Chapter Text
He chose the cafe for its proximity to his apartment, the fact that he knew the owner and could get his wine and spirits at a discounted price. True, he could just as easily get his liquor from a private vendor, but he enjoyed the atmosphere of the cafe. Seeing the other patrons, taking part in their conversations, playing cards, dominoes, gambling. He was a social creature by nature, and he thrived on it.
When his peers had shown up, he’d been happy to interrupt them with contradictions, philosophy, or talk of conquests. At the university, he wouldn’t engage in their discussions, but here at the cafe was his domain. He could not be silenced, and delighted in either winding them up with his devil’s advocacy or driving them to distraction.
He remembered clearly the moment when his peers’ joining him at the cafe became actual meetings of a political nature. He stood by the bar trying to charm Mme. Hucheloup into allowing him another bottle, when a hush had fallen over the room. Turning, he saw the source of their quietened discussion. A man had entered, another student judging by his youth and quality of his garments.
He stared, transfixed. The man was tall without being lanky, cut like a Grecian figure, a sinuous grace to his movements. That head was framed by a tousled mess of golden curls, as though the man cared not for their appearance. The brow was furrowed, the nose proud, and those lips had a sinful fullness that would tempt any holy man.
He nursed his bottle, knowing with certainty he was far from holy.
The newcomer had a certain authority to his bearing, without being arrogant. Speaking to their peers, he gave off an air of confidence and affability. Those in the room hung onto the man’s every word.
In the corner by the bar, wine on his breath, he felt unworthy to be in the presence of this god among men. And then the man's head turned, and their gazes locked for the briefest of moments.
—
What was that?
He glances at the clock on his nightstand, groaning at the illuminated numbers. 4:23. Christ. He’s got his first class in less than five hours, and it’s a studio class at that. Three hours long. Not one he can skip. There's a dull throb at the bridge of his nose from the drinks he had last night.
He shifts on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position again. He pushes his unruly hair back in the hope that it will offer some relief. He’s had some strange dreams before, but what he finds strangest about this one is how mundane it seemed. Nothing like, say, suddenly developing superpowers or marrying your third-grade teacher.
No, instead Raf dreams about a cafe in some city a few hundred years ago (he’s assuming—he doesn’t remember any electricity or other modern conveniences in the dream). And apparently he’s infatuated with some guy he’s never met. It’s just a shame he isn’t real, Raf thinks. Trust my subconscious to come up with someone gorgeous and completely unattainable. There'd been something untouchable about that marble figure, in the way he had spoken to the crowd of his peers.
Raf wakes later than he planned, but he's still able to make it to the studio on time, his drawing pad under one arm and a tote of supplies carried in the other. The only good thing about having such a long class early in the day is he's mostly left to his own devices. With their senior portfolios next semester, the class is mostly a work period.
He can't get the dream out of his mind. Not much may have happened, but it still feels important, though he can't place why. Raf loses himself to his thoughts as he sketches, only to be pulled from his reverie by one of his classmates.
"Who is it?"
He looks down at his paper. It's the man from his dream, he realizes. It's not a perfect likeness—but the furrowed brow is there, the slope of his nose, the proud curve of his lips. The man’s hair is perhaps wilder in the sketch than in the dream, and he realizes he has spent too long considering how this sketch compares to a man that is a figment of his subconscious.
He smiles wryly at the sketch, and says, "It's Apollo."
—
He found out the man’s name soon enough, once Enjolras and the other students began meeting at the cafe more frequently. Under other circumstances the sudden influx of political conversation might bother him, but he couldn’t bring himself to be too bothered by it, not when he was able to see Enjolras on a regular basis.
The only problem was, Enjolras hated him.
Well, perhaps hated wasn’t the best word for it, but it was clear the marble-figured leader of the student group was disdainful of his drinking, his sarcasm and caustic remarks. All of which only served to make him more eager to get a rise out of Enjolras.
He wouldn’t admit that the real reason for antagonizing Enjolras was to see the man’s impassioned responses. Enjolras felt an effortless sort of faith in his cause, which came across in the fervor of his personality, like a bonfire which had the potential to either warm or consume.
He knew he was too embittered to feel such idealism, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the way it seemed to lift Enjolras. The man soared above them without being haughty—indeed, it seemed Enjolras only desired to draw the rest up with him.
It was just a shame some of them were too entrenched in the gutter.
He remembered the first time Enjolras took a seat beside him. He should have known it was with the aim of behaving with derision towards his habits. He took a long draw from the wine bottle, not even bothering with a glass, as Enjolras expounded on the virtues of a sober mind in the face of social change.
For Enjolras, he might have endeavored to change his habits, if Enjolras had asked it of him. But for a cause he saw as futile? It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but rather that he saw little hope of affecting change, and in the face of such ineffectuality he preferred the numbing buzz of alcohol.
And so Enjolras disdained him, and he drank the more for it.
