Chapter Text
Grantaire made his way around the masquerade, weaving through the crowds of guests. The candles casted an amber glow on the room, giving it a warm feel that was only present in sight.
Bahorel wasn’t too far behind him, making polite conversation with the various masked nobles. Though Grantaire was aware Bahorel’s eyes never really let him out of sight, doing his job as Grantaire’s personal guard.
He supposed he’d never really gotten used to that.
And really, he supposed, he should’ve. Growing up as a royal and having a multitude of eyes trained on his every move, one would normally have learned to ignore it by his age. Then again, not many princes drank themselves into a reputation spread far and wide.
He decided he could look for Marius. He was probably somewhere in the middle of the ballroom, freckled face, dazed, and perpetually confused looking. Grantaire half expected to see his secretary with some noble lady fawning over him, albeit always a little too condescendingly, always a little too pitying. His eyes were slowly searching the scattered groups of people. They wore halfheartedly put on masks, defeating the entire purpose of a masquerade. Then again, Grantaire wouldn’t hide his identity if he had all the money and power, with no one to scrutinise.
When the crowd parted, like a shitty opening to an opera, he was left with the sight of his friend with one of those sappy, incognizant smiles on his face.
Oh.
There Marius was, looking absolutely love stricken. Like the stars had fallen out of the sky and to his feet at his very command.
A mop of brown hair had revealed itself alongside him, one of those charming smiles plastered and directed at Marius. And Marius, with his ever long gangly limbs elevating him slightly taller than the other, had the expression of a dog who had just caught a ball that was thrown.
He had been betrayed, utterly abandoned, treasoned. He sulked, because that was the logical course of action you did when your only friend had ditched you for love. Now, he had no one to lurk around the edges of the reception with, and without a partner to laugh at the various tripping hazards dresses provided.
On the bright side, he had some good material to annoy the brunette with.
Slipping into the ballroom, away from the traitorous bastard, he decided he would at least join the crowd once, before finding his way to the bar. Joining them would appease his parents (he didn’t really care, he had long since ruined their expectations), he would pretend he was going to end up with some pretty girl, and inherit the throne as a respectable royal would.
It may have helped that he enjoyed the act of dancing.
The ballroom was brighter, chandelier hanging high and bringing the marble carvings on the ceiling to light, moving with a life of its own to the tune of the flames. It was a pity how the art that someone once must have carved with care, being seemingly forgotten. Though, odds were the sculptor didn’t care at all, going through the notions.
The slow waltz that had filled the air began to change, a grandiose and mellow crescendo, like a composer giving a final bow, to a light and airy tune. Grantaire moved away from the wall, catching another person at the edge of the ballroom as he made a curt nod over to the floor. As she came closer, he found that he recognised the lady.
The mayor's daughter, Cosette, ever graceful in high society. Wouldn’t they make a pair.
She smiled sweetly at him as they made contact but she had a look in her eye. One that Grantaire couldn’t quite decipher, threading the fine line of hostility and kindness. Her honey blond hair floated as they spun, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought of a vague resemblance of Artemis as a collection of high cheekbones and blue eyes bore back into his. Her disposition and nature was nothing but sweet, which pulled him into a reminder of a certain traitor who had left him here to suffer. He was sure they’d made a fascinating sight, equivalent of a contrasting majesty of day and night finally intertwining.
Or maybe some sort of morbid fascination at their differences, both in looks and personalities.
The song was beginning to fade, and he’d found himself bowing. They had shared a little nod, much akin to the beginning of their little dance, and he’d found himself passed on.
It was grand, but even the brightest of stars and flames grew dull with time, and everything tended to eventually lose its colour when repeated unwillingly for years. He had enough stepping away from the flurry of dresses, the once bright colours once having competed for his attention had dulled over the years.
It was this state of grim reflection that sent him knocking into another man. It was when he stepped back that he felt like he had just been knocked out of breath, plagued.
Pierced by Apollo’s arrow.
Looking eternally unamused, eyebrows cinched, and bright golden hair. The same kind of high cheekbones and blue eyes Grantaire had seen earlier, except these made the man in front of him seem godly. He thought about asking if he’d model for a painting.
The other stumbled back, and Grantaire briefly wondered if statues could move. The movement of the god broke Grantaire out of his (surprisingly not drunken) stupor. Maybe he could ditch the bottle if he was confronted with a god.
The statue looked mildly apologetic, muttering something along the lines of vague apologies.
Grantaire grinned, maybe he could find some good company after all.
“Why don’t you come with me, to make up for it?”
“It wasn't my fault, though.” the other huffed, with no real intended audience, but Grantaire had caught it anyway.
A commoner.
(Grantaire had assumed, from the callousness and lack of roundabout words. No aristocrat in their right mind would huff, much less in front of a prince. Hey, he never said his disguise was good either!)
“I never said it was you who was making up for it.”
“Fine.” The stranger looked petulant as his eyes narrowed in suspicion, arms crossed.
