, probably – “But it was too late; my father was arrested and they saw my face”. So that's why they were chasing her so vehemently: they knew she was the daughter of a major resistance figure.

Speaking of.

“What happened that day? How did it end?”, he leans over the table, almost afraid to ask, but needing to know.

“A lot of people died; even more got arrested”, she states gravely, shaking her head. “Fortunately, three Les Amis’ leaders got away and have been working ever since”, she shrugs. Grantaire blows out a breath, slumping against the back of his chair, immediately feeling like a ton was lifted from his shoulders.

“Small mercies”, he admits in relief. Cosette looks at him curiously.

“But aren’t you supposed to know all this? We all know you were there, too”, she asks.

“Well,” he huffs, “As I said: long story”. At Cosette’s expectant look he figures, what the hell, and admits, “So, my friends think I’ve been dead for three years”. Cosette’s eyes blow wide, mouth parting in shock.

“Wh-what? How is that even possible?”, she demands incredulously, “You’ve been wanted for as long as the rest of them!”

“I was sort of expecting you’d give me an answer to that”, he shrugs. “My guess is that they got rid of my body before the National Guard got wind of it, so the government probably thinks I escaped”, he says off-handedly, scratching at his stubble. Should probably trim it. Somehow, Cosette’s eyes get even bigger.

A voice behind them interrupts right as Cosette goes to speak, face pale, “Got rid of your body? What are we talking about?”- Marius is back, a plastic bag hanging from his fingers; that’d be their provisions for the day.

“Yeah…”, Grantaire keeps going, having a little fun at their dumbstruck expressions; it’s actually a relief to know that he’s not the only one completely flabbergasted by all that’s happened to him, “I think I actually died in that ambush. Some rando guard stabbed me in the chest and next thing I know I was waking up in a coffin, apparently three years later”.

The shocked silence that greets him at that is deafening; Cosette and Marius are struck speechless, staring at him.

“W-well”, Marius finally comments, after sharing an incredulous glance with Cosette, “I guess we’re- happy you’re back with us?”, he concludes uncertainly, phrase presented like a question – such a confused but honest look in his face, puppy-dark eyes darting from him to Cosette – that Grantaire can’t help it: he lets out a loud bark of laughter, the first genuine moment of glee he’s experienced since waking up.

“You could say that”, he chuckles, “I’m still trying to figure out if I’m glad I’m back too, because- I got to say: this world looks a lot shittier than three years ago”. Cosette and Marius draw hesitant smiles at that, apparently relieved that he wasn’t offended by Marius’ piss poor attempt at consolation.

“So, is that a thing your powers can do? Bring you back to life?”, Marius blurts out, awed expression on his face. Grantaire snorts mirthlessly.

“Well, not like I’ve ever died before to check, now, have I? Besides, my dear Marius, as you’ll get to know me better, you’ll find I don’t really use my so-called gift if I can help it. So as it happens, I’m as confused about it as you are”, he shrugs. “Now!”, he declares, hand tapping lightly at the table in finality, determined to skip any sort of talk about his powers, “Shall we get on with it? We’re losing precious daylight chattering when we could be doing it on our way to Paris”, he says cheerfully.

“You might have to touch people to activate your powers, so it’s better if I don’t change your size too much; it would only draw even more unnecessary attention”, Cosette explains, light furrow between her eyebrows as she focuses on Grantaire. “I’ll mostly change your features”, she tries to assure him.

“I’m not too worried about that”, he says off-handedly, “I sincerely doubt you could do any worse than my parents”, Grantaire huffs, making a wide gesture towards his face.

“Well, I think you’re quite handsome”, Cosette says seriously, biting her tongue between her teeth in concentration, “In a dark, mysterious way”, she then quips, eyes twinkling in mirth. Grantaire snorts. Then, he shivers as he feels a brush of cold against his skin. “Now! You’re done. My turn”, she says before promptly changing into a tall brunette woman, dark skin shimmering golden as the light coming from the hearth flickers across it. Looking down at himself, he doesn’t see much change; his face probably changed the most.

Marius stands by a boarded window looking out, worried frown creasing his forehead. “The streets are packed with guards; where did they come from?” he wonders, lips turned down. Grantaire winces.

“That might be my fault. I sort of- kind of- almost spent the night at a decorated guard’s house, showed him my face and then told him my name”, he says, hand pulling at his earlobe in chagrin. At the couple’s incredulous look, he’s quick to defend himself, “I didn’t know I was a wanted terrorist! I didn’t even know years had passed since waking up!”.

“We’ll just have to be extra careful, then”, Marius comments, eyes focused and serious mask from earlier falling back in his face as he looks out again. Grantaire almost feels guilty about it, but then again; it’s not like he woke up with a written guide on how the world works now. “Let’s go”, Marius urges, pushing himself away from the front door and towards the one in the back. Grantaire and Cosette are quick to follow.

Instead of leaving through the creaking iron gate that faces the street, Marius leads them to a shoulder-high stone wall on the far end of the decrepit garden. Crouching and letting Cosette use his interlocked hands as a foothold to help her go over the wall, Marius then looks at Grantaire questioningly. Grantaire snorts, climbing the wall by himself before Marius has a chance to offer his hand in a similarly chivalrous manner, sturdy shoulders holding his weight easily as he pushes himself over the top and lands light-footed on the street outside. Behind him, he hears Marius follow.

They hurry through a series of narrow streets, crossing houses, churches and storefronts. As he passes by a particularly clean shopwindow, he almost staggers as he glances at his reflection; with a blond buzzcut and skin browned by the sun, no one would take him for the sickly-pale, black-haired man that is currently running from the authorities.

Not losing his stride, he follows Marius and Cosette as they head towards the main road, whistling in admiration, “Cosette, I have to say, you really outdid yourself”. Cosette quickly glances back, her own borrowed face drawing a small smile at him before she faces forwards again.

At a distance, they hear the clink-clank of metal against metal, the sound of straps and weapon holders moving as guards make their rounds through the streets. Not wasting any time, they speed until they reach the main road, keeping a quick pace until the houses become scarcer and they are back to being surrounded by woods on both sides, the road their only guide. Keeping just inside the tree line so not to be immediately detected by passing cars, they begin their journey to Paris together.

Their first couple of kilometers are spent idly chatting and getting to know each other: Grantaire learns that Cosette and Marius actually met a little while before the rallies, that Marius used to visit the Fauchelevant’s safehouse to see Cosette every night and that Cosette used to sneak out to see him too, unbeknownst to her father. He also learns that Ultime – or Jean? – was in truth her adopted parent; that her mother – a woman with the ability to speak with animals – got sick when she was little and used the last of her strength and resources to make sure Cosette was well taken care of in that safehouse.

Marius isn’t as open about his past, at least when it comes to talking about his mother’s side of the family; of his father, however, he talks plenty, proudly boasting that he could produce fire at will, and that he used his gift to help others where he could. Despite refusing to speak of his grandfather, he still states that he met Cosette at a time of his life where he felt unmoored, no family he could trust, no money but the meager savings he had, and no friends. He speaks of meeting Cosette like she was a beacon of hope in those dark times, eyes shining and adoring smile splitting his face as he tells Grantaire about all the trouble they got in once Cosette’s father found out about their relationship; how he was suspicious and afraid of the man at first but came to respect – and then admire him for his humility and strength.

In turn, Grantaire slowly opens up too, tentatively telling them about his friends; about his adventures with Bossuet and Joly, of Combeferre’s steadiness but unexpectedly hilarious meanness when irked, of Courfeyrac’s mischievousness, using his power to play pranks on his friend’s group more times than he could count, of Jehan’s sweetness and inability to match any two pieces of clothing together, of Enjolras’ fierceness, but above all, kindness and selflessness. Grantaire might also accidentally go off on a tangent about how beautiful he looks while preaching his ideals, if Marius and Cosette’s surprised glances are to be trusted, but oh well. Not like it’s a secret that he’s pathetically in love with the man.

Having left La Roche-Guyon mid-morning and only taking small breaks to hydrate or snack on the food Marius brought along, they reach the town of Poissy just as the sun is starting its steady trajectory towards the horizon, the chilly spring air smelling sweet and fresh. Reaching a consensus, they all decide to stop for the night there. Grantaire, personally, would give his two kidneys and liver to sleep in an actual bed; besides, not even the slight cold in the air was enough to stop him from smelling a little rank after two days of walking under the sun plus sleeping on the floor. They would stop for the night in a hotel, wash up, rest, and finish the remaining six-hour journey back to Paris tomorrow. Hopefully, they could reach it by midafternoon.

Entering the town, they follow the street signs that point them to the nearest two-star hotel, a humble, two-story building with non-descript rooms facing a parking lot; perfect for a quick escape, if needed. Marius leads the trio to the reception counter, a bespectacled middle-aged man boredly sitting with his hand on his chin, scrolling on his phone. Only after Marius clears his voice does he deign to move his eyes towards them, not raising his head from its propped position.

“Can I help you”, he asks with a monotone voice, eyebrows raising.

“We need a room for the night, please; for three people”, Marius asks politely. The man glances at the pair standing behind him, finally raising his head, studying them for a moment and resting his gaze a moment longer on Cosette, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Hmm”, he voices, turning to a computer on the counter and clicking on the mouse. “We have a quadruple room available-”.

“-We’ll take it”, Marius cuts-off tersely. Grantaire glances at him in confusion but tenses as he then moves his eyes to Cosette, who is wearing a grimace of pain on her face, sweat beading on her forehead. She’s reaching her limit. Just their luck.

Holding his breath as the man once again looks the group over, Grantaire feels his heart almost burst out of his chest as he sees Cosette’s disguise flicker for just a split second as the man faces them. Shit.

Instantly reaching for the void on the back of his head, numbness reaching his fingers as his power purrs, inky darkness bunching and ready to strike, he takes a step forward, ready to grab the man and-

“That’ll be ninety-six euros for the night”, the receptionist says, looking back at Marius. “Cash or card?”

As Marius briskly pushes some rolled-up bills onto the counter, Grantaire breathes out in relief, grabbing Cosette by the elbow and rushing her outside and up the stairs to the rooms. Cosette barely holds their glamour, small lines creasing around her eyes as she softly moans in pain.

“Just a few more seconds, Cosette, you can do it”, Grantaire hushes kindly, “You’re doing great”. Her only response is a pained grunt, but he guesses it’s better than nothing.

Just as a jogging Marius reaches them, stopping in front of the second door from the top of the stairs with a keyring in his fingers, Cosette seems to lose all strength in her legs, the only thing stopping her from bashing her head open against the doorframe being Grantaire’s reflexes and iron grip on her bicep. Her glamour disintegrates entirely as she falls unconscious and Grantaire wastes no time putting her arm around his shoulders and moving her towards his chest, covering her body from outside view, only then remembering that that’s probably a stupid strategy, seeing as – without Cosette’s powers – his appearance has also dramatically changed from a second ago.

Cursing, Marius is eventually able to wrestle the door open and Grantaire – holding Cosette’s full weight – hurries inside, followed by the other man.

“Shit! Did anyone see us?”, Grantaire hisses at Marius, leading Cosette to one of the queen beds and carefully laying her down. Marius moves a curtain just enough to peek outside and breathes out in relief.

“The street’s empty. I think we’re clear”, he concludes, letting the curtain go and rushing towards a supine Cosette.

Grantaire blows out a breath of relief, grateful for a break from what at this point feels like a never-ending streak of bad luck. God, he sounds like Bossuet. Also checking outside the window and confirming that – indeed – no one was out there watching them, Grantaire turns back to the pair.

“Is she okay?”, he asks cautiously. Marius is sitting on the bed beside Cosette, hand carefully pressed to her forehead.

