Archive of Our Own

If anyone was to ask Grantaire when it started, he would probably make up some dramatic story about the stars aligning and Mercury being in retrograde or whatever the hell that meant. Always dramatic, was Grantaire. He was known for it. In fact, it was probably one of his defining features according to the few people who had managed to get close, which was a very, very small number.

It was almost certainly the reason why his art blog had become so popular, bordering on almost 6,000 subs.

He knew for a fact, it wasn’t because of his art, although he liked to think that after a lifetime of passion, three years in university as an Art Major and scholarship student and being able to somewhat successfully survive on his commision skills (along with part time bussing tables at a local restaurant. Sue him, living anywhere in Paris was expensive, even when his education was comp’d) he wasn’t such a bad artist. No, he was a realist enough to know the draw to his blog wasn’t his actual art. It was his dramatic re-interpretations of just about any art piece his followers chose to ask him about and more to the point, how he would argue the point with anyone who challenged him.

His rants had amused his followers so much, he had even made a Twitter to keep up with the drama and make communication with his subscribers easier. (He would never stoop so low as to call it ‘X’. As far as he was concerned, Elon Musk was an egomaniac and moron who didn’t deserve anywhere near the amount of fame or interest he had)

Just about daily, he would open his socials (usually when he was procrastinating working on his final piece which had taken up his entire life for the last few months) and see he had been tagged in some image of a famous (or lesser known) work and asked for his opinions on it. He had gone on passionate, caps lock filled rants about classical images versus reimaginations, the meanings of certain idolisms, and even explaining how he would have gone about creating a certain image differently. It wasn’t meant to be anything too mean. It was just a bit of fun. A reminder of his first year in university, when he had continuously challenged his bigoted professor until he had made the woman cry. He secretly counted it as one of his greatest achievements and it had given him a certain reputation among his classmates.

Sure he had been pulled up a few times, even blocked from certain people’s pages when things got too heated. He had even been banned for a while from the Louvre page, not that it mattered too much. He preferred the National Gallery anyway. And Grantaire wasn’t so big that he didn’t occasionally concede if the information he was provided warranted it.

But for a lonely, starving (well not starving but not flushed with cash) artist who couldn’t exactly indulge in other vices (he knew he was terrible when it came to drinking. For him, one drink tended to come in ten glasses. It was probably a good thing for his liver he could only rarely afford to indulge), a good debate or argument was just about the best high he could get.

So that morning, when his twitter had chimed while he had been at the small studio provided by his university for their students' use, trying to lose himself in the bright paints of his current work, he had assumed it was just going to be another request to write about an obscure work or artist.

For the last few months, he had been trying to paint a series about Greek gods and heroes in their more recognisable classic style, with the twist that the background must be of modern Paris and had been considering some small details of his current work in progress when the notification arrived.

Dropping the brush into a paint water filled jar, he sighed and grabbed at his discarded phone, opening it with a swipe on the screen. He had no idea that action was about to change everything.

The tweet was simpler. A single sentence.

There’s water in my hair @walkingintherain

‘@artcynicordrunk Looks like he escaped his cage!!!’

16 likes 1 retweet

Below the tweet, there was a candid photograph, obviously taken at a distance from a smartphone, the image shaky and slightly blurry but still clear enough to understand what was going on.

Grantaire peered at the photo. Immediately, he could recognise the long hallways of the National Gallery, one of his favourite haunts when he had the time to waste. He also recognised the work of art on the wall, taking up approximately half of the photograph.

Of course he recognised it. In the art world, you would have to live under a rock not to know it. It had been over the news on and off for about two years now and he had already had many requests to cover it on his blog.

The painting, of a golden haired man in red, standing alone on a wooden structure, surrounded by chaos and soldiers, a gold ray of light shining down on him as he raised his fist in defiance, was very familiar to Grantaire.

The painting itself had been discovered sometime a few years back, during an excavation of some old buildings down on the Rue Rambuteau.

No one had expected to find art down there, let alone one so well preserved. Whoever had hidden it, it seemed like they were trying to save it (or bury it, Grantaire thought) Rumours had run rampant that it was one of the stolen nazi works, hidden in Paris by sympathisers before the liberation, and archeologists had descended on the site, hoping to unearth more treasures.

After a few weeks, most had left disappointed and the topic had turned to who may be the person depicted in the painting, and more to the point, who was the artist. None of the experts had any clues. The style was common for its estimated time of creation and the small signature at the bottom, a stylised, hand written letter ‘R’ giving no hints to the restorationists sent to work on making the image fit for display.

