King and Lionheart

“Enjolras is here?” Jehan asks airily as Cosette puts the finishing touches on his braid. “I didn’t expect him to come.”

“You asked him to?” Grantaire retorts, turning to him wide eyed. Feuilly snorts a laugh into his drink.

“No, I just invited Courfeyrac.” Jehan replies honestly, innocently. “I didn’t mention it to Enjolras. He doesn’t normally like this sort of thing.”

“I brought it up to Bahorel in one of the alliance meets last week to remind him that he was supposed to be coming.” Feuilly muses, tucking his free hand into the pocket of his dress trousers. “Maybe he overheard. I’d offer you a cigarette to calm your nerves, but I don’t think you’ve got time.”

“I don’t care.” Grantaire moves over to him and is about to take the packet from him when, right on cue, their art teacher, a kindly older gentleman known as Mr. Mabeuf appears.

“Ah, good, you’re all here. It’s about time that we start your introductions, don’t you think?” He smiles at the five of them, and they barely have time to set down their drinks and make themselves look a little more presentable before the thick, velvet curtains are falling open and baring them to their audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mabeuf begins, stepping forward on the stage, “allow me to introduce to you your artists in exhibition this evening. From the Upper Sixth, we have the talented and practical Feuilly, who continues to astound with his studies of Polish art in the twentieth century.”

Feuilly’s cheeks flush a soft pink and he bows graciously at the smattering of applause, running his fingers through his short, reddish-brown curls self-consciously. Grantaire notices and knocks their elbows together, nodding in the direction of the crowd. Feuilly looks up, following Grantaire’s eyes and there’s Bahorel, grinning wide and whooping, hair flopping flat into his eyes and bright blue rugby jersey stained with mud. Feuilly smiles then, raising his hand in a slight wave to his best friend.

“Also representing the Upper Sixth, with his penchant for beautifully executed impressionism and stunning portraiture, is the charmingly humble Grantaire.”

Grantaire takes an overdramatic bow and smiles lopsidedly as the gathered audience clap. Mabeuf goes on to introduce their Lower Sixth comrades, but Grantaire isn’t listening, not really. He’s too busy scanning the room in search of Enjolras to pay attention, and when he finally locates his shaggy blonde head, he finds that he has, unsurprisingly, wedged himself between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The latter is gossiping animatedly with Marius, who appears to be ignoring him in favour of studying one of Cosette’s photographs of herself.

Combeferre, predictably, has several pamphlets in his hand and doesn’t appear to be paying attention, and Enjolras is looking past him, eyes apparently fixed on his painting of the Rouen Cathedral. It’s not one of the pieces Grantaire is proudest of, if he’s being honest, considering the photograph he’d referenced had been an old one his mother had taken about twelve years ago when they still lived there, and it was only after he’d finished it that he realized it was incredibly like a relatively well-known Monet painting.

Eventually, they are ushered off stage and instructed to mingle and answer any questions people might have. Grantaire just manages to dodge Bahorel’s rugby tackle of a hug as the eighteen year old squashes Feuilly against his chest.

“Aw, look at you with all your... Talent!” He coos, fumbling to attempt to pinch Feuilly’s cheek. The older boy ducks out of the way just in time and Bahorel ends up with a handful of neck and shirt collar.

“Christ, Bahorel, let me go, you clumsy shit.” Feuilly splutters, and Grantaire laughs weakly and skirts around the two of them. People have begun to disperse now, perusing through the art and mumbling between themselves. Cosette is talking to Marius, who is looking hopelessly flustered as she grabs him by the wrist and guides him over to show him her photographs of the local park. Courfeyrac has tentatively approached Jehan, and Grantaire suddenly realizes why he even showed up in the first place. He’s blushing, and Grantaire wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know Courfeyrac so well, and he’s wearing the shirt he is convinced makes him look the cutest (it’s a mint green and monochrome check shirt that contrasts his eyes perfectly, or so he says) and he looks nervous.