“I think she’s just exhausted. She’s never had to use her power for so long, much less use it on another person at the same time”, Marius says, combing her hair softly. “We’ll let her sleep, call for room service and eat in; it’s the safest option”.

“Perfect for me”, Grantaire quips, “I’m also ready to sleep for another three years”. Reassured that Cosette is okay, and finally able to relax, he discards his coat, kicks off his boots and immediately walks towards the bathroom. “Mind if I use the shower first?”, he asks over his shoulder, not really waiting for a response as he grabs the back of his – previously Alain’s – black sweater and throws it over his head.

“Yes, it’s fine; I’ll stay with her until she wakes up”, Marius answers, not looking up from a sleeping Cosette. Truly, nauseatingly sweet.

“Suit yourself”, he comments as he enters the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

A hot shower later, and after brushing his teeth to hell and back, he leaves his clothing soaking in some soap in the bidet and exits the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist, called by the appetizing smell of chicken soup.

“God, I’m so sick of being tired, hungry and smelly all the time”, he announces to the room, going straight to the steaming bowls of food. “Marius, I know we just met, but I could kiss you and your wallet right about now”. Glancing at the occupied bed, he is relieved to see Cosette awake, a small, exhausted smile on her lips as she sits against the headboard, bowl in hand.

“I think I’d rather you leave the kissing of Marius to me, but I share your feelings”, she responds, leading a spoonful of broth to her mouth.

“If Marius could also have a say in the matter, he would also like to leave the kissing of him to Cosette if you don’t mind”, Marius interjects, good-humored.

“You’d break my heart, you truly would”, Grantaire gasps in mock offense just as he grabs the last bowl of soup; a quick glance at an empty bowl nearby tells him Marius already ate. “Alas, my heart hasn’t belonged to me in a long time; a golden god has had his unforgiving grip on it since time immemorial and refuses to let it go”, he sighs, shoving a spoonful of chicken broth in his mouth and groaning at the salty taste. Marius stares.

“I- I don’t think I want to know”, Marius admits, huffing in amusement. Grantaire winks at him and nods towards the bathroom door.

“All yours. I’ll leave my clothes hanging on the towel warmers after I finish here and, hopefully, they’ll be dry tomorrow”, he mumbles, mouth full. Swallowing and turning to Cosette, he shakes his head in commiseration, “I’m afraid you’ll have to deal with all this” - he gestures at his uncovered torso – “for the night”. Cosette’s smile grows.

“I think I’ll survive”, she retorts. Glancing at his chest, her smile dims a little, “Is that- I’m sorry, it’s just that- that scar”, she stumbles over her words.

“Yeah. A nice souvenir from the National Guard”, he grumbles sourly, touching the place where he feels the irregular skin. Fucking should’ve finished the job when I could. He bets the kid was the one who spilled the beans on his description and powers.

Marius looks at the scar too, somberly noting that, “It’s not fair. Any of it. We have to do something to change things”. Grantaire groans.

“God, how do I keep surrounding myself with death-wishing revolutionaries?” he grumbles, finishing his soup. “My friends will just love you”, he shoots at him, narrow-eyed. Then, he sighs. There’s no arguing with these types of people; he should know, he basically has a degree on it. “Well, I’m beat. Tomorrow we’ll talk things through and hit the road”.

After putting his clothes to dry, he goes straight to the other double bed, getting under the white covers. Whole body actually shuddering as he lays down, the muscles of his back decompressing in a way that feels as if he’s melting into the mattress, he sighs deeply and is out like a light.

Grantaire wakes with a start, wailing voices and cries still resonating in his mind from leftover dreams. Always a great way to start the day. Grunting as he raises his head from the pillow, he looks around the room and sees Marius crouching, back to him as he finishes putting on his shoes. To his left, on the other bed, Cosette still sleeps, evidently still recovering from yesterday’s strain on her power.

“Wha’ time’s it?”, Grantaire mumbles. Marius turns to him, smiling.

“Good morning”, he whispers, careful not to rouse Cosette, “It’s just some time past nine. You’ve been sleeping for twelve hours”, he observes lightly. Grantaire groans heavily before forcing himself to rise from the covers, shivering as his uncovered body meets the chilly air of the room, rewrapping the fluffy towel that was slipping from his hips.

“Where’re you going?” he squints, scratching at his jawline and hearing a rasping sound as his fingernails catch on his - finally trimmed - stubble.

“I was going to get breakfast. Wanna come?”, Marius asks.

“Sure”, he responds gruffly, getting out of the bed. “Just gonna get dressed real quick”. Entering the bathroom and putting on his now freshly cleaned clothes – warm and toasty from hanging on the towel warmer all night – as well as brushing his teeth with the toothbrush provided by the hotel while he’s at it, he returns to Marius, who presents him with his own hooded jacket.

“Here, let’s switch for now”, he offers, “You can cover your head while we’re out”. Nodding, Grantaire accepts the piece of material, passing his arms through the sleeves and pulling the hood over his head, casting shadows over his eyes. Marius, in turn, puts on Grantaire’s black coat.

Luckily, they’re able to get to a patisserie near the hotel without any issues; Marius goes in by himself, while Grantaire leans against the side of the building, sorely wishing he could have his pack of cigarettes at hand. He starts picking at his cuticles for lack of anything else to do, looking down at his still darkened fingertips. Should probably get a new pair of gloves to cover that up.

A bell chiming a few steps away announces Marius as he passes the patisserie’s glass door, a white cardbox at hand. When he approaches Grantaire, the scent of warm pastries fills his nostrils.

“Have I told you how blessed I feel that Cosette attacked me back in Val-d’Oise?”, Grantaire asks suddenly. Marius looks at him amusingly.

“No, but I’m sure Cosette will be happy to hear it”, Marius responds, smiling.

Feeling well rested and content with good company, Grantaire smiles back. For once, he actually feels good about their chances.

He should’ve known better.

As they make their way to the hotel, chatting cheerfully, they freeze as they see a police car stopped by the entrance. Through the glass window, they can discern two guards speaking to the receptionist who, to his credit, doesn’t seem any more bothered by them as he did by their trio yesterday.

“Damn it! How did they find us?”, Marius curses, as they quickly hide against the side of a nearby building.

“It was either yesterday or today”, Grantaire guesses, thoughts rushing through possible explanations. “Maybe someone recognized me when we left this morning. Fuck, should’ve just stayed in the room”, he mutters.

“No, if they had recognized you there wouldn’t be only two guards”, Marius argues. “There’s no use wasting time thinking about it now. We have to go”, he states.

Right as they unpeel themselves from their hiding place, one of the guards leaves the reception desk, coming outside and up the stairs. As he reaches the first door, he knocks. Grantaire has to hold Marius back as he rushes after him.

“Wait! You can’t go after him”, Grantaire hisses. Marius shoves his hand away.

“What are you talking about? If they get to Cosette, we’re dead!”, he exclaims.

“Yeah? Then what are we supposed to do with his partner if you deal with the guard upstairs? I can’t exactly go inside and distract him; him and the receptionist will see my face and then we’ll be completely fucked”, Grantaire argues. Marius seems to calm down a little at that logic, frowning heavily.

“Then what do you propose?”, he asks brusquely.

“You go inside and distract him; find out what they’re looking for and try to get them to follow a false lead; I’ll deal with the one upstairs”, he suggests.

“And if they were called by the hotel guy? He knows I came in with you!”, Marius presses. Grantaire shrugs.

“Then I guess we’ll be really fucked then. We’ll run or I’ll use my powers”, he says calmly. Marius seems unhappy but unable to come up with a better plan so, with a grudging nod, he hurries inside the hotel.

Grantaire only has time to see the guard turn to Marius before he’s also rushing to his destination, climbing the stairs two at a time, using the banister to propel himself up faster.

Reaching the top of the staircase, he feels his chest clench as he sees no sign of the guard. Hurrying towards their room, he slams the door open and is immediately greeted by the sound of a struggle. Cosette is lying on her back on top of the bed, the guard above her clearly trying to restrain her, a peculiar circular object in one hand, and another holding her wrists down, with little success. Meanwhile, she is twisting and kicking at him, trying to dislodge his hold.

Grantaire strides towards the pair, but before he can reach them, the guard seems to notice him; pulling on the hand holding Cosette’s wrist, he raises to his feet until he’s standing by the side of the bed, dragging her along and wrapping his arm around her neck. His other hand drops the round device on the floor and rushes to a gun in a holster by his hip, taking it out.

“Stop right there!”, the man yells, gun pointing at him. Grantaire raises his arms but slowly continues approaching the pair.

“Everything’s fine here. Just let go of my friend and no one will get hurt”, Grantaire swears placatively, voice low and calm as he takes one more careful step forward.

For a second, the guard seems completely outraged by being ordered around, opening his mouth to probably shout out another warning. Then, as he studies Grantaire’s face, something appears to click, eyes suddenly opening in fright, face paling quickly and gun trembling in the air.

“You!”, the guard hushes, taking an unconscious step back and dragging Cosette along with him. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Me”, he answers simply, taking one more step forward.

The guard finally appears to notice his steady approach because he yells “Stop!” and, seeming not to know what else to do, puts Cosette in front of him, gun to her head. Grantaire snorts derisively.

“Wow. I knew you national guards were a bunch of cowards, but using a civilian as a human shield? Real classy”, he sneers. Despite his words, he stops in his tracks.

“She’s not a human, much less a civilian”, the man spits, his trembling gun hand the only thing betraying his nerves. “Now, stay right where you are or I’ll blow her brains out”.

Cosette is pale, looking urgently at him, gripping the man by the arm pressed around her throat and carving her nails on it. The man doesn’t seem to notice it, focus completely fixed on Grantaire.

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. Heart pounding in his chest, he looks at his options.

   First: he could lunge at the guard, but risk getting Cosette shot and alerting the guard downstairs. Bad idea.

   Second:  he could run back the way he came, leaving Cosette and Marius to deal with this mess on their own, but saving his own skin. Yeah, not an option either.

   Third:  he could surrender. Try to negotiate with the guard and trade places with Cosette. Surely someone connected with his friends is worth more to the government than someone connected with Fauchelevant. But even so, he risks getting them both arrested if the guard goes back on his word and tries to kill two birds with one stone.

Mind spinning through different scenarios, adrenaline pumping in his veins and hearing the blood roar in his ears, he suddenly falls still. In the back of his mind, that dreadful void is pounding on the door of his conscience, power screaming to be let out, scratching and scratching at him to let go. Not knowing what else to do, Grantaire focuses on that door, calling on his power and bringing it to the forefront of his mind. That door bursts open.

It’s like opening the door of an airplane mid-flight.

That cold numbness bursts through him, spreads to his limbs, freezing his fingers and reaching out, begging for some skin contact to latch on, some light to cling to.

In his mind, that inky black nebula swirls frantically, a caged animal wanting to escape but having nowhere to escape to. The guard was standing too far away.

Too far away from any possible target for his power, his vision fills with a dark fog, colors bleeding out of the room. His heart calms, slowing from that rapid-fire pace to a sluggish crawl.

In front of him stands Cosette and the guard, a black-and-white painting of fear and aggression. But beyond that, something slowly reveals itself to him. As he focuses on the image before him, he starts discerning - slowly but surely - a glimmer of light coming from the two figures. Right from their centers.

Cosette’s light shines golden, a soft and warm glow that pulsates frantically in fear. Likewise, the guard’s light is twitching, a blue beacon coming from his chest, suddenly so obvious to Grantaire that he doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed it before.

Feeling his power fixate on that blue light, a shark smelling blood in the water, he concentrates. Below him, the wooden floor starts to creak, the flowers on the vase by the windowpane wither and decay, and the man holding Cosette starts to breathe erratically, face set in confused alarm. Grantaire doesn’t notice any of it, focused as he is on that light-blue radiance. He wants it for himself.