Grantaire knew he should find that amusing. He had always liked the post revolution art styles, often mimicking it for his own work, and his own childhood nickname had been R.

Then again, maybe that was why he had been so reluctant to bring it up on his blog, despite some of his followers hounding him for his opinions. This painting was very similar to something he thought he would have painted, had he been from that period of time and it felt almost like criticizing himself. But that wasn’t the main reason he didn’t touch the topic.

No, he had never told anyone but from the moment he had first seen the painting on the news, it had made him feel uncomfortable.

It wasn’t the style, nor the themes. Both he was comfortable with from his long discussions with his peers in his second year Art History class. Hell, even the subject shouldn’t, in theory, make him so uncomfortable. And yet, put it all together and somehow, Grantaire couldn’t look at the picture without feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and his stomach twist in knots. Almost like someone was right behind him, watching him. Expecting something from him.

And then there were the nightmares that seemed to arrive after he first saw the painting on the news which only seemed to get worse after it was announced that the painting would go on display at his favourite gallery. Nightmares of gunfire and blood and shadowy figures moving through the smoke, both slow and fast. A desperate need to run. To where Grantaire didn’t know. And a warm feeling in his hand, like someone was holding tightly onto him.

It was as if he knew the image. Like he could feel the paintbrush in his hand, smell the scent of the oil paint.

Because of this, he had no desire to look into the painting, now titled ‘Image of a Revolutionary in Red’. No interest in visiting the gallery just to see it, despite the galleries of Paris long being his happy place. So he didn’t.

It wasn’t like he was supposed to look at the art anyway. Whoever had sent him this tweet, definitely didn’t want him to look at the painting but if the caption was anything to go by, at the figure standing before it, glancing up at the artwork.

Grantaire could immediately see why he had been tagged. The young man staring up at the picture could have been a ghost, the harsh lights of the museum shining down on him. But what was truly striking was his similarity to the figure in the painting. It was as if the Revolutionary in Red had simply stepped out of the canvas, changed into a slightly more modern style of clothing before returning to the scene of the crime.

The man, his messy chin length blonde hair and pale skin striking with his red shirt, seemed to be lost in thought as he glanced up at the painting, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black skinny jeans. Although the angle was bad, half hiding the man's face from view, Grantaire could tell he was looking thoughtful, as if seriously contemplating the image.

Grantaire didn’t know why but after looking at the photograph he suddenly wished he was there at the Gallery. Not to look at the art but to find the man. To see for himself if the man was truly a doppelganger of the revolutionary. To see if the man would cause the same strange feelings in him that the painting did.

No, this was so stupid.

Shaking his head, Grantaire shifted the phone in his hands, his finger reaching to the screen to scroll away. Then he paused.

Maybe he should repost it. If nothing else, he could get a little bit more engagement on his blog if he did. His rants about paintings featuring the supernatural tended to do well. The full blown multi part series he had done breaking down the themes in the frescoes found in the Monumental Cemetery of Pisa and how death was depicted as an Angel was still one of his most popular. If he replied to this picture, he was sure some of his subs who followed his twitter would get a kick out of it.

There’s water in my hair @walkingintherain

‘@artcynicordrunk Looks like he escaped his cage!!!’

16 likes 2 retweet

@artcynicordrunk

‘So who should we call? The cops or ghostbusters?’

Once he saw that the reply had loaded into his feed, Grantaire turned the phone off and placed it back on the table. Hopefully it would do alright and he could think about more important things. Like his looming deadline.

Picking up the discarded paintbrush from the jar again, he carefully cleaned it as he contemplated his half finished painting. It was supposed to be of the Greek hero Achilles, still in his armour and bloodied shield after the battle of Troy, walking down the bank of the Seine, surrounded by a modernly dressed crowd of people. The way the hero ignored the modern world and the modern world failed to identify the clear God like being in their midst had, at the time, seemed to Grantaire to be a perfect representation of human nature. No one ever bothered to see what was in front of them unless forced into it. The human mind had a truly remarkable ability to ignore the obvious.

Grantaire had been working on this piece for a while now and was still struggling with it. For some reason, Achilles' face was not visible to him.

Grantaire knew that Achilles should be equal parts beautiful and terrifying. The face of an angel. And yet, every time he tried to picture it in his mind, the look didn’t translate to his brush and canvas.

Although he had arrived at the studio that day, determined to finally overcome this issue, it looked like it wasn’t going to happen. Eventually, he decided to turn to a still unpainted part of the background crowd.