Grantaire had to hold back a laugh at the sight.
They found themselves at the side of the ballroom, next to a table of appetisers, once again watching the hurricane of dresses move around the ball, which seemed a little brighter now with the light of Apollo next to him. The other was stiff, now arms uncrossed, and reminded Grantaire of the humans Medusa had turned to stone.
“Enjolras.”
“R.”
“..your parents must hate you.”
“It’s a nickname, Apollo.” He popped a cracker into his mouth.
He watched Enjolras’ face scrunch up. He was sure it was putting creases at the very top of his nose, right in the middle of his eyes underneath his mask. The ever present crease between his eyebrows got worse.
“It’s Enjolras. You might want to get your ears checked, Dionysus.”
Being compared to the god of wine, he was sure Enjolras knew who he was. And was taking full advantage of the masquerade to pretend he didn’t, considering his reputation for being a drunken prince has spread even to the commoners. Then again, commoners never got to see royals up close, and certainly not often. So how would a commoner even recognise him and much less get invited to this?
He settled on the theory that the other was probably a scholar, invited by one of the aristocrats here.
“You're quite the hothead”
If his play on words went unnoticed, all the better.
(Hot. head. He wasn’t lying, the other had great hair. And face. And well, head.)
Apollo scowled.
“Aw, what are you so mad for?”
“I’m not a hothead.”
“Sure right okay..” He raised his hands in a mock surrender position, in an attempt to jokingly placate the angry god.
The other crossed his arms again, posture turning into one of unamusement, twinged with hostility. Ouch. Grantaire didn’t know if he was grateful to have learnt to read body language, or whether he would have rather not have known.
(It was necessary for ‘threat identification’ as a royal, Javert had claimed.)
“So.. who are you?”
Enjolras raised an eyebrow.
“Enjolras.” He swore he saw the edges of the other’s mouth tug up a little.
“I would sure hope so. I meant what do you do.”
“Isn’t this a masquerade for a reason?”
“Well then, what are you known for?”
"Oh.. that. You'll see soon enough.” A look of distraction seemed to settle on Enjolras.
(One Grantaire would learn to be from thoughts about the rebellion.)
Grantaire was just about to inquire what could possibly be bothering a god. He would’ve, but Enjolras had seemingly returned back to the present, sending him a small grin that made his heart convulse for just the slightest, when Enjolras raised a hand..
..and snapped. The chandelier, from where it was hanging ever so grand, crashed.
Perhaps Grantaire could make up some metaphor for it, if he wasn’t so caught up in the majesty of it all.
Dust plumed as people rushed to move out of the way, tables turned over as the chandelier sat there, surrounded by metal shards. Distant shouting echoed in the room, peppering the sounds of plates crashing.
He turned back to possibly apprehend the now identified rebel, but when he did, Apollo had all but ascended again.
(So much for threat identification.)
In the storm, he watched a red flag wave in the eye of it, steadfast in the midst of fury.
His gaze moved to the person holding it, standing on the grand piano and surely leaving dirt all over it, was Apollo. Like his wrath had been the cause of it, the righteous anger of a god had upsetted the earth, because foolish mortals have been to anger the deities. Did gods even trek dirt?
(Javert was probably not happy about this, some snarky voice in the back of his head chided, but what could he do? He would mind the lecture of the importance of never leaving knights behind later.)
“LONG LIVE THE REBELLION!”
Boy, Grantaire was fucked.
Two figures were at his side, down below Apollo’s makeshift podium. Dust and flames from the chandelier had mildly obscured his vision of the event, but Grantaire could briefly make out the figure of the boy talking to Marius earlier.
Great. That made the two of them in love with rebellion members.
When he tore away his eyes from glory, he watched the faces of his fellow nobles contort into a mix of horror, disgust, and condescension. The assortment of food in a long banquet tipped over to his side, and Grantaire was forced to jump back.
He saw the face of a concerned Bahorel stumble to him, trying to push through the various nobles who seemingly thought they were invincible.
(Somewhere, Grantaire’s heart ached at the thought that he was the one to make his friend worry.)
It wasn’t long before the guards ran in, slamming open the door, led by an enraged Javert.
A scream ran through the air, bouncing off the marble walls and arched ceiling like a fleeting deer, quick and flighty.
He watched as Javert let out a long suffering sigh, as he directed a few of the guards over in the direction of the scream.
When had he started being moved?
He vaguely registered Bahorel dragging him by the scruff as he stared at the flag, now still, the flag bearer having been pulled down from the heavens. Being grounded as they grouped and somehow, it looked like Apollo himself was convening and descending to aid the mortals that followed him.
One of the three, the only one he didn’t recognise, threw something that started smoking. Not unlike an Oracle, he seemed to have immediate insight on what the god had needed.
Through the smoke, he barely caught the three escaping, smog escalating as the national guards ran over, but they had been long gone.
Later, he found himself actually listening to Javert’s lecture.
“So.. what did you say about the rebellion again?” Javert sent him a disappointed look.