Feeling his power latch on that spark, he pulls it back. The man gasps in pain, face contorting and whitening, eyes bulging out in panic and then rolling to the back of his head. Unable to hold Cosette any longer, he drops his arms and doubles over, grabbing at his chest and falling to one knee. Grantaire feels that light steadily approach him, settling at the center of his own chest, almost as if asking for permission before that cloud of emptiness snatches it inside. He suddenly feels warm as that chill from before is washed away, retreating from his extremities back to where he can’t reach it. His power hums contently as it envelops the light, hoarding it and leaving him feeling amazing. It’s better than any glass of mulled wine, better than any drug he’s ever tried. He imagines this is what ambrosia tasted like to the gods.

He keeps pulling on that spark, basking on its warmth as it makes its way inside his veins. After a while, though, he starts feeling that source of light depleting and has to pull his powers back, darkness burring languidly. His gift almost feels harmless in its blissful state, languorous and indolent as it is returning to him; like having a full stomach after years of starvation.

As he lets that door in his mind softly close, he comes back to his senses, relaxed and peaceful. He breathes out. Then the hotel room comes back into focus and that peace is shattered.

In front of him, the guard lays still. Head facing the ceiling, face still contorted in tortured pain, mouth agape and eyes blindly looking up, there’s no mistaking it. Definitely dead, he observes distantly. Looking around, he sees another figure huddled against the wall furthest from him; Cosette, crouching and staring at him wide-eyed, breathing heavily.

“Cosette”, Grantaire calls, arms slowly raising in a peaceful gesture, “Are you hurt?”. Trembling, Cosette takes a moment to respond, apparently needing a second to shake herself out of her shock.

“N-no”, she croaks, voice weak and lower lip trembling. Clearing her throat, she then hesitantly adds, “I’m fine”, still pale but more collected. “Just- wasn’t expecting that”, she confesses shakily.

Grantaire looks at the dead body again. “Yeah. Me neither”, he mutters. Turning his face away from that ghastly sight, he simply states, “We have to go. If Marius hasn’t alerted us yet, it means he’s still stalling the other guard. Let’s hurry”. Cosette nods, face still chalky-white, and stands up on trembling legs, needing a moment to regain her balance, hand against the wall.

Grabbing Marius’ bag and the remains of their rations, Grantaire approaches the door, hearing Cosette grab her own bag. Making for the doorhandle, he stops as he suddenly feels a hand on his elbow.

“What is it”, Grantaire asks, not looking back.

“Are you okay?”, Cosette’s voice asks tentatively.

“I’m fine”, Grantaire assures, shrugging her off. “We really need to go”.

“Of course. Just- wait a second, let me use my power on us”. A moment later, he feels a pleasant coolness over his uncovered skin and, looking down at his hands, sees long, thin fingers, a smaller hand than he’s used to.

“A woman this time?” he asks, humor returning a little.

“Well,” Cosette answers, “Looks like you don’t really need to touch people to use your power after all, so I can just glamour you in any shape”, she clarifies, shooting a quick unsettled glance behind her, where that deadly stillness remains, before she looks back at him. Grantaire huffs.

“Guess so”. Opening the door, they don’t hesitate; they close it behind them, go down the stairs and move towards that dark alley with a view to the hotel. From there, they look at the reception and hold their breaths as they see no sign of Marius. Inside, the same man looks boredly down at his phone, such a similar a position from yesterday that it looked as if he hadn’t moved from it since then.

Right as he feels Cosette open her mouth to speak, Grantaire feels a hand grabbing his shoulder. Instantly, he lashes out with his power, only stopping as he hears a familiar voice grunt in pain. Pulling back, he looks behind him and sees Marius doubled-over, gasping for air.

“It’s just me!” he pants, hands on his knees and head lowered. Cosette immediately goes to him, arm around his shoulder.

“Shit”, Grantaire winces, “Sorry. You just came out of nowhere and I’m a little on edge”. Grabbing at the man's shoulder carefully, he lowers himself to get eye-level with Marius. “Are you okay?”

Marius draws a weak smile, “Yeah, just a little winded. That spooked the hell out of me”, he chuckles nervously. Grantaire squeezes his shoulder and lets him go.

“Yeah… my bad”. Looking back at the hotel, he asks, “Where’s the other guard?”

“Hm… Right by that dumpster?” Marius answers hesitantly, pointing to the end of the alley they’re standing at. Looking back at the dumpster in question, Grantaire has to snort at the ridiculousness of this whole situation.

“’By that dumpster’ do you by any chance mean ‘inside it?’”, Grantaire chuckles incredulously. Marius grimaces.

“I didn’t know where to put him! I told him I saw some people using powers this way and when he followed me here he started looking really suspicious and I just- panicked”, he explains nervously, twisting his hands.

“So as I understand it, we now have two dead guards, one in a hotel room, another in a dumpster, and I didn’t even get to have any breakfast?”, he sighs.

Marius perks up at that. Taking something out of his borrowed coat pocket he presents them with a squashed card box, grease stains from the butter of the mangled pastries inside slowly darkening it. “I kept our breakfast safe!”, he proudly declares. Grantaire almost loses it.

After that whole disaster back in the hotel, and with the grim understanding that the dead guards could be discovered any time now, they have no choice but to make the final track to Paris that same day. Neighboring villages would probably be on high alert for any new faces so it’s safer to get somewhere where help could be readily available.

Walking – as was custom by now – by the side of the road, only just hidden behind the tree line, all they can hear is the sound of gravel being stepped on, the chirps of passing birds and the rarer sound of moving cars. The air smells like dew and pine and the sky is thankfully cloudless, a small blessing in that spring day.

Cosette drops their disguises to save her strength for Paris and, after getting Marius up to date on what Grantaire and Cosette were up to while he was dealing with the second guard, they walk in relative silence for close to one hour, until Cosette suddenly breaks it.

“Grantaire, I’m really sorry”, she blurts out, walking to his left. Looking at her in surprise, she clarifies, twisting a golden strand of hair between her fingers, “You had to kill a man because of me”.

Grantaire rolls his eyes at her remorseful tone, “Please, like that was the first time my power got someone killed. At least this time it was a guard, not like we’re missing out on much”, he sneers. Cosette frowns.

“Please don’t say that”, she scolds disappointedly, “No matter how awful they can be, they’re just doing their job”. Grantaire snorts derisively at that.

“I’m sorry, I guess I’m still feeling a little irked that I got killed off by a man just doing his job” he snaps. “Those men back there were willing to kill us all if needed; they are some of the men that took your father from you and that kill our people without remorse while hiding behind fake morals like ‘the greater good’; I’m not about to start feeling sorry for them now”, he says, mood souring. Fuck, that sounded a little too much like one of Enjolras’ monologues. Chill out, R.

Cosette flinches, looking regretful.

“Sorry, I know, you’re right… It’s just- hard for me to look at people as if they’re less deserving of living than us”, she mutters. Grantaire softens, sighing.

“Well. There’s nothing wrong with that per say – just don’t hold your breath that I’ll ever think that way about them; they can choke, for all I care”, he huffs. Cosette nods.

“So, about what happened in the hotel”, she changes the subject, “How did you do it? I thought you had to touch people to activate your powers?”, she wonders. Grantaire frowns, biting his bottom lip.

“Yeah, me too”, he admits. “It just- made sense to me at that moment, to reach out with my powers. I saw something weird too”, he admits, lost in thought. He can feel two pairs of curious eyes on him, “Like a shining beacon, coming out of both of you. I simply- used my powers to pull from his”, he finishes, shrugging.

“It was scary”, Cosette hushes, wrapping her arms around herself, “Your eyes, they were all… black. No whites in them. It was like looking at a deep hole, not knowing what was down there waiting for you”, she shivers. Grantaire feels a knot in his throat at her spooked look.

“I’m sorry if I scared you. I promise I wasn’t ever going to hurt you”, he assures, ashamed. That was all his power ever brought him: fear in others and shame in himself.

“I was scared”, Cosette admits. Grantaire flinches, pain bursting behind his ribcage, “But mostly I was scared you were going to snap out of it and regret what you did. I know you don’t like using your power”, she says kindly. The sunlight hitting her blond hair makes her look more angelic than ever as she gives him a smile.

“Oh”, is the only response Grantaire can offer over that stubborn knot in his throat. Cosette appears to understand his gratitude nevertheless, nodding.

Marius uses that opportunity to chime in, “I think you need to use your abilities more”. At Grantaire’s incredulous look, he’s quick to explain, “You didn’t know you could come back from the dead, and then you did; you didn’t know you could use your powers from a distance, and then you did. Who knows what else you can do?” he argues.

Well. Keeping his steady stride, Grantaire grabs two leaves at random from a low branch to his right. Holding a leaf in each hand between his forefingers, middle fingers and thumbs, he calls on his power and focuses on the leaf on his left hand. Quickly, it withers, first turning brown and then a brittle dark gray, a little burst of heat warming the tips of his fingers pleasantly as they also darken to black. Turning his gaze to the leaf on his right, he then pulls on that tiny spark of heat from his center, his power hissing in displeasure at having to return it but ultimately obeying. The leaf flashes black for a split second before it bursts into a splash of vibrant green, previously dry patches gone and blemished surface now glossy and brimming with life. It looks completely untouched. Cosette gasps.

“Oh, Grantaire! That's amazing!” she says, awed. Grantaire has to concede; that is the only thing he finds minimally pleasant about his gift, after all.

“Yeah… But I can’t use it on humans without expending too much energy. Pretty sure this was what got me killed three years ago- well, that and the stab wound, of course”. Marius blows a huff of laughter at that.

“Of course,”, he says amusingly. “Still, even more reason for you to practice. This could help people”.

Grantaire’s first reaction – as is always the case whenever someone tries to get him to talk about his power – is to dismiss the proposal vehemently and change the subject. But Marius has a point. His life up to this point could’ve been a lot easier if only he knew how to properly use his curse. If he knew how to control it, maybe he wouldn’t have died three years ago, healing Gavroche; Maybe the boy wouldn’t have even been shot, if only Grantaire knew he could use his power at a distance. The guard would have been on the ground before he could grab the gun. No shooting; no stabbing. No death.

Grantaire lets out what has to be the longest, most aggravated sigh of his life – and that’s saying something, considering the people he surrounds himself with – and grumbles, “Alright, alright. I’ll get in touch with my power or whatever. But- only under the condition that I do it when I’m alone; I don’t want to hurt people when I’m trying to wrestle it under control”.

He is met with the twin shit-eating grins of his friends – after all they’ve been through, he guesses he can call them friends now.

Marching on, they steadily approach their destination.

They reach Paris by late afternoon, by a time where the sky is painted in brushes of deep oranges and pinks. The city itself looks the same to Grantaire: the same old buildings, the same noise of busy pedestrians, the same smell of asphalt and combust, and the people- well, maybe not everything’s the same. Looking around him as they enter the city through the 16^th arrondissement, he can’t help but think that something in the people around him feels… off.

He's a proud Parisian – in heart, if not in birth – and so he knows the people of Paris like the back of his hand. He's walked through Pont Neuf to the Rue de Vaugirard every Sunday to paint by the Jardin du Luxembourg. He's crossed Rue Chanoinesse with Jehan to reach that tiny café where they sat drinking tea for hours every few weeks. He's wandered shitfaced in Rue Saint-Denis with an equally drunk Joly and Bossuet more times than he can count. He went to Rue de Grés where the Musain stood every single week. Skeptical of the speeches, but never of the speaker. For all he sneered, taunted and argued, he never missed a meeting since he first started attending.