He wasn’t sure why but he had almost absentmindedly started to paint a figure dressed in jeans and a hoodie behind Achilles, their body turning as if to look at the hero. In his initial sketch, he hadn’t had the figure but it felt right to add him now. Maybe he was a modern version of Patroclus, the lover Achilles lost. Or maybe it was just a bystander, overcome by the sight of the golden figure until the rest of the people. Grantaire didn’t know but he liked the small feeling of hope it brought, knowing the figure was there. That someone could see the greatness before them.

Either way, Grantaire amused himself with layering the paint over the figure, trying to form a face which seemed to be almost as difficult as Achilles was.

A few hours later, the painter finally laid down his brush. His arm was aching from the fine details he had spent the last hour adding to the water and he still couldn’t figure out his subject's facial features but he was happy with his progress.

So happy, he had forgotten his tweet until he had cleaned up and grabbed his phone, intending to drop it in the pocket of his jacket before locking up and heading home.

The screen lit up as he bumped it, illuminating the dimming light and startling the painter. He glanced down at the phone.

His twitter notifications were blowing up, people reposting and commenting on the tweet. Some thought his response was amusing, some were taking the opportunity to try and get him to write about ‘Revolutionary in Red’ again and some were trying to call him out on potentially posting a picture of someone without their permission. Grantaire ignored them. What was a little more interesting was the notification he had a DM waiting for him.

From @walkingintherain

Grantaire read and re-read the message, a frown forming on his face.

What the hell did that all mean? And why did this person, with their grey face and anonymous username think he would want this information?

It wasn’t like he was going to go to the gallery with the hopes of finding this guy. Well, he wasn’t. Even if Thursday was his free day from lectures.

But maybe….. No. That was stupid. He may not have any lectures but he still had work on Thursday. He couldn’t afford to call in sick just to go to the gallery for no reason.

Shutting down the phone again, he grabbed his bag off the floor and opened it, throwing the phone into the depths. It landed on a small piece of paper.

Grantaire rolled his eyes as he spied it. He had no idea how those damn flyers kept getting into his bag.

He had seen a few of their creators around campus. One of them was a fellow art student who had one day introduced themself to Grantaire as Jehan. They were a weird mix of art student and wannabe activist and Grantaire had noticed them watching him occasionally when their paths crossed while moving between classes. Occasionally Jehan would even say hello and yet always seemed disappointed when Grantaire returned the greeting for some reason.

Grantaire had no idea what he had done to upset the other student. Initially, he had tried to be friendly but the other had simply smiled and handed him one of the flyers before blatantly running away. Their later interactions had followed a similar pattern of meeting, greeting and fleeing, so Grantaire had taken to steering clear of them and their friends whenever they crossed paths. The disappointment radiating off them felt personal but Grantaire, for the life of him, could not figure out what he had done to cause such a reaction.

And yet, the flyers seemed to somehow always appear around him. Sometimes, they were left out on tables in the lecture halls, sometimes pinned to the bulletin board where the art studio timetables were displayed. Once, he had even found one slipped under the door of his small, student accommodation, which had been mildly creepy. And recently, Grantaire had started to find them inside his bag, if he didn’t guard it carefully every moment of his day. He had no idea who was doing it and if he was the only target or it was a particularly persistent recruiter.

For a recruiter it seems to be, the flyers always highlighting a time and place for this political group, called ‘The Friends of the ABC’ to meet. Grantaire had always tried to stay out of politics. He had the unfortunate ability to see both sides of an argument and the equally unfortunate inability to shut up. It had caused more than a few fights growing up and he had no desire to go and be surrounded by a group of idealists if he could help it. There was only so far you could push a non-violent protest group before they decided that violence actually was an option and Grantaire didn’t really want to be jumped in a dark parking lot if he could help it. He was a fairly decent fighter from a childhood spent boxing but he knew his limits. He would stick to his online arguments, thank you very much. Much less change of him incurring a hospital visit that way.

Choosing to place the flyer on his ‘to ignore for now’ list, Grantaire zipped up and slung his backpack over his shoulder and made his way out of the building, beginning the familiar walk back to his accommodation.

As soon as he was home, he dropped the bag on the floor and fell face first into his bed, falling into sleep and a world of violent dreams.

—---

It was Thursday morning before Grantaire remembered the Twitter message. He had managed to avoid thinking about it for the best part of the previous day, spending the morning busy at his lectures, the afternoon trying to clean up a few personal errands and the evening at his job. But his nights had been a different beast entirely.

For the last two nights, he had dreams. No, more like nightmares. The first night, it had been similar to his usual nightmares. The faceless figures in the smoke.