Enjolras was content.
That was not something that happened often, because really, how one could be truly happy with the state of the people and with a dictatorship going by a monarch, is beyond him.
(That was a lie, sometimes happiness could be found by simply being next to his friends.)
The operation had gone well, the chandelier had fallen on cue (dramatics were always important to make a lasting impression). Cosette created a distraction right on time so they had legroom for their escape, Eponine had rigged the chandelier just right, and Combeferre had planned each escape and distraction to keep them from getting caught. And the rest of the members had caused enough chaos and damage to the rest of the ball.
Thanks to Combeferre bringing a smoke bomb planning their escape route perfectly, they would get back to headquarters in no time.
Joly would be waiting for them to patch up and fret over any injuries they’d have. His twin would join them later, no doubt sending the guards on a wild goose chase before disappearing herself. Gavroche was no doubt distracting his parents, the little prince faking tears, to wound the monarchs. Eponine would convince the court to pin the blame on the Thénardiers, hopefully freeing their serfs, followed by Jehan writing about the arrest of the Thénardiers in no time, along with the many crimes of the family. It wasn’t the most permanent solution, but it would hold them over until they could dismantle the monarchy and the corrupt system.
He couldn't help but marvel at their progress.
What had started as a group of three, had expanded into an actual organisation whose very existence was rebellion. As the face of it all, he was big enough of a threat that the colour of his jacket and the cockade were associated with the rebellion. He took a great sense of pride in that. Part of the reason his jacket had gotten so infamous, was his refusal to wear anything else when it was unnecessary. It was a perfectly good jacket! He wasn’t one to perpetuate the wasteful habits of the aristocrats. (Cosette could attest to that, as he gently reminded her to donate her old dresses).
As mayor Valjean’s son, he was supposed to be high profile but instead of that, he took it a step further to be nationally wanted. His dad (the one that is not a mayor) would have a heart attack if he knew, being the head of the national guard. In the early days of the rebellion, Enjolras had gotten Jehan to write multiple articles talking about how the rebellion leader had taken to imitating the mayor's son. So he was also wanted for identity theft.. of himself. He had already made a name for himself with the nobles as eccentric and reclusive, and Cosette had gone to the events anyways to represent their family, it was all the more reason to avoid the pretentious balls and keep his face out of the public eye.
So, he would say the operation had gone smoothly.
Well, except Courfeyrac had maybe, possibly, definitely, created a liability by going out of his way to flirt with the royal secretary.
And possibly now they were being chased by said secretary.
He was starting to regret telling Courfeyrac that he could tag along.
“Wait! I’m not mad!”
Enjolras scoffed, it was an outrageous thing to say.
But when he turned back to yell, it took all he could to not facepalm at Courfeyrac actually stopping.
He skidded to a stop, his feet digging into the soil. He turned to stare at the newcomer, while behind him Combeferre crossed his arms, unamused at the display before him.
“..you are not?” Courf looked bewildered, a small confused smile on his face as he stared.
“Don't worry about it. Really, don't. It's just an object, it can be replaced..” He looked at his feet, making a small dent in the dirt.
Of course they could, because millions of francs was just a drop in the bucket for the bourgeois. Except it was all at the cost of citizens perishing.
Courfeyrac looked like he was going to somehow split his face open with a grin.
“Would you write to me?” Pontmercy trailed off, tentative. “I mean.. I wouldn't take it to heart if you don't..” He seemed to steel himself for a potential rejection, like he didn’t see how smitten Enjolras’ friend was. “I'm aware we just met, and perhaps you wouldn’t want me to know your address but–”
(Enjolras would come to understand later, that no, Marius couldn’t see pining if it hit him square in the face like a brick because he was utterly oblivious.)
Courfeyrac opened his mouth, clearly going to say yes.
Enjolras cut in. This was as far as he would let it go, he was happy for his friend but he would not let this jeopardise the organisation.
“No. Are you trying to get us killed, Pontmercy?” By reminding this 'secretary' of how writing him would actually risk losing his newfound sweetheart, Enjolras knew Marius would think twice before doing so.
It was dangerous enough as is, without the meddling of palace workers, without giving out their location and without more liabilities.
Courfeyrac shot him a pleading look, and Enjolras felt a migraine coming.
“Pass your letter to Eponine, she’ll know what to do. Don’t try anything. It wouldn’t be nice if you were outed as a traitor and informant.”
He was sure the sigh he let out was audible but Marius and Courfeyrac looked like dopey idiots at the end of the sentence, despite the threat that was just spoken.
He mock gagged to Combeferre as they watched Courfeyrac place a big, sloppy, kiss on Marius’ cheek in parting. It followed with Marius subsequently going red, blush travelling all the way up to the tips of his ears.
Enjolras thought he looked kind of stupid, honestly.
“Now, if we have had enough of compromising our mission.. Shall we?”
The night ended with the both of them dragging Courfeyrac back down their initial escape route.