So. He knows Paris, and he knows its people; and despite how aloof Parisians can sometimes present themselves as, this is different. People aren’t just ignoring other pedestrians because they’re too absorbed in their own worlds; they’re avoiding looking at them, eyes on the ground, hands clutching their handbags and deep inside their pockets. Their stride isn't hurried and busy, it's urgent and tense, like they’re eager to get to their destination as quickly as possible. Paris itself is the same; the people, however – they’re almost unrecognizable.

Cosette and Marius seem to share his feelings, because Marius mutters between his teeth, “Something’s not right”. Cosette nods uneasy.

“Yeah”, is Grantaire’s only response.

“Where to next?”, Marius asks.

“Now, we go to the Bastille”.

The trio hurries through the bustling streets and, getting more and more impatient the closer they get to their destination, they decide to bite the bullet and take the metro. As busy as it always is, they figure it would be almost impossible for someone to recognize them in the middle of a moving crowd, especially while they’re yet again under the influence of Cosette’s powers - Grantaire looking like a scrawny thirty-something guy and Cosette like a burly man. As usual, Marius gets to keep his own face.

As they march through the underground passage to the metro gates, passing little kiosks and convenience stores on their way, he suddenly stops as he gazes at a small television on the storefront of a shop. In it, a news report broadcasts a nerve-wreckingly familiar hotel, the news ticker reading ‘Supernatural murder in Poissy causes two police fatalities. Killers still at large’.

“Shit”, he hisses, approaching the TV. Behind him, Marius and Cosette do the same.

On the screen, the camera pans out of the hotel and cuts to a reporter, microphone in hand and staring soberly at the camera.

“The National Guard is currently searching for the suspects, who appear to be two men and a woman”, the camera cuts to a surveillance footage of the three of them, standing by the reception desk as they checked-in in the hotel, followed by three police sketches: two of Cosette and Grantaire’s borrowed faces, and the last showing Marius’ real one. Marius grimaces.

“The cause of death of one of the deceased officers is thought to be the unauthorized use of supernatural powers. Reports coming in from Val-d’Oise correspondents also warn that a prominent member of the terrorist group Les Amis may be responsible for the incident here in Poissy. Despite there being no eyewitnesses to confirm it as of right now, the National Guard appeals all citizens to be cautious of a man in his mid-twenties, green eyes and black hair”.

At that, a – remarkably unflattering – police sketch of Grantaire's face is shown.

“At this time, no information was given on this man’s ability or location, but reports are stating that he is a very dangerous individual and should not be approached. If you see him, please contact 112 immediately”.

“Ah fuck”, Grantaire sighs, “I guess we’re really in it now, huh, Marius?”, he says, thumping the man on the back.

“Well, like it or not you were already in it, even when you didn’t know it”, Marius says, “I, on the other hand…”, he grimaces.

“Don’t worry, boys. I’ll keep you well hidden”, Cosette assures, gripping their shoulders and quickly glancing around. As she does so, Marius flickers and turns into a considerably shorter, ginger man. He looks at her gratefully.

“Thanks”, Grantaire sighs, “We should hurry”. The couple nods gravely, and they continue their way to the metro gates.

Exiting the underground to Saint-Ambroise, the walk to the Bastille only takes them around fifteen minutes, total. As usual, the place is positively crawling with people, tourists looking dazed as they take pictures and look at maps on their phones, oblivious to the fact that literal wanted criminals walk among them; likewise, residents barely look out of their way as they rush somewhere else, that same tenseness in their shoulders as before. As expected, the traffic on the roundabout in the middle of the square is chaotic.

The trio elbows its way through the crowds as Cosette and Marius follow Grantaire, who in turn is too engrossed carefully studying every passing person’s face to really notice where he’s going. More than once does he distantly hear an alarmed yelp by people who brush shoulders with him and has to make a concentrated effort to wrangle his power back under control as it bubbles close to the surface, near so many possible sources of life.

“What are we looking for?”, Cosette speaks in a low tone, after several minutes aimlessly rounding the square.

“My contacts”, Grantaire says vaguely. “Well- my contact’s contacts. It’s complicated”.

As he passes a couple of trees and a small bistro, he finally finds what he was looking for: leaning against a tree, facing the July Column, is an unfamiliar boy of around fourteen, cigarette hanging from his lips as he covertly counts a few euro bills – probably pick-pocketed from some oblivious tourist. In the lapel of his jacket, a carnation hangs, a blotch of vibrant red in his otherwise dark clothing, stuck with a pin. That’s the sign he was looking for.

“There”, he points, “That boy”, he says, walking towards him.

As they approach the teen, he suddenly looks up and startles as he makes eye contact with Grantaire. Tensing and clearly gearing himself up to flee from where he was standing, he throws his burning cigarette to the ground and turns his back to the trio.

“Hey”, Grantaire calls out, “I have a message for Gavroche”.

Stopping in his tracks, the boy slowly turns back towards them, looking Grantaire up and down in suspicion.

“You know Gavroche?”, he asks, squinting. Grantaire snorts, nodding.

“You could say that. I need to talk to him, and I know you know how to reach him. So. Can you send him a message, or not?”

The boy studies the three of them for what feels like an eternity before finally conceding, nodding.

“What’s the message, then?”, he demands. Grantaire has to control himself not to scoff. With that attitude, there’s no doubt this teen is one of Gavroche’s. What a bad influence, his brat of a brother is.

“Tell him R is back and wants to pick up their last conversation from where they left off”, Grantaire says vaguely.

Gavroche has no reason to believe that Grantaire is actually – somehow miraculously – returned from the dead, but knowing the little imp, he’s going to be too damned curious not to, at least, check it out. More likely than not, he’ll set up a meeting place, spy on him with his gift and only then show himself. Grantaire is counting on it.

The boy facing the trio still looks suspicious, but at Grantaire’s message, he tilts his head consideringly, curiosity plain on his face.

“Alright; I’ll pass it along”, he states, and then squints at Marius and Cosette, “And these guys? Are they gonna be with you?”

Grantaire nods. “You can tell him they’re new friends. I trust them”, he responds, pretending not to feel the pair’s grateful eyes on his back. The boy hums distrustfully but relents.

“Sure. Where can I find you, afterwards?” the boy asks.

Grantaire tries to think about possible meeting places but ends up discarding every single one of them. Who knows if the National Guard isn’t in on all their previous hangout spots? He can’t risk being caught so close to the finish line. Best to stay where they can be hidden in plain sight, in the middle of a sea of people.

“We’ll stay here and wait for you. If you don’t return in two hours, we’ll be back tomorrow morning”, Grantaire states. The boy nods and, sending a curious parting glance at the small group, walks briskly away, no doubt to warn Gavroche of potential traps set up by weird strangers.

“Now, what?” Marius asks as he studies the boy turning a street corner, away from their line of sight. Grantaire sighs heavily and, approaching a street bench nearby, sprawls across it, throwing his head back and feeling the crisp spring breeze caress his face.

“Now, we wait”.

Chapter Text

The three of them sit on that street bench facing the July Column for close to two hours before they have to face the very real possibility that the mysterious teen may not show up. By now, Grantaire has almost completely peeled back the skin of his thumb with his teeth, leg bouncing nervously non-stop. To his left, Cosette and Marius are quietly talking, hands clasped tightly. Cosette is starting to show signs of fatigue again, intensified by having to use her power on one additional person.

Night rapidly approaches and the sky turns a gloomy indigo. Crowds disperse as tourists leave in search of restaurants to dine in or warm hotel rooms to rest for the evening. Streetlights are switched on and dimly illuminate the square, while simultaneously casting deep shadows below passers-by. As the streets get more and more deserted, Grantaire tenses up, hackles raised as he feels increasingly exposed. From time to time, a small group of uniformed men makes its rounds close by, and – and this could be Grantaire’s paranoia kicking in – they’re starting to send him and his friends funny looks.

He finally breaks as the guards start whispering among each other, shooting distrustful glances their way. Nerves shot to hell, Grantaire bolts from the bench.

“Alright. We’ve waited long enough; we’ll have to find somewhere else to rest up and come back tomorrow”, he states, side-eyeing the guards.

Thankfully, just as Cosette and Marius nod despondently, that much-anticipated boy rounds the corner of the street they were on.

Heart pounding, Grantaire makes eye contact with the teen, who nods and then gestures with his head, beckoning them. Not waiting to see if they were coming, he turns around and disappears out of sight.

Hurrying, the trio follows, chasing the boy through twists and turns, bumping into some people and dodging others. As they steadily approach suspiciously familiar streets, Grantaire can’t help but start chuckling under his breath. Cosette and Marius send him incredulous glances, but he just shakes his head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe the nerve of that kid… here of all places”, he says, right corner of his mouth raising amusingly as they stop in front of their destination.

The Corinthe looks the same as he remembers: a small, two-story stone building with square windows scattered across its façade and old, green iron window-guards adorned with flower patterns facing the street. The original white stone of the building is more of a dirty gray now, and the house is, admittedly, falling apart a little, but Grantaire always thought it added character to the place. Looking at the bar where Grantaire made some of his most treasured memories, he can’t help but smile wistfully, fuzzy warmth bursting behind his ribcage.

The teen looks over his shoulder at them for a second before he pushes the shabby door open and moves inside. Grantaire holds the door before it can swing back closed and is immediately hit with a warm burst of air to the face, the smell of sweet wine and smoke reaching his nose and making nostalgia ring in the back of his mind. Inside, the bar maintains its seedy look and clientele and, as Grantaire follows the kid towards the back of the room, where a staircase leads to the second floor, he feels the soles of his shoes stick to the floor.

Ah. It’s good to be back.

The wooden steps creak as they make their way upstairs and, having reached the room that used to welcome his friends in happier days, he can’t help but feel his heart twinge a little in something close to grief. He will probably never see his friends all together in this room again, freely speaking of a brighter future.

Instead, a couple of wooden tables and benches are spread across the old space, vacant.

“So, where’s Gavro…”, Grantaire’s voice trails off as he turns towards the boy and sees him gone. He’s alone with Cosette and Marius in the room.

Figures. “I guess that means more waiting for us”, he mutters exasperatedly. “Cosette, you can turn your power off; Gavroche will only appear if he sees my face”, he sighs, turning to the blonde.

Cosette immediately complies, dropping their glamour with a sigh of relief; Grantaire feels the warmth of the room starkly, like a thin layer of cold was suddenly stripped from his skin.

“What’s your contact like?”, she asks curiously, looking around and taking in the room in all its decrepit glory.

“A brat, that’s what he’s like”, Grantaire huffs, looking for a chair to sit on that is not about to collapse under his weight.

“Well, that isn’t very nice”, a smooth, unfamiliar voice sounds from behind.

Quickly turning around, Grantaire is surprised to see a man he doesn’t know. The stranger closes the door softly behind him and slowly approaches the trio, small, measured steps around where they stand. Abruptly, Marius bristles, stepping in front of Cosette. Grantaire warily studies the man.

The stranger facing them is tall, around Grantaire’s age and, undeniably, devilishly, handsome. A sculpted jaw and sharp cheekbones are framed by wavy black hair, glossy in the dim light of the bar and just long enough to softly cover the tops of his ears, where Grantaire sees several studs hanging. Arched brows hang over glittering black eyes, like two endless pools of liquid darkness, consuming all light around them. His mouth is drawn into a tiny smirk, like this is a man who knows the punchline of a joke no one else understands. Grantaire is struck with the irritating sense that, right now, the joke is on his small group.

“And who the fuck are you?”, Grantaire asks brusquely, irked by having to deal with yet another unknown variable. The man’s smile widens.

“If you’re supposed to be Gavroche’s friend you should know who I am”, the man responds simply, low voice softly reaching his ears.

“If you knew who I was then you’d know I’ve not been exactly up to date on what Gavroche has been up to lately”, he responds tersely. The man ignores his comment, instead choosing to look curiously behind Grantaire, where he knows Cosette and Marius stand.