But that second night, it had gotten so much worse. Instead of silent, faceless figures moving through the gloom, colours were starting to come through, bright clothing covered in red blood. And the screaming had started.

One horrible moment, he had dreamed he was standing before a haphazard wooden structure. Behind the makeshift wall, he could hear someone shouting, in fear, in pain. Then there was a loud crack like gunshots and the voice fell silent.

Another moment, he could see a group of figures, in torn and bloodied clothing, banging and screaming at doors, begging and crying for the occupants to let them inside before a unmistakable click of a lock sliding closed, leaving the figures to their fate.

And then finally, a ringing deathly silence. In that moment of the dream, he was climbing a set of rickety wooden stairs, into a brightly lit room.

The room was full of people, all frozen in place. Most of them were in bright uniforms, the blue fabric at odds with the splashes of blood. But one was different. A man dressed in red, standing in front of a wall, his face a mask of defiance in the bright light of the crowded room.

Grantaire could recognise the face anywhere. It was the face from the painting that had haunted him. The Revolutionary in Red.

The uniformed men suddenly parted and Grantaire found himself moving closer and closer to the Revolutionary.

Suddenly, the frozen man moved, only slightly. His eyes turned from glaring at the uniformed men to meet Grantaire’s. The look in those blue eyes softened slightly, a small twitch of his lips as if the Revolutionary was fighting down a smile, despite the grim circumstance.

“Do you Permit it?” a voice whispered.

Grantaire wasn’t sure where the voice had come from but in the silence, it echoed.

Very slowly, the Revolutionary nodded at Grantaire, as if replying to the ghostly voice, acknowledging and accepting the request.

Grantaire was beside the man now. So close, he could feel the warmth of another body by his. The Revolutionary was burning hot, scorching like the sun. The burning feeling was on his right hand, traveling up his arm.

Finally tearing his eyes from the man, Grantaire felt his body turn towards the uniformed men. Now he noticed the frozen figures had moved, old fashioned muskets leveled towards him.

There was a deafening crack of gunfire and suddenly, Grantaire violently jolted up in his bed, the bang still echoing in his ears, his body shaking with sweat and yet, his hand was still warm, as if grasping onto something. Or someone.

Shaken, Grantaire had glanced at his phone. It was late morning. He had worked into the early hours and had a similar shift that night. Normally he slept in on Thursdays and then went to the studio to work on his art before going to his job but for some reason today, he felt off. He didn’t want to go to the studio. Hell, he didn’t even want to go to work. But he had to. It was just an unpleasant dream after all.

Forcing himself to his feet, Grantaire began to prepare for his day. Throwing on his work clothes, a white shirt and clean black trousers, he grabbed a paint splattered green hoodie from the pile of laundry and threw it on over top.

He tended not to wear his work clothing to the studio, the risk of ruining his one set of nice clothing with paint was too high but deep down, he knew he was not going to the studio today.

Grabbing his bag, he left his room.

Instead of heading to the university, his feet took him in a different direction.

Paris was a huge city but Grantaire had gotten used to moving around it on foot or by public transport. It wasn’t too difficult to navigate when you knew the short cuts.

Finally, after a few hours of walking in circles around some of the more famous landmarks, Grantaire found his feet taking him to the National Gallery. He was used to going there. It was his favourite place after all. But his recent avoidance of the place had meant he hadn’t been inside the building for a few months now.

Glancing down at his phone, he saw that it was already 1:10pm. If the phantom was following @walkingintherains schedule, he would be in there now.

Sighing, Grantaire gave up and made his way towards the entrance.

Stepping inside, he made his way to the front desk to purchase a ticket.

The front desk was occupied by a small, dark haired young woman, the handwritten badge on her shirt reading the name ‘Ponine’. Grantaire had seen her around over the years. She was abrupt, sometimes ill tempered and never really wanted to have a conversation but he had never caused any trouble and she tended to remember he was a regular and leave him alone.

As Grantaire approached, he could see she was on her phone, scrolling what looked like twitter. He couldn’t see much of her feed before she glanced up at him, quickly closing the screen.

“Hi.” He muttered. “Just a student ticket please.”

She looked at him. There was a strange look on her face, unlike her usual scowl. It almost seemed friendly. Then she smiled. Grantaire wasn’t sure he had ever seen the woman smile before.

“Head on in.” She said, thrusting a ticket into his hand and nodding to the entrance.

Grantaire reached for his wallet to pay the fee but Ponine waved it away.

“It's fine. Go on in.” She said.