And if there’s one thing Courfeyrac isn’t, it’s nervous.

Grantaire rolls his eyes affectionately at the two of them, not that they’re looking –no, they’re too busy looking at each other for that- and watches as Jehan gingerly takes hold of his hand and guides him towards the sculptures.

He’s not paying attention when he walks, not really, and so he supposes it’s not his fault that he’s managed to gravitate towards where Enjolras is standing, inspecting one of his smaller pieces. This time it’s not a canvas –just a little inked drawing of the Millau Viaduct on cream construction cardboard he’d done when he was bored between projects.

“I take it you like them, then?”

“What?” Enjolras wheels around as if accused, his curls falling uselessly into his eyes. “You?”

“Me.” Grantaire replies with a wry smile, almost a smirk. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know.” Enjolras replies, for once sounding a little dumbfounded. “But not... Not this.”

He gesticulates at the wall of paintings in front of the two of them. Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him.

“What, did you not expect me to possess a modicum of actual thought and skill beyond my cynicism and frequent destruction of your debates?”

Enjolras glowers at him through his curls but doesn’t move, and for a moment Grantaire almost thinks he’s won. That is, until Enjolras rounds on him accusingly.

“You know, I’m not sure why you attend our LGBTQ+ group, considering all you seem to do is frequently remind me of my cisgender, white, middle-class male privilege.”

“Someone has to.” Grantaire smirks again. Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Well, you’re hardly the poster child for discrimination, let’s be honest. You’re French.”

“So are you.” Enjolras barks. “And you’re the perfect example of LGBTQ youth, are you?”

“Did I say that?” Grantaire retorts.

“The implication was there.” Enjolras snaps, and Grantaire raises his eyebrows at him.

“Of course it was.” Grantaire rolls his eyes almost affectionately and turns away from him with a weak laugh. “I need a drink. I’m going to find Feuilly.”

It was stupid, he thinks as he turns away from him and moves towards the fire exit -he figures Bahorel and Feuilly are probably lurking there- to hope that Enjolras had come because he had a genuine interest in his art. No, this is Enjolras, who is passionate to a fault and cares more for the rights of the poor in South America than he does about remembering to feed himself. Of course the mere notion of an art gallery would be enough to make him roll his eyes and sneer.

Grantaire scoffs to himself and skirts past Combeferre, who is pushing his thick framed glasses up his nose as he talks to Éponine with the lightest of pink flushes dusting at the top of his cheeks. His multitude of pamphlets rest forgotten in the back pocket of his artfully distressed jeans as he listens to her animated speech.

Enjolras stares blankly after Grantaire as he goes and presses his lips into a thin line, as if stopping himself from saying something. Éponine looks between him and Combeferre a few times before she sighs and huffs, following after Grantaire and leaving the two of them alone.

Grantaire steps out of the fire exit and into the cold November air to find Feuilly and Bahorel leaning against the wall of the technology building. They’re talking quietly to each other, passing a can of cheap beer between themselves and each attempting to exhale smoke rings into the other’s face.

“You look like shit, R.” Bahorel announces brashly when he sees him standing in the doorway. He holds out the can to him and Grantaire takes it graciously, taking a few long gulps before handing it to Feuilly. Feuilly looks at him for a moment, studying his face, before he hands the can back to Bahorel and digs his cigarettes out of his pocket.

“Here.” He says, unceremoniously throwing the small blue box at Grantaire, and watching as the seventeen year old fumbles with the packet until he eventually manages to produce a cigarette and settle it between his lips. Feuilly leans over with his lighter in hand, flicking the spark wheel a few times and producing a thin, orange flame. He lights the cigarette in Grantaire’s mouth and watches as the younger boy takes a long drag, before he plucks the cigarette from his mouth between two thin fingers and exhales a plume of soft, grey smoke.

“Do I want to know what happened?” Feuilly asks, leaning back against the wall and tucking his lighter back into his shirt pocket. “Or should I just assume that it has something to do with Enjolras?”