“Well, well, well”, the man purrs, “Isn’t your face a familiar one?”, he shoots at the couple. Grantaire is uncertain if the comment is directed at Marius or Cosette, but both of his friends tense up either way. Marius, in particular, looks on edge, jaw tightly clenched as he further covers Cosette from view.

Cosette looks a little annoyed by the gesture; she grips the sleeve of Marius’ coat and tries to move him to the side, but with little success. Marius is sharply focused, jaw clenched and eyes burning with barely contained ire as he turns his glare from the man to – much to his surprise – Grantaire.

“Why the hell did you bring us here? Who is this man?”, Marius demands, gaze fulminating Grantaire where he stands, making him raise his eyebrows in bewilderment. What the fuck is his problem?

“Obviously, I don’t know him”, he responds slowly, “But he clearly knows my contact”. At Marius’ answering scoff, Grantaire squints, “Just- chill out and let me deal with it”.

“Right”, Marius sneers, “Because letting you deal with things has worked perfectly well for us so far”. Grantaire looks incredulously at him.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that ever since we met, Cosette and I have been in more dangerous situations than in the last two years combined”, he spits.

Now – Grantaire would like to think that he’s a pretty calm dude, but even he has to admit he’s starting to feel a little offended here.

“Where is this even coming from? The plan to go to Paris with me was all yours, in case you forgot”, Grantaire argues, eyebrows creased in irritated bafflement. Marius shakes his head scornfully.

Meanwhile, the strange man slowly walks towards the farthest wall from the trio, leaning against it with an entertained smile.

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten”, Marius chuckles bitterly, “In fact, I’ve regretted that decision ever since we left Val-D’Oise! Look at the mess we’re in because of you!”

“Because of me? You were wanted by the government long before I even showed up!”, Grantaire exclaims, tensing up.

Marius ignores his logic. “I killed a man because of you!”, Marius hisses, taking a threatening step towards Grantaire.

“You did shit because of me, Marius. No one told you to get rid of that guard”, Grantaire answers, trying to stay calm under his growing irritation. He can feel his powers bubbling under his skin, hissing at the back of his head. He pushes them down.

“They were only there in the first place because you stupidly showed your face before! And”, Marius points, “Told them your name!”

At that, Cosette moves to stand in front of Marius, looking at him in disbelief.

“Marius, what is wrong with you?”, she demands, clinging to his coat sleeve, “You know none of this is Grantaire’s fault”, she says uncomprehendingly. Marius shrugs her off again, moving her from where she was standing between him and Grantaire.

“You know I’m right”, Marius spits, “We could still be safe if only we stayed where we were. They wouldn’t know my face. Cosette wouldn’t’ve almost died in that hotel, exhausted after using her powers on you”, he points a finger at Grantaire, who scoffs.

“Sure. Because that was some luxury life you were living back there, in a house that was falling apart, running from guards everyday”, he rolls his eyes. His fingers are starting to feel numb, coldness climbing to his wrists. Hands twitching, he ignores the sensation.

“Better that than what we’ve been through now – murder charges on top of us, the government knowing my face and still not any closer to being safe! Do you even have a contact in Les Amis? Or were you just winging it until we reached Paris?”, Marius accuses, lips thinning in anger.

The floorboards under Grantaire’s feet start to groan, slowly drying out, brittle wooden boards cracking under his weight as he clenches his fists, carving his nails to the soft flesh of his palms. He tries to calm his breathing, deep breaths in and out.

“Marius”, he starts, sneering, “You should know by now that I’m always winging it. But in this case, my friend really was supposed to have met us here”.

“And where is he?”, Marius demands, gesturing around them, “All I see is a man who appears to know your contact”, he air quotes, “but who seems to have never even heard of you”. The man in question tilts his head in amusement.

“In case you forgot”, Grantaire shoots back, “I have a three-year gap in knowledge here”.

“Yeah? You know what I think?”, Marius states, eyes narrowed furiously. “I think this is a trap”.

“Oh, Jesus”, Grantaire huffs, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. The coldness is reaching his elbows by now. On the floor around him, a rough circumference of dead, rotten wood is steadily growing, approaching the couple facing Grantaire.

“Yes. I think you sold us out!”, Marius explodes. Shoving Cosette away from him as she tries – once more – to stop him, he takes one step closer to Grantaire, who scoffs, anger now brewing in the bottom of his stomach.

“Really, Marius? You can’t possibly be this stupid”, he scorns. “You know very well why that theory doesn’t make a lick of sense”.

“I think it makes perfect sense!”, Marius responds, nodding, eyes wide open as he continues his approach, “You said it yourself: you almost spent a night with a decorated guard! Who knows what you told him; what you planned with him!”, he pushes. Raising his coat, he goes for something on the back of his trousers.

At the recess of Grantaire’s mind, that damned scratch-scratch is starting to grow. He continues to ignore it, feeling his nails bite harder at the palms of his – by now – freezing hands.

“Of course, because if I was planning on double-crossing you, I would obviously tell you about it”, he jeers, “Real genius move, there-”.

“You know what- We’re done here”, Marius says, bringing his arm forwards, pointing his gun at Grantaire’s head. Behind him, Cosette gasps, grabbing Marius’ shoulder.

“Marius! Stop it! You’re not making any sense!”. Again, she is ignored by the pair.

“Stop acting crazy, Marius!” Grantaire hisses, voice lower as he also takes a step towards the man. Marius, in turn, pales, breaths coming a little heavier.

“I won’t let you put Cosette in danger”, he states firmly, jaw clenched as he turns the safety off his weapon. Grantaire glares at it, head pounding as pressure builds on the back of his mind.

“You won’t pull that trigger, Marius. You know I don’t like to use my powers, but I will if I have to. You won’t stop me from reaching my friends”, Grantaire says coldly. The growing rot on the floor reaches Marius’ feet. The man gasps in pain but doesn’t lower his gun.

“We’ll see who’s quicker, then: my gun or your power”, Marius responds shakily, grimacing as Grantaire’s power falls over the room’s occupants like a physical weight.

As he puts his finger on this trigger, Cosette clearly decides she’s had enough. She uses all her weight to push Marius to the side, coming once more between the two men. Faced with the full force of Grantaire’s cold glare, she also pales, groaning softly but stubbornly standing in place.

“You will both stop this!”, she puts her hand firmly to Marius’ chest as he lunges towards Grantaire again. Grantaire stands still, trying to bring his powers back under control but failing as he feels a burst of anger boiling in his chest.

How dare he?

After he trusted them. Told them about his friends.

Used his powers to protect them.

Killed for them.

And he's turning that gun on him?

There’s a POUNDING-POUNDING feeling against the back of his mind, head shrieking and pressure building, and he can’t hold it, he has to let it out-

“Montparnasse! Stop it!”, a familiar voice yells urgently. The pressure suddenly withdraws from his head with a pop.

It’s as if it was never there in the first place.

Gasping in startled relief, Grantaire blinks. Marius stands behind Cosette, facing him, gun arm slowly lowering as he looks confusedly around the room, shaking his head like he's trying to dispel some disturbing thought.

“What…?”, Marius asks bemusedly, looking at the gun in his hand as if it is an alien object that suddenly appeared to bite him, “What happened?”, he repeats wide-eyed, quickly hiding the weapon in his trousers.

Cosette sighs in relief, gripping Marius’ arms tightly.

Grantaire goes to ask the same question but is suddenly too preoccupied with a moving body tackling him to the ground.

Falling on his ass – ow – he goes to unleash his powers but is surprised to feel them not answer his call. Now full-on alarmed as arms wrap bruisingly hard around his neck, he tenses right up until his nose is smushed against black hair, and a familiar scent of cherries reaches him.

Instinctively, he squeezes the person back.

“’Ponine”, he croaks, throat suddenly feeling tight. Under his hands, Éponine is trembling furiously as she refuses to slacken her hold on him. “’Ponine”, he calls more strongly, hugging her harder as she gasps.

“H-how? How is this possible?”, Éponine breathes out shakily, warm air hitting Grantaire’s ear as he struggles to breathe, squished as he is against her punishing hug. He doesn’t give a damn about it.

“I don’t know”, he answers frantically, “I just- woke up a few days ago and found out I died-“ he hushes, finally loosening his hands where they hold Éponine. She doesn’t budge at all.

“Am I dreaming?”, she whispers, voice small and trembling. Grantaire’s heart breaks.

“No, ‘Ponine. I’m really here”, he assures, voice low.

At last, Éponine hesitantly lets him go, moving away just enough to get a good look at his face. Grantaire is shocked to notice tears in her eyes, black mascara and eyeliner smudged against her deep olive skin. His oldest friend, who he never saw shed a single tear; not when her parents kicked her out; not when she suddenly had to be a mom for her kid brother at eighteen. Now openly crying, lips trembling as she tries to hold it in. Her eyes move frantically around his face, hands quickly following as she roughly grasps his jaw, turning his face this way and that, as if looking for a sign that he wasn’t really there. After a moment, she goes limp, tension releasing from her body as she drops her full weight on top of his legs. They’re starting to feel a little numb, but he couldn’t care less. Éponine is here. Everything’ll be alright.

“Wh-what? You- you woke up? It’s been three years, R”, she hushes hoarsely, eyes shining in awed disbelief as she studies his face. Although not hugging anymore, she now grips his left wrist in a vice, as if to make sure he won’t suddenly vanish into thin air.

 “I know”, he says, grimacing.

“But- How? Why now?”, she demands.

“I think it was my power, but I don’t know for sure”, he murmurs half-heartedly.

“So you can just come back from the dead, now?”

“Well, I don’t know if it was a one-off thing, but I guess I could put it to the test later if you’d like”, he huffs a weak laugh. Éponine immediately punches him in the shoulder, hard.

“Don’t joke about that”, she glares, no trace of humor on her face. Grantaire sobers immediately.

“Just kidding, ‘Ponine, just kidding. You know me; my shitty sense of humor and I don’t know when to shut the hell up”, he apologizes. At that, Éponine’s flinty mask cracks a little, and she draws a small watery smile.

“That’s how I know I’m not really dreaming. Not even my imagination could come up with someone so unfunny”, she says shakily, even as her smile widens, eyes glistening in complete, sheer happiness before she goes back to hugging him tightly.

Grantaire tries not to show his bafflement at the gesture too much; this is Éponine after all – seeing her express anything more than a smirk or a scowl at any given time is like seeing an endangered animal casually strolling through the middle of Paris on their hindlegs: more than a rarity – an impossibility. His brain almost can’t compute the smile, much less the tears.

A throat clears behind them. Marius is staring at them, wrangling his hands together.

“I’m- I’m so sorry, Grantaire. I don’t know what came over me”, he stutters, regret and bewilderment clear on his face as he lowers his head in shame.

Éponine unpeels herself from Grantaire to shoot a glare at Marius, harsh mask back on her face, where it usually belongs. Grantaire almost sighs in relief, but – to be honest, it felt good to see someone actually miss him these last three years.

“It wasn’t you”, she deadpans with her usual terseness, “It was that idiot over there”, she gestures with her chin to the forgotten stranger, still leaning against the wall. The black-haired man only grins like the cat that got the cream, gaze completely focused on Grantaire, black pools glittering in something close to fascination.

“Sorry ‘bout that”, he says, voice velvety and warm, “Just wanted to see what would happen”, he shrugs unrepentant.

“Well, you’re lucky I was here to stop you before you went too far. You wouldn’t be so smug if you actually pissed R off and ended a twitching, drooling mess on the floor”, Éponine snaps. The man looks even more interested at that, lips twitching.

“More’s the pity”, the man sighs, actually looking regretful that Grantaire didn’t implode in a fit of anger in the middle of the Corinthe. Grantaire side-eyes him distrustfully as Éponine turns back to Marius.