Grantaire frowned but decided not to argue. Maybe there was a new policy for regular visitors he wasn’t aware about. Or maybe he had accidentally double paid last time he was here and she was trying to even out the balance before he found out and possibly complained. Either way, he wasn’t going to reject apparently free stuff.

Heading through the door and into the gallery, Grantaire slowly made his way down the halls. Although he knew he was going to see a specific painting, he was still trying to pretend there wasn’t an ulterior motive to his visit.

Slowly, moving past the beloved paintings he had spent so many hours admiring, he followed the maze of rooms until finally, he entered the room where the painting he had been trying to avoid was held.

The moment he stepped inside, it was like a rope was tied around him, pulling him inevitably towards the painting in its corner.

The Revolutionary in Red was before him.

The reconstructionists had done a great job, brightening up and restoring the vibrant red paint and fixing up the small amount of water damage at the bottom. The figure in the painting was as realistic and god-like as he had looked in the news. A symbol of power. An Apollo in red.

Grantaire soon found himself standing before it, gazing up at it in awe. The twisted feeling in his stomach had returned and yet, now that he was standing before the painting, he didn’t feel sick or fearful. Instead, he felt comforted. This felt right.

Closing his eyes, he tried to sink into the feeling.

In his mind's eye, he could almost see the man again. But unlike in his dream, which was filled with fear and horror, it was more cozy. Comfortable. He could see the revolutionary in red but instead of standing strong, defiant, he was more relaxed. Seated at a table, surrounded by other young men. They were all smiling, chatting and sharing jokes amongst themselves in the soft candle light. There was smoke but instead of the sharp sting of gunpowder, it was the more comfortable smell of tobacco.

Instead of screaming, the room was filled with laughter.

The revolutionary was looking on with an amused expression on his handsome face before he glanced up. In his mind, Grantaire almost saw the man look at him, a fond yet exasperated look cross his marble like features.

Then he stood up. Grantaire watched the man step back, making his way around the table and towards him. The revolutionary reached out, his hand gripping Grantaire’s elbow, the familiar warmth washing over him.

“Grantaire.” The Revolutionary said in a soft tone.

“Grantaire?” An equally soft voice said in his ear. “Is it you?”

Grantaire opened his eyes. The Revolutionary in Red was still looking down at him from the painting but now there was a warmth on his shoulder. Someone had reached up and was resting their hand on his arm. There was a pricking feeling in his eyes, tears threatening to fall for some reason.

Grantaire could feel his body start to shake as if he was nervous. Slowly, he turned his head.

The phantom was there beside him, his hand on Grantarie’s shoulder, his familiar blue eyes sparkling, his expression both shocked and pleased.

Suddenly, it was as if a wall had broken, images flooding through Grantaire's mind. Of people, places. Things that should not be. A whole life lived and a death endured. Friends, no, family. Warmth and love.

Grantaire felt a tear escape his eyes.

“Enjolras?” He whispered. He reached up, half planning to touch the man's chest, just to know his leader, his Apollo, was really there, standing under the gaze of a painting he, Grantaire, had painted of him in another life.

He hesitated but Enjolras didn’t. Suddenly Grantaire was pulled into Enjolras’ arms. He was still shaking, barely repressed sobs catching in his throat as he wrapped his arms around the solid body of a man who he had seen die hundreds of years ago. A man he had given his own life for.

He pressed his forehead against Enjolras neck, not caring his tears were soaking into Enjolras red shirt.

“I found you.” The leader was muttering again and again against his dark curls. “Finally.”

—-

End

—--

…..Or not quiet

—--

The sun shone down on him as Grantaire made his way through the streets, heading to a place that was both inevitable and exciting.

It was a cold, fresh Saturday afternoon and Grantaire had taken an extra effort to dress for the occasion, a fresh shirt, clean jeans and an old green waistcoat he had found at a thrift store, so similar to the one he had often worn back in his old life and his dark curls left unbrushed and wild. It felt like he was in a second skin, putting on the familiar colours that had once been his comfort and his signature. Unfortunately, he had so far been unable to find a good green coat to match the one he had died in but he knew, to a certain type of people, who and more importantly what he was, was very recognisable.

Unfortunately, the effect was somewhat ruined by the cheap black hoodie he had pulled over his vest but that couldn’t be helped.

Besides, the black hoodie had protected his clothing from the paint during his frantic painting session that morning. Finally, Achilles’ face was revealed to him and he had excitedly captured it that very morning.