“You’ll have to forgive him; Montparnasse is many cards shy of a full deck”, she states harshly. The man just grins, eyes still on Grantaire. “He could royally piss off a saint”.

“It’s a gift”, Montparnasse agrees blithely, carding fingers through his shiny black locks of hair.

“So, that whole thing – it was his power?” Cosette cuts in hesitantly. Éponine nods somberly.

“Yeah. If they told me Grantaire was actually coming I wouldn’t’ve sent him, obviously”, she says, glancing apologetically at Grantaire, who shrugs.

“Hey, no harm, no foul. You couldn’t guess I was actually back from the dead”, he assures. Éponine grimaces at his words but makes no further comment on his previously-dead-status, “Besides, no one got hurt. I’m just glad I finally got to meet a familiar face”, he smiles at her. She quickly smiles back.

Feeling his legs screaming at him from his uncomfortable position on the wooden floor, he is forced to gently push Éponine away; catching his meaning, she swiftly stands up, holding out her hand and pulling him to his feet beside her, maintaining a tight grip on his arm.

“Now!”, Grantaire exclaims cheerfully, feeling blood finally flow to his legs, “I understand we have a lot to catch up on”.

They end up moving from the Corinthe to a small inconspicuous apartment a few doors down the street, impersonal and sparsely furnished. Looking around the dimly lit living room, Grantaire whistles.

“I got to say, ‘Ponine; not as charming as our last place”, he comments lightly. Éponine glares at him half-heartedly.

“The last couple of years haven’t been easy, you know; had more important things to worry about than interior design. Besides”, she says, face softening a little as she approaches a small built-in closet, “You should count yourself lucky that I even kept some of your stuff”.

Opening the closet door, she nods towards a few carton boxes hidden in the back. Whooping in glee, Grantaire rushes to them, opening the closest box. Inside, some of his sweaters and shirts are carefully folded, a thin layer of dust covering them. Grantaire caresses the material of a dark blue sweater, sighing at its softness. Turning towards Éponine where she leans against the wall, he smiles affectionately.

“Thank you. Really”, he says. Éponine huffs, uncomfortable with the sincere gratitude in his voice.

“Whatever”, she mutters, “Couldn’t just throw it out”.

Abandoning the item and rising from his crouched position, he passes Éponine, squeezing her shoulder as he walks towards a grimy sofa already occupied by Cosette and Marius. The latter still looks a little tense from their altercation back in the Corinthe, fingers tapping nervously at his lap. Montparnasse, meanwhile, sits luxuriously back on a deep red armchair nearby, elbow on the armrest and hand holding his chin as he observes Grantaire and Éponine’s interaction with obvious interest.

“I tried calling you when I woke up”, Grantaire admits to his friend, sighing as he lets himself drop to the seat on Marius’ right. Éponine shakes her head and stays standing.

“Had to get rid of my phone when the raids started; too many risky contacts in it, and I had to lay low”, she mutters, eyebrows creased in irritation.

“Yeah, I figured”, Grantaire says. “What about our place? Why did you move out?”

“You mean, besides the fact that I was suddenly roommates with a known wanted terrorist?”, she shoots back sarcastically. Grantaire winces. “I had to distance myself from everything. Especially after... after.”, she rasps, moving her face towards the wall, hiding her expression.

“I’m sorry”, Grantaire mutters. Éponine shakes her head.

“Not like any of it was your fault. There were just too many memories in that house”, she says, tone final. Knowing Éponine, that was a clear sign to change the subject to less emotional things, and quickly.

“And this guy? Where the hell did he come from?”, Grantaire shoots, nodding at Montparnasse, who smiles smugly in response. Asshole.

“’Parnasse used to work with my parents”, Éponine says. At Grantaire’s incredulous look, she’s quick to add, “Not anymore, don’t worry; ever since the government started this fucking witch-hunt, he’s been helping me”.

“Helping you…?”, Grantaire questions.

“I’m in the information business, now.”, she states, crossing her arms. “Montparnasse usually comes with me to meetings to serve as bodyguard or riot-starter”, she says, shooting a derisive look at the man.

“More of the former, really”, Montparnasse adds innocently. He’s ignored by the pair.

“So you’re an information broker?”, he asks Éponine, a little incredulous. He never would have thought she of all people would let herself get involved in a rebellion. But what does he know; three years is a long time. “Who do you sell information to?”

“Anyone who pays and isn’t carrying a badge or uniform is good enough for me”, she says simply. Grantaire snorts, unsurprised.

“What about Gavroche? What has he been up to?”, he looks around the living space, and yep; no sign of the brat. That’s not too surprising; even when they lived together Gavroche was too much of a wild card not to be constantly outdoors, wreaking havoc.

However, he is alarmed to see Éponine’s face fall at his question, arms crossed over her chest defensively and hands closed into fists.

“They got him”, is all she says. Grantaire feels a pit form in the bottom of his stomach.

“What do you mean, they got him?”, he demands.

Éponine avoids his gaze. “The National Guard; they caught him using his powers outside a government building and arrested him, no questions asked”, she spits through clenched teeth.

“Shit”, is all Grantaire can say, chest tight. After all he went through to keep him safe, the kid still got himself into trouble. “When did this happen?” he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer. Éponine grimaces in response.

“Two weeks ago,” she mutters. At that, even Montparnasse sobers a little, looking grim as he moves a ring on his thumb absentmindedly, “We taught him better, but he was careless; let himself get too cocky”.

“Where are they keeping him?”, Grantaire presses, mind spinning. Éponine – who knows Grantaire’s thoughts like her own – gets a glint in her eyes.

“La Santé”, is her only answer. Grantaire curses again.

“The fuck? He’s just a kid”, he hisses, even as he thinks through different plans and scenarios.

“A powered kid”, Éponine sneers, “So as good as any other adult criminal in their eyes”.

Grantaire looks at his friend’s eyes and she looks back. For a moment, it’s like no time had passed at all; they are still able to talk without speaking. Grantaire raises an eyebrow; Éponine squints in skepticism, but her softened mouth tells Grantaire that she’s also hopeful. He smiles; she sighs, mock-long-sufferingly.

“Of course I’ll help; I want him out of there as much as you”, she says, “But you know I won’t be very useful; my powers only work on other powered people”, she grudgingly admits. Grantaire has to agree.

“Yeah, it’s probably best if you stay behind”, he nods. “You leave the infiltration to me”.

 “Wait”, Cosette cuts-in, “what do you mean?” she demands, puzzled. Grantaire startles; focused as he was in problem-solving, he almost forgot they had an audience.

Turning to her, Grantaire shrugs, “I’m getting Gavroche out; no way I died just so he’s stuck in prison for the rest of his life”, he frowns.

At that, Cosette worries at her lip. After a moment, she turns to the pair of friends.

“Did you say La Santé?”, she asks Éponine, who nods somberly. Looking back down in thought, Cosette then seems to come to a decision.

“I’m coming too”, she declares. Marius stands alerted, eyes bugging out of his face.

“What do you mean?”, he cries. Cosette looks at him determinately.

“My papa is being kept there, too. If they’re busting someone out, I’m going to help”. Turning back to Grantaire, she adds, “As long as you promise to also get my father out”.

Feeling Éponine burn a hole on the side of his face with her glare, he picks at the skin of his thumb. His immediate impulse is to say no; Cosette has already been through enough trouble for him without adding prison break-in to that list. That was the whole point of Marius’ induced meltdown back in the Corinthe.

Besides, it’s going to be hard enough getting in and out with a prisoner without being detected; getting two people out? Basically suicide. And they don’t even know where Gavroche and Valjean are being kept; as far as they know, they could be in two completely different buildings.

That being said, Cosette’s gift is damn useful. They could infiltrate the prison easily if they disguised themselves as guards. Even getting out would be easier, and – most importantly to him – Grantaire wouldn’t have to use his ability unless absolutely necessary; at the very least, not to kill; just get in, get out, no trouble.

He must look too open to the idea, because Marius quickly jumps in.

“If Cosette goes, I go”, he declares, alarmed. Grantaire grimaces.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea”. At Marius’ frown, Grantaire adds, “She’ll be straining her powers enough as it is if I go, and she’ll have to glamour Gavroche and her father on the way out. One extra person? I don’t think that’s safe”.

Marius goes to protest, but halts when Cosette covers his hand with hers.

“You know he’s right”, Cosette says, “It’s safer if I go by myself. I’ll also be able to focus more if I don’t have to worry about keeping you safe”. Marius clenches his jaw and looks like he wants to argue further, but a stern look from Cosette makes him deflate and look unhappily away.

“I’ll be waiting for you right outside the building; you can’t stop me from doing that. And if you take a minute longer than planned, I’ll get in and get you out myself”, he says firmly, displeasure creased between his eyebrows. Cosette smiles fondly at him, nodding.

“Of course”.

“I’ll also be going”, Montparnasse interrupts. “Wouldn’t miss a prison break for the world”. At Grantaire’s dubious glance, he adds, “The girl won’t have to use her gift on me; I can take care of myself. Besides, push comes to shove, I’ll just use my powers and turn the guards against each other – that’ll keep them busy”.

“Would that work?”, Grantaire asks skeptically.

“Worked on you, didn’t it?”, Montparnasse responds smoothly, eyes at half-mast as he slowly blinks up at him. Grantaire squints but has to give him the point.

"What do you get out of this?", he still has to press, studying the man suspiciously. 

Montparnasse just winks back. "I like the brat. Besides, having Éponine and Gavroche owe me one? I'll consider myself the richest man in Paris", he chuckles.

Grantaire finally relents. “Alright”, he sighs. “We have three people going so far, then; Marius and Éponine can stay as look-out”. Both look dissatisfied, but nod.

He bites his bottom lip for a moment and – before he loses his nerve – blurts out.

“Maybe I could get my friends to help, too. They have useful powers”. Éponine’s expression immediately closes up.

“No.” she says, no room for arguments. Grantaire raises his brows. He knows Éponine has never been a supporter of what his friends preached – they really were alike in that way – but the contempt on her face is way too intense for a simple suggestion.

“If you could only call them, I’m sure they’d be glad to help-“

“I said no”, she snaps, gaze hard. “I want nothing to do with them”.

“What does that mean?”, Grantaire asks bemusedly, fingers tapping nervously against the armrest.

 “It means that they’ve done enough already. They’re the reason Gavroche is in this mess in the first place; he was in that building sending a message from them”, she hisses.

Well. Grantaire can’t really argue with that. However.

“Even more reason to get their help; if he’s in jail after trying to do something for them, they’ll want to break him out too-“

“No! They only think about their cause, not their people”, Éponine spits, interrupting him. “You died, R. And they didn’t even tell me. Not at first. Too busy with their own grieving and their own planning to remember that you weren’t only their friend. You were my best friend! I knew you first”.

At her outburst, Grantaire is left speechless, which doesn’t seem to bother Éponine too much because apparently she isn’t done.

“They didn’t even let me visit you, after it happened. Just- told me they buried you some place far away, where you wouldn’t be disturbed. Where you could rest in peace”, she laughs humorlessly, “But what about my peace? I was the one who had to pack your stuff! Who had to go back to an empty home, with a kid brother who was too ashamed to talk to me about what happened that day and without my best friend to guide me through it! I lost my best friend. And in the middle of it all, not a single one of your friends wanted to give me a straight answer”, she snaps. With a trembling lip, she glares at him. “So no; I won’t ask for their help. I refuse to do it. I swore to myself that I would never trust them with family; not after they cost me half of it”.

Silence follows. Éponine hides her face behind a curtain of dark hair, hugging herself. Grantaire immediately stands up and goes to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing her tight against him.