Enjolras would probably be unimpressed if he ever saw the work, since it was his own face adorning the heros but Grantaire didn’t exactly plan to show him yet. Then again, he had never planned to show him ‘Apollo Rises for France’ now renamed ‘The Revolutionary in Red’ by the public. That had been why he had hidden it in the basement before their deaths. And now the damn thing was hanging in the National Gallery for everyone to see.

Still, the thought of Enjolras once again inspiring his work, made him smile.

It was amazing that it was only two days since he had been reunited with Enjolras. Since the memories of his old life had been returned. He was still struggling a little, trying to piece everything together but for now, he was looking forward to the future.

His former chief had been almost giddy to be around him during their reunion and Grantaire had learnt, Enjolras had only regained his own memories a month prior, despite having rebuilt the Amis de l’ABC from scratch without any prior knowledge. But it seemed, their friends had been searching for them both for some time.

After being released from Enjolras’ death grip, the two had remained at the gallery, talking in low tones, hands clasped together as if they were both afraid to let go.

Enjolras had explained how it had been Grantaire’s painting that had unlocked his memories, when he had been dragged to see it by Courfeyrac and Combeferre (Yes, the three were still friends and had apparently been friends for years. It was the two who had suggested the name of the club when Enjolras had suggested forming a social justice group in their first year of University. Grantaire was unsurprised to learn Enjolras was three years into a law degree)

According to Enjolras, his two best friends had gotten their own memories of their old life back long ago and had patiently been waiting for Enjolras, their old Enjolras, to return to them. Apparently most of the Amis were back and had together, decided to try and track down their missing companions. However, they had all agreed, anyone they located had to come back to their memories naturally, for fear of harming their loved ones with the return of their traumatic deaths.

That had certainly explained Jehan’s reactions to Grantaire’s occasional greetings when they saw each other around campus. According to Enjolras, Jehan, along with Feuilly and Bahorel, had reported locating him some months ago and taken to watching him, hoping to see some sign that he remembered them.

Grantaire was surprised to find that apparently he had been a topic of discussion among the Amis, especially once Enjolras returned to them.

He was the last of their group. Their missing piece.

He and Enjolras had talked for hours, until the gallery had been about to close. By then, Grantaire had been late for work and Enjolras had missed his evening lectures (apparently part of the reason for his strict time spent in the gallery was because he was visiting between his classes. And he had only been visiting in the hopes that Grantaire would eventually find himself there. Enjolras had been outvoted by the rest of the group when he had suggested he seek Grantaire out personally in the hopes his appearance would unlock the past and they had even refused to tell the Leader where Grantaire lived or even which university campus he was on in fear he would act. Grantaire had to laugh at that.)

Hurriedly, Grantaire had called his work and given his excuses to his manager, promising to get there as soon as possible. Enjolras, rather than separate from the cynic, had followed, almost like a lost puppy as Grantaire had hurried to the restaurant and had found an out of the way table to commandeer, ordering a light meal and spending most of Grantaire’s shift working on a laptop he had been carrying and occasionally smiling as Grantaire moved past to drop off dishes and remove plates from tables. When it started to quiet down, Grantaire had even found a few minutes to sit down with him and talk again.

Despite the late hour, once his shift was over, Enjolras had insisted on walking Grantaire home and making sure they exchanged phone numbers, only agreeing to leave when Grantaire had promised to message him again the next day.

Of course, they wouldn’t be Enjolras and Grantaire if they didn’t have a small fight. Enjolras had mentioned in passing as they walked home, that he was going to message everyone and let them know R was back.

Grantaire had frowned. As much as he adored his friends and Enjolras’ mention of them made his heart beat faster, it had only been a few hours since the return of his past life and he was still struggling in his mind to piece together how all the new memories fitted together. As much as he longed to see his friends, he knew that seeing everyone so soon would be mentally exhausting and he needed to prepare for the inevitable storm coming his way. He needed time to process a whole life and the trauma of his execution. He had said as much to Enjolras who had pouted and looked displeased.

Their friends had been waiting so long to see him, Enjolras had pointed out. It was cruel of Grantaire to deny them, he argued. They had their usual back and forth, slipping into their old habits of bickering before Grantaire had made a crack about consent which had shut Enjolras right up but he could tell the leader was annoyed. With a huff of irritation, Enjolras had relented and agreed to Grantaires request and instead insisted that they meet up again that weekend.

Enjolras had told Grantaire there was a meeting planned for that weekend and he wanted him there but if Grantaire didn't want to come, could he at least allow Enjolras to come around to his place after the meeting concluded, to tell him the details?

Grantaire had been surprised by the request. Now he was piecing together his memories of his last life, he could remember how passionately in love with Enjolras he had been (and still was, if he was being brutally honest with himself) So passionately, that he had laid down his life to ensure Enjolras was not alone in his final moments. He knew he had made his feelings very clear in those last moments together, their hands clasp tight together, the only sign of their fear. But even with that unsettling history, he had never imagined Enjolras had felt anything but pity and possibly a reluctant feeling of friendship for him in either of their lives.

Hell, he could guess the blonde was probably feeling elated at the moment, now that they had reunited but he wasn't expecting Enjolras to stick around once it wore off.

Still reeling from the surprise request, he nodded in agreement, wondering if the other man would keep his word when Enjolras had stepped forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

“See you this weekend Grantaire.” The other man had said before turning and disappearing, leaving Grantaire stunned on his doorstep.

Grantaire had spent most of that night trying to deal with his confused feelings, both about the returned memories and Enjolras actions. He had half expected Enjolras to realise his mistake and block him but it appeared the leader hadn't gotten the message. Enjolras had almost immediately started texting Grantaire that night to confirm he had arrived safely at his own home and all through the next day, mostly just about random topics, almost like he was trying to once again engage Grantaire in their old bickering. He didn't bring up the kiss and Grantaire was terrified to mention it, just in case it had turned out to be a moment of regret.

And that very morning, at an insanely early hour of the morning for a weekend, Enjolras had sent Grantaire a link. A google calendar reminder to a meeting scheduled that afternoon. A meeting for the Amis.

Grantaire hadn’t replied to the reminder but he could read between the lines and almost felt Enjorlas desperation for him to attend.

And Grantraire wasn’t going to lie. Although he had pointedly pushed the kiss from his thoughts, he had used the last two days to shift through the old memories. He knew seeing everyone was going to be an ordeal but he also knew he was ready. Still, he wouldn’t be the man they knew if he didn’t announce his return in as dramatic a way as possible.

So that morning in the studio, after finally finishing up his painting (he had gotten a small thrill at putting his signature on his work. It wasn't his old one, the stylised ‘R’ that was still visible on the painting in the National Gallery but it wasn't just his full name, which adorned all his modern work. It was a mix, the same R incorporated into his name, symbolising a mix of the old him and the new) he had finally pulled the flyer out of his bag, taking note of the address and time.

It looked like once again, the group had commandeered a local cafe to host their meetings.

A plan started to form.

It would be amusing if he arrived a few minutes late, slipped into the back of the room and kept his head down. If these meetings were anything like their old ones, it would be a simple task to avoid anyone's notice. Then all he had to do was wait for Enjolras to make some wild points and he could completely derail the conversation by pointing out the flaws. He had done it many times before, in his past life and it would be an amusing way to announce his return. He had no doubts Enjolras would be equally thrilled and annoyed by that.

So, after finishing his work in the studio, he made his way to the small cafe listed on the flyer.

From the outside, it looked like any other but once he stepped inside, it was like returning home after a long journey. He could almost feel the old Musain around him, even with the cafe’s modern adornments.

The place wasn't exactly crowded but it had a decent amount of people, seated at various tables and talking quietly. A sign on the front counter pointed to a door to the side where the name of the group was pinned, directing any new recruits inside. As Grantaire stepped inside, he spied the back of Courfeyrac’s head as the door closed behind him.

He glanced down at his watch. He still had a few minutes before the meeting started. Knowing Enjolras, he and most of the others should already be in the room, going over last minute discussion points. Grantaire had time.

Making his way to the counter, he ordered himself a coffee. His memories returning had not made for a restful few nights of sleep and he could use the caffeine boost. The barista behind the counter was not someone he recognised and he guessed she was just a long suffering employee.

He had found it amusing when, as a jest, he had asked for an Irish coffee and the woman, without batting an eye, had pulled out a bottle of alcohol and poured a generous serving into his cup.

Stepping to the side, he waited for his coffee to be made and browsed the pastry display.

He was eyeing off a particularly decadent looking cake when he heard the door open behind him and laughing voices break through the quiet murmurs.

Grantaire fought back a smile as he angled his head to watch the new arrivals in the reflection of the display case. He bit his lip.

Back in his past life, he would be laughing and joking with them. But that would give the game away.

Jehan, Feuilly and Bahorel had all entered, talking loudly. Jehan was pressed against Feuilly’s side and Bahorel was wildly gesturing as he told the friends a story. Instead of making their way past Grantaire and into the room like he expected, they turned to the counter. Grantaire ducked his head, trying to avoid notice as the others loudly gave their order to the barista.