“I’m sorry, ‘Ponine”, he whispers. “I know you won’t want to hear this, but I’m sure they had their reasons”. Feeling her tense up under his arm, he is quick to add, “I know that doesn’t make it okay. It’s alright; we can do this, the five of us. We’ll get him out”.

Éponine finally raises her head, looking at him attentively before nodding.

Grantaire doesn’t know how to feel. He knows he’s just a man; that his friends were fighting for something ‘bigger than themselves’ – whatever the hell that means – and that the past three years were chaotic, what with the manhunt for powered people and all. His friends were in the frontline of a full-on resistance. They’re busy people. Of course they are. They couldn’t waste their time moping about a guy who wasn’t even that involved in their plans in the first place. Who didn’t even believe in them, for that matter.

That doesn’t bring relief to the way his throat feels tight, or the way he feels his nose burn, the way his eyes are a little too warm, making him blink rapidly. He shouldn’t be too surprised that his friends apparently moved on from his death quickly. Buried him and then forgot about him in a land that meant nothing to him. He always knew that if he wasn’t loud, boisterous or fun, then he was just– a sad drunk, who believed in nothing, not even in his own powers. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to have it confirmed.

He makes himself shake it off. He’ll talk to his friends after they get Gavroche out, try to understand what really happened that day, and the days that followed. For now, there’s no time to wallow in self-pity; that won’t help Gavroche.

Feeling three pairs of eyes looking carefully at them, he clears his throat. “Right. We need a plan, and a good one, this time; can’t risk half-assing this. ‘Ponine, do you have any way of getting your hands on a blueprint of the prison? Cellblocks, exits, surveillance systems?”. Éponine grimaces, shaking her head no, but Marius jumps in.

“I can get it”, he says. At their inquiring looks, he continues falteringly, “My family’s library keeps maps of all government-owned buildings, La Santé’s layout must be kept there too”. Grantaire doesn’t comment but adds that information to his mental profile of Marius. He’s not too sure he’s pleased with the picture it’s forming.

“And will it be safe for you to get it? Don’t forget that your face is all over the news now, too”, Grantaire remarks. Marius nods unhappily.

“My grandfather will take me back without reporting me”, he frowns. At Cosette’s worried glance, he tries to smile reassuringly, “Don’t worry; I’ll get you the map”.

“Right”, Grantaire says. “We’ll also need to know the prison guards’ shifts; when they change, and who’ll be able to get in and out of different cellblocks without raising any eyebrows”. Montparnasse lifts a hand lazily at that.

“I can scope out the prison, study the guards’ rotations. Babet also basically owns the inmates. He’ll tell me who the big guns are”, he offers a sharp grin, black eyes glinting.

Cosette clears her throat. “If you could get me pictures of the guards that I can study beforehand, that would be perfect”, she interjects. “We don’t want our disguises to be suspicious or inaccurate”, she explains. Montparnasse nods chivalrously.

“I’ll see what I can do”.

Éponine cuts-in. “I’ll get us a getaway car, steal my parents’ old van; if they get arrested because of it, I’ll take it as a bonus”, she huffs. Grantaire snickers at that.

“I guess I’ll incapacitate the guards we’ll be impersonating, then; make sure there’s no doubles walking around”, Grantaire sighs in resignation. They all nod in agreement.

Bare bones of a plan formed, the room finally allows itself to relax.

The next week and a half are spent perfecting their plan. Montparnasse’s contact – the so called Babet – gives them two guards names and schedules to memorize. For all of Montparnasse’s smugness, he is actually exceedingly competent at getting what he wants: he was able to study the two guards as they come and go from the prison, as well as take a great number of pictures of them. Cosette spends her days studying the photos, taking in every detail of their features and figures.

Éponine confirms that her parents still have their getaway car, a sketchy-looking, rusted green van that, although not the most inconspicuous, was fast and big enough to carry a group of seven outlaws.

Grantaire, in turn, can’t help but feel a little useless in the middle of all this planning, but he knows his time to shine – not– will come the day of the break-in. Meanwhile, he’s gotten unfortunately hooked on some day-time soap drama while his friends are out preparing for their respective roles.

Their first actual hurdle comes in the form of Marius’ plan to get the schematics of the prison. Two days after they start working on it, he arrives at Éponine’s house looking a mix of furious and depressed.

“What’s with the face?”, Grantaire asks from where he’s sprawled across Éponine’s ridiculously comfortable couch.

“It’s my grandfather”, he grumbles, pacing the room, “He accepted my apology”.

Grantaire squints. “And that’s bad for us because…”

“Because”, Marius sighs, “I had to tell him I was being held hostage by you and Cosette the whole time”.

“Ha!” Grantaire barks, “Classic. And he believed you?”. Marius grimaces.

“Yes. My charges were dismissed. But now the Guard is also looking to charge you for aggravated kidnapping”. Grantaire doesn’t comment on how powerful his grandfather must be to casually lift murder charges without a proper investigation on Marius’ claims. Instead, he chuckles again.

“God, I’m so fucked”, he sighs at the ceiling, “But hey: at least they’re following the random-looking guy from the hotel CCTV so, as long as Cosette doesn’t feel like recycling disguises, I’m probably good in that front”.

“I guess”, Marius mutters, “But I still feel bad. I don’t want to have to suck up to my grandfather. Or throw you and Cosette under the bus”, he frowns.

“Think about it this way: you’re doing all this to send a grand middle finger to the Government”, Grantaire argues lightly, melting back into the couch and already thinking about which way to twist himself into to maximize the quality of his second nap of the day.

“I also feel bad about the other day”, Marius blurts out. Grantaire side-eyes him, confused. “I really didn’t mean what I said in the Corinthe. I don’t regret coming here or trying to make a change. And I don’t think you’ve put Cosette in danger; I know you saved her back in that hotel”, he exclaims eagerly, large puppy eyes begging for forgiveness. Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Hey; it’s all good. I almost used my power against you, so it's not like I was immune to Montparnasse’s influence. All water under the bridge”, he flaps his hand at him half-heartedly. Marius exhales in relief.

“Thank you. God, I’ve been feeling terrible. I almost shot you!”, Marius cries.

“My shining personality means that I’m used to having people want to throttle me on a daily basis, so what’s a little threat of gun violence among friends?”, Grantaire quips, smiling. Marius finally draws a small smile at that, shaking his head in fond exasperation.

Pushing Grantaire’s legs over from where they’re lying on the sofa, and ignoring his indignant yelp, Marius sits in the freed space between Grantaire and the other armrest, looking at the TV and huffing a laugh at the terrible drama currently playing. Grantaire relaxes back into his sprawled position, laying his legs back over Marius lap as he starts ranting about the romantic tragedies unfolding on screen.

“We’ll be impersonating two officers: Rochefort and Breuil”, Montparnasse smoothly explains as their small group leans over a blueprint of La Santé. On top of it, two pictures of the forementioned guards stare back at them. “Breuil is the prison’s director, so she’ll be our best bet if we want to move prisoners around”.

“I’ll play her, no problem”, Cosette assures, “Grantaire can play Rochefort”. Grantaire nods in agreement.

“I also have some good news and bad news”, Montparnasse warns cooly, leaning against the table. “The good news is that Babet found out where they’re keeping Gavroche and Valjean; the bad news is that Valjean is in an isolation cell”, he sighs.

“What does that mean for us?”, Cosette asks worriedly.

“It means that we’ll probably have to split up to save time”, Montparnasse responds, usual smirk a little strained. Grantaire guesses that even a guy as confident as him isn’t too excited at the prospect of going off by himself in a high-security prison. “Gavroche is in a special wing designed for powered people, but he’ll be easier to reach. Those isolation cells, though…”, He sucks at his teeth, “They’re going to be harder to get to”.

Grantaire sighs, headache forming. “We’ll split up, then”, he says reluctantly. “As much as I’d like to get Gavroche out myself, we’ll probably need more fire power to get Valjean. Besides, Montparnasse knows the brat, he can find him and move him to a meeting point. Cosette and I will grab Valjean; she can use Breuil’s influence as head of service and I’ll back her up with my power if we really need it”.

“We have another problem”, Marius points out, looking at the blueprints. Grantaire holds back a groan. “They will be wearing a suppression collar”.

“A what, now?” Grantaire wonders tiredly. Marius shoots him a sympathetic look.

“It’s a collar developed by the Government; it somehow suppresses most gifts”, he explains.

“Ah. So that’s what’s been stopping Gavroche from hightailing it out of there already”, Grantaire sighs. “How do you turn it off?”

“Way ahead of you”, Marius says eagerly, “My grandfather has access to a universal key; just get them out of that prison and I’ll unlock them”, he nods.

Grantaire stares, raising his eyebrows skeptically. “You know, as happy as I am that you have access to such absurdly convenient tools, we’ll really need to talk about who your grandfather is at some point”, he says drily. Cosette and Marius tense up at the same time as Montparnasse snorts. Éponine, on the other hand, just studies the pair with a slightly suspicious air about her, which isn’t too different from the way she usually glares at other people on a daily basis, so they should count themselves lucky that she wants Gavroche out of prison more than she wants to look at a horse’s mouth.

Marius coughs. “Yes, well. I’ll tell you whatever you want after we get Cosette’s father out of there. After they’re both free, there’ll be no more secrets”, he assures. Grantaire hums doubtfully, but lets it go again – see, Enjolras? He can let go from losing battles.

At this point, all that’s left for them is to memorize the schematics of the prison.

La Santé is organized into two main quarters that are occupied by inmates depending on the time of the day; the lower quarters are used for daytime activities and converge into a central area used by all convicts – powered and unpowered alike – while the upper quarters include the cells where prisoners sleep at night. Although Gavroche sleeps in a block designed especially for powered people, he has access to the lower quarters during the day, which will undoubtedly come in handy when they infiltrate the prison. To help matters, the lower quarters are relatively close to the entrance of the building, easing their escape.

Their main problem is with Valjean: because he’s staying in an isolation cell, he’s kept to the upper quarters. That means they’ll have to transverse the whole prison to get him. And they’ll have to break him out of his cell; and they’ll have to bring him to the meeting point without being discovered. Grantaire doesn’t feel so good with their chances, but for once he keeps his mouth shut. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll at least try to get out with Gavroche, and if they have to get Valjean – and risk getting shot down by the police in the process – to ensure it, then so be it.

Grantaire is also unhappy that he still hasn’t been able to contact his friends. Éponine is stubbornly tight-lipped about where they’re hiding, and after her outburst that first day, Grantaire would rather not risk upsetting her further. His only hope is that once Gavroche is out he can get him back to his friends. From Éponine’s rant, the kid is still in touch with them, so he’ll know how to reach out.

After getting to know the inner workings of the prison like the back of their hands, they wrap everything up and call it a day. Tomorrow, they’ll be up at dawn to intercept the guards as they start their shifts at the prison. Hopefully, by the end of the day, Gavroche’ll be safe at home; wanted by the whole country, but safe and free.

Éponine’s place is a two-room apartment, which means that - having Cosette and Marius share Gavroche’s room, and refusing Éponine’s offer to give up her own bedroom - Grantaire sleeps in what he considers by now his trusted beige couch. Montparnasse left a couple of hours before, claiming that he wanted to ‘do his usual pre-criminal ritual’- whatever that means, he doesn’t want to know – and Cosette and Marius stepped out to their bedroom, leaving Éponine and Grantaire alone for the night.

“You know”, Éponine says, as she clears up the papers scattered across the dining table, “These last three years, I think I forgot why you and your friends do the things you do. Why you risk your lives for others, without expecting anything in return”.

Grantaire snorts from where he’s washing the dishes from their dinner, hands deep in soapy water by the sink, “Please never lump me with their naïve beliefs ever again”, he mock shudders.