Grantaire’s hearing seemed to zero in on them, listening intently to their conversation as Bahorel laughed about some arrogant guy he had gotten into a heated argument with, the other two egging him on between placing orders.

There were suppressed giggles as Jehan ordered an elaborate coffee, filled with sugar and Feuilly teased them about their ‘American’ taste.

The trio moved closer, Jehan loudly protesting their choice of oat milk was healthy and Grantaire couldn't hold his tongue anymore.

He leant over, head inclined towards the group.

“You know, oat milk is the most unhealthy of the alternative milks. It has more sugar than even normal milk.” he said loudly enough to catch their attention. They all fell into a shocked silence.

“At least that's what I have read. But what do I know? I'm just a struggling artist.” Grantaire continued, shrugging as if to make his point as he turned away from the group.

There was a pregnant pause before Grantaire heard an ear splitting scream and felt something collide with his body. Jehan had detangled themself from Feuilly’s grip and thrown their body towards Grantaire, the force of the blow making them both stumble. Thankfully Bahorel was right behind Jehan, the largest member of the little group grabbing both and wrapping his arms around them, pulling Grantaire back to his feet and into a strong bear hug.

“Oh my god R!!!” Jehan was saying loudly, gripping tightly to any part of Grantaire they could reach. “It's you! It's really you!”

“Fuck R!” He heard Feuilly say loudly behind them, the third member of the group trying to also grab any part of Grantaire not currently held by Jehan or Bahorel.

There was a bang of a door opening suddenly and Grantaire heard another voice say “What's going on? Should I call the police?”

It was Combeferre, standing at the door with Joly behind him. Grantaire felt the other man's eyes fall on him, his voice faltering.

“Grantaire?” he asked.

The next few moments were chaotic as Grantaire found himself physically dragged into the back room by his friends. Jehan had become a human growth, refusing to release his arm as the others surrounded him, peppering him with questions. Everyone wanted a hug, a handshake, a greeting.

All except for one.

At the far end of the room, Grantaire could see Enjolras standing beside a screen displaying the topics of his meeting. Unlike the rest, he hadn't approached and his face was twisted in a frown but Grantaire could see in his eyes, the glint of amusement.

Finally, after a lot of shouting over each other and a little bit of sobbing (from Jehan) and Grantaire developing a limpet (again Jehan. Grantaire suspected surgical intervention would be required to remove them from his arm at this point) Enjolras banged down on the table, silencing the group.

A few of their friends had tried to argue, to beg Enjolras to end the meeting now so they could all bask in the joy of their reunion but Grantaire had finally managed to get a word in, voting for the meeting to start.

So he had quickly been dragged to spot on the old couch someone had managed to fit in the corner of the room as Enjolras cleared his throat and began his prepared talk.

It was so familiar, even if everyone was wearing jeans, the noticeable lack of candles, Courfeyrac was wearing modern glasses and they were showing their talking points on a large screen. In the 1800s or here, this would always be his home.

Grantaire relaxed against the couch, sandwiched between his friends, his chin resting against Jehan’s head as he watched Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre pull up their talking points, getting more and more vocal as they tried to speak over each other to emphasize a point.

Suddenly, he felt the soft buzz of his phone in his pocket.

Careful not to dislodge any of his friends, he pulled it out and turned on the screen. There was a message on his Twitter. From @walkingintherain.

Grantaire opened it, careful to keep his phone tilted so Enjolras wouldn't see he was distracted and get annoyed.

On his screen was a photo, sent by the anonymous person.

It showed him and Enjolras, their backs to the photographer, heads turned towards each other. They were standing hand in hand before The Revolutionary in Red, the painted figure of Enjolras looking down on them. In the light, it almost looked like the figure in the painting was smiling in approval at them.

He glanced up, eyes sweeping the room. A figure caught his eye. On the other side of the room, Eponine sat, her eyes fixed on him. She gave him a small smile, so similar to the one she had given him in the gallery, before he had remembered who he was, as she slipped her own phone into her pocket.

Grantaire smirked as he pulled up the keyboard on his phone and, one handed, typed out his reply.

‘I call this one ‘Do you Permit It? ….I do.’

Then he closed his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, turning his attention back to Enjolras. Enjolras, who he would later learn would keep his promise and follow him home, who would bicker and joke with him the whole walk back and who would once again, lightly kiss him at the end of the night with the promise of more to come in the future.

He glanced over at Enjolras, bathed in the soft glow coming from the room's windows. His Apollo, his Achilles, his Revolutionary in Red. And always, his Light.

End (Again)