Éponine rasps a low laugh, “You can pretend all you like that you don’t believe in what they’re doing, but I always knew better”.

“Not in what they’re doing”, Grantaire corrects. At Éponine’s questioning glance, he explains, “I never believed in their ideals, that the People would somehow wake up one day and decide to join us in the fight for a bright and rosy world. People are selfish and are willing to close their eyes to terrible things if it means keeping their asses safe. But I always believed that my friends would fight to the death to reach that absurd world. And I’m selfish too; I’ll make damn sure they’re safe and alive to witness it; or, you know, to at least acknowledge that I was right all along and that that world is impossible”, he mutters.

Éponine hums in consideration.

“Enjolras has really won a reputation for himself, you know”, she states out of fucking nowhere. Startling at the name, Grantaire drops a plate in the sink, cursing as he’s splashed with water. Éponine chuckles, “Yeah. The National Guard has orders to shoot on sight, not give him a chance to use his powers. And use his powers he has. He’s been ruthless these last couple of years”.

Grantaire has to smile at that, “Always an angel of righteous fury, that Apollo”, he huffs fondly, a ball of warm pride bursting in his chest. “But now I’m back to keep him safe from his own stupidity; the National Guard won’t be able to touch him”.

Éponine snorts exasperatedly, “Figures you’d still be happily strung along by him, after all this time”.

Grantaire shakes his head, “It’s not like that; he’s always been too focused on the Greater Good to even notice I’m in the room if I don’t nitpick at every single argument he makes. Besides, don’t forget that - as far as I know - it’s only been around two weeks since I last saw him. Nothing’s changed for me; I don’t think it ever will”.

“You know Montparnasse is interested in you, right? I know he’s insufferable, but at least you two have a lot more in common”, she teases. Grantaire barks out an incredulous laugh.

“You’re delusional”, he guffaws, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. Leaning back against the counter, he adds, “He’s not interested. And I get that you don’t like Enjolras, but he’s a good man”.

“I don’t like the way he makes you feel”, she admits lowly, looking down, “Like you’re unworthy of ever being loved”.

Grantaire chuckles bitterly, “You know that’s not Enjolras’s doing”. Éponine sends him a broody glare, but sighs.

“Yeah”.

Grantaire bumps his shoulder against Éponine’s. “Now get to bed; we have a long day ahead of us”.

She grunts, but holds his arm, “Wait. I have something for you”, she says, taking something from her back pockets and pushing it towards his chest.

Hand automatically reaching for the object, Grantaire looks down and is surprised to see a pair of black gloves, leather still glossy and aromatic - clearly brand new. At Grantaire’s pleased look, Éponine scoffs, embarrassed.

“I just noticed you were back to that disgusting habit of yours, so I’m doing your fingers a favor”. Looking down at his hands, Grantaire has to hold back a wince. Yeah, he guesses he has been peeling the skin off his fingers; he thought he’d lost that nervous habit. Their new blue-tinge isn’t helping matters either. “I also know you’re more comfortable with them on”.

Grantaire sends a quick glance up at Éponine before looking back down at the gloves, feeling at the warm leather. “Thanks, but I don’t have to touch people to use my powers anymore”, he mutters. At Éponine’s surprised face, he explains, “I can do it from a distance now; so, these won’t really help me contain it”, he grimaces, gesturing with the hand holding the gloves.

Éponine holds his free hand firmly in hers, unafraid as only someone who possesses her gift can be, “I’ll be here if you ever lose control. I’m not letting you out of my sight from now on”.

Grantaire chuckles, “Oh yeah? That mean you’re gonna start attending revolutionary meetings with me too?”, he drawls.

Éponine sneers, but nods. “I’ve learned you’re as suicidal as the rest of them. I’m not trusting you with yourself again”, she says stubbornly.

Grantaire snorts, but gives her a grateful one-armed hug, which she immediately tries to squeeze out of with a hiss – he guesses the novelty of being back from the dead is wearing off. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

“Thanks”, he says sincerely. Of course, Éponine immediately answers with a punch to his shoulder, making him yelp.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time. Now get your ass to bed; we have a brat to save tomorrow”.

By the time the sky turns a light lilac, signaling the arrival of the sun as it starts its usual track up the horizon, everyone in Éponine’s apartment is up and alert, and Grantaire has to snort as he looks them over.

“So, did anyone get any sleep last night?”, he asks, feeling his own eyes heavy and dry from spending the whole night turning and worrying over everything that could go wrong with their plan. He’s met with grim faces, Cosette and Marius shaking their heads in a negative sign and Éponine scoffing but not denying it either.

“I slept like a baby”, a low voice sounds from the front door. Montparnasse – of course – looks as annoyingly fresh and handsome as usual as he smiles sharply at the group. Turning to Grantaire, he purrs, “What about you; any sweet dreams you want to share?”

Ignoring Éponine’s snort, Grantaire side-eyes him, confused. “Too busy thinking about our impeding deaths, actually, so no”, he says dryly.

“Oh, but we know death doesn’t really stick with you, does it?”, Montparnasse quips, smiling charmingly.

“I’d rather not put that to the test, thanks”, he drawls. Glancing at Éponine, who is sending a mocking smile at an unusually pouty Montparnasse, he asks, “What about your parents’ van?”

Éponine scoffs. “Who do you take me for? It’s waiting for us a couple of streets down. I bribed Claquesous to bring it to me last night. He’ll keep quiet; my greedy bastard of a father won’t give him a cent worth backstabbing us for”. Yeah, that tracks.

“Marius?”, he asks next. Marius takes a small remote device from his bag and presents it to the group.

“I have the key; just need to plug it to a computer and write down the serial number for their collars”.

“Great. Cosette?”, he calls.

“I’m ready to go whenever you want”, she assures.

Éponine catches their attention, “Alright. It’s now-“ she glances at the time on her black thin wristwatch, “Six in the morning. Breuil’s shift starts at half past six. We have to get going if we want to intercept her before she reaches the prison”, she says.

At her announcement, the group stands frozen for a moment, looking at each other tersely. Then, Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Come on, might as well get this over with”, he says, walking to the door. Hearing the group start moving behind him, he sighs. He doesn’t know when he became the de-facto leader behind this shitty plan, but he’d like to go back to the times where all he did was drink and jeer at other people’s equally stupid plans, thank you very much.

Outside, getting in the dark green van – and making a face at the stale smell of old cigarette smoke – they make their way to La Santé prison.

They park their car in Boulevard Arago, about a kilometer away from the gates of La Santé. According to Montparnasse, Breuil drives through this spot every day at a twenty-five past six, like clockwork. At this time of the morning there’s no traffic and even less people about, except a few drunks walking home after the clubs close down and the odd early morning jogger. Éponine is on the driver’s seat and Marius is in the passenger’s seat. The remaining passengers – that is Grantaire, Cosette, and Montparnasse – are trying to squeeze their heads between the two front seats to see into the street.

Boulevard Arago is a nice little road surrounded by stone walkways and trees. Their group was able to park right by a crossroads, therefore making sure that Breuil would have to pass by them to go to work. Inside the car, the silence is almost palpable, everyone tense about what’s about to happen.

At exactly six twenty-three, a grey understated car approaches their van. At Montparnasse’s hiss of “That’s her!”, they stand at attention and the two men in the backseat make room for Cosette, who squints at the road.

Suddenly, a little girl appears in the middle of the street, staring wide-eyed at the car as it speeds towards her. Startled, the driver swerves, trying to avoid the child. Tires screeching, Breuil isn’t able to stop the momentum of the vehicle and hits a tree on the sidewalk with a loud crash.

“Let’s go”, Marius barks, opening the door. Grantaire is quick to follow, getting out and running towards the stopped car.

Forcing the driver’s door open, Grantaire doesn’t give a reeling Breuil a chance to compose herself. He brings his hands to her head and sends out a powerful burst of his gift, hands darkening instantly, as if he’s submerged them in a pool of black paint. The woman convulses for a second, eyes widening and rolling to the back of her head. As soon as she slumps onto her seat, blond hair covering her face as her head lolls forward, he lets go. No need to kill her, just use enough of your power to incapacitate.

Feeling newly energized, liquid warmth running up his arms and towards his chest, he quickly unbuckles her and drags her out of the car, an arm under her back and another under her knees. Looking up and down the street – making sure no one is coming through – he hurries towards the car’s boot, already opened by Marius, and promptly drops the woman inside.

After Marius closes the door back down, Grantaire snaps, “Get her car away from here. We’ll wait for you in the same spot”. Marius nods sternly before complying.

As Grantaire hears the car shriek its way out of a tree and speed away from where it once stood, he finally allows himself to exhale, looking around once more before going back to the van.

“Fuck”, he hisses, climbing in, “Of course she had to crash against a tree, she obviously couldn’t just stop and check up on the kid”, he grumbles moodily.

“Let’s just count ourselves lucky that no one lives around here, otherwise we’d probably have an audience after all that racket”, Éponine snaps. Grantaire has to agree.

Cosette winces where she seats to Grantaire’s right. “Sorry, the illusion was too close to her car, I should’ve given her more time to stop”.

Grantaire reaches out and squeezes her shoulder lightly, feeling a little bad at his outburst. “It’s okay, Cosette. We’re all on edge. You did good”.

“Beautiful work you did out there, too”, Montparnasse quips, eyes glimmering intensely at Grantaire, who just grunts.

“Thanks”, he mutters, hands still twitching from leftover warmth.

Marius comes back on foot about an hour later, silently opening the passenger’s door and sitting down with a huff.

“The car’s hidden behind some trees in a deserted parking lot. Just looks like someone abandoned it there. No one’ll find her – at least not today”, he states.

Cosette bites her lip. “We’ll notify the police when this is all over, they’ll find her safe”. Montparnasse sneers but keeps quiet. “Hopefully no one will complain that she’s coming to work way later than she’s supposed to, today”, she adds.

“She’s the director, who the hell is going to say anything to her face?”, Grantaire shoots back, and Montparnasse chuckles lowly in agreement.

Éponine leans her elbow against the driver’s window, supporting her head with a hand as she boredly says, “Rocheford’s shift starts at eight. He must be coming”. And that’s enough to bring focus back to the group.

Their trap works better this time around; Cosette’s illusion appears a lot sooner, meaning that Rocheford is able to stop properly in advance and exit the car. As he approaches the little girl, Marius and Grantaire jump out; Marius grabs the man from behind and, before he can struggle away from his grip, Grantaire unleashes his power the same way he did with the woman.

They need both Marius and Grantaire to move the guard to the boot of his car since he was so damn bulky, but after some curses and grunts, they’re able to do it without being detected; so far, so good.

Marius leaves the group once more to hide the second car, after which he’ll meet up with Éponine, by Rue de la Santé; it was decided that that was the best meeting point for a quick escape.

As Éponine slowly drives them to the prison, Cosette turns on her power, glamouring them into the two uniformed officers. Looking down, Grantaire can’t help but still be amazed at how her power works; instead of toned shoulders and slender, blue-tinted fingers, he now sees a bulky frame, strong wrists and thick, short digits, snugly fitted into fingerless gloves. In the place of his old, ratted blue jumper and black jeans, he perceives a standard guard uniform: dark blue thick pants and jacket, with a black vest covering his front and back. From his pants hangs a weapon and a small baton – and Grantaire desperately wishes that that part of the uniform wasn’t just an illusion.

Looking too hard at himself is making his head hurt, so he meets Éponine’s gaze through the rearview mirror instead.

Wearing an inscrutable expression, she stiffly says, “I want Gavroche back more than I can say. But don’t you dare get killed again”.

Grantaire just smiles at her, a stark contrast with the tight ball of nerves he feels weighing down on his chest. “I’ll get him back”.

This time, he'll make damn sure both of them will come home safely.