—
That’s another thing. The reason he had two drinks instead of his usual amount. Any time he drinks now, it seems to stir up this strange uneasiness—it’s like an ache, but not a physical one. It’s his senior year. He’s supposed to be enjoying his last few months before he gets his degree, and instead he’s turned into that depressed drunk that everyone can’t stand to be around.
And the worst of it is, he doesn’t know why. So he feels guilty on behalf of his dream-self, over a guy who doesn’t exist? What do the dreams even mean? Why are they so clear, and why can’t he seem to shake them?
Why can’t he seem to shake Enjolras?
The name rolls off his tongue in a way that probably shouldn’t sound so obscene. There are other names too, in the dreams, names he might be able to recall if he focused hard enough. None are as important to him as that name, and the man possessing it.
He’s had to take a more surrealist route in his studio class, just to avoid awkward questions if he keeps drawing the same guy. Not that he hasn’t filled up half a sketchbook outside of class, sketching from memory until the likeness on paper matches the man frequenting his dreams.
In his studio class later that morning, Raf focuses on the imagery in his dream, the memory of watching Enjolras, impassioned as he illustrated his beliefs. Enjolras who figuratively ascended above his fellow students, and only wanted to accord everyone the same view.
The painting is abstract, a piece that is asymmetrically balanced with white-gold hues offsetting the murkier depths. It’s far from finished, but Raf is pleased with it, and his professor compliments the work, offering suggestions while asking what direction he hopes to take for his end-of-year portfolio.
Maddening as they are, at least the dreams seem to be good for something.
—
“What about me?” he spoke up. “Here am I.”
Enjolras looked at him, disbelief evident in his face. “You?”
“I.”
“You indoctrinate republicans! You warm up hearts that have grown cold in the name of principle!”
The words stung, but still he pressed the matter. “Why not?”
“Are you good for anything?”
“I have a vague ambition in that direction.”
“You do not believe in everything.”
“I believe in you.”
He was surprised to realize it was true, as the words left his lips. Enjolras spoke again, saying his name, and for reasons he didn’t understand the knowledge slipped from him before he could grasp it. But Enjolras asked a favor of him, and he willingly threw himself at the opportunity, before being harshly rebuffed.
“Don’t meddle with our affairs. Sleep yourself sober from your absinthe.”
Still he persisted, telling Enjolras he was capable. Still he presented the reasons for giving him this task. He spoke of matters which had little meaning to him, politics that were foreign to him, but he spoke with ferocity, willing Enjolras to give him a chance.
“Be serious,” Enjolras said.
“I am wild.”
Finally Enjolras relented. As if to prove to Enjolras his resolve, he went out and changed into his best waistcoat, a beautifully tailored article.
“Red,” he said on entering, his gaze boring into Enjolras where the man sat. Enjolras wouldn’t notice the suggestion and innuendo he put behind those words, but for emphasis he smoothed the waistcoat’s points across his chest, and leaned down to whisper in Enjolras’ ear.
“Be easy.”
—
He groans, reaching for tissues or something to clean himself with. Nearest is his roll of paper towels that he uses when working on his art projects. He wads the used paper towels and chucks them at the trashcan, then lays back on the bed for several long moments.
This is getting out of hand. It’s bad enough that he hasn’t slept well since the semester began, but coming in his shorts like a teenager over a guy he only dreams about? That’s reaching new levels of strange.
Especially because the dreams are so vivid. He feels as though he’s actually lived them, to the point where he doesn’t know quite where one reality ends and another begins. Enjolras feels real to him. Why would he keep having different dreams about the same person every night unless...
Unless they aren’t dreams.
He shakes his head at that thought. It’s ridiculous, not to mention impossible. He brushes the thought aside. He has to get ready, even though he would like nothing more than to lay in bed and contemplate Enjolras’ full lower lip, and the things his mouth might do if not always directed towards political discourse.
Of course, there was still the small matter of Enjolras disliking him. Not to mention the much larger matter of Enjolras only appearing when he slept.
That day in his studio class, Raf considers the primed canvas before him. A flush creeps into his cheeks at the thought of painting what’s currently on his mind. His dreams have served thus far to be a powerful source of inspiration, and he sees no reason why he should stop that now. And besides, his decision to keep the compositions more abstract has an added bonus. He can sit back and let his peers make of his work what they will, keeping the true meaning to himself, if he wishes.
(He does wish)
I am wild, he thinks, wondering if he had imagined the look on Enjolras’ face right after he said that. Right before Enjolras relented and agreed to try him. Raf can’t say he’s ever been so invested in the outcome of a dream.
Smiling, he selects paint tubes and places a small amount of each onto his palate. Alzarian crimson, cadmium red, vermilion. Then, picking up the palate knife, he begins.
—
Raf wakes, bitterness tight in his throat. It’s no wonder Enjolras dislikes him. All he’d wanted was a task, he’d practically begged Enjolras to trust him, and how had he repaid that trust? By wasting away his time at the Barriere du Maine in drinking and gambling.
He shouldn’t feel this ashamed of a failure that’s only in his subconscious. It’s not like dreams can be controlled, or anything.
But that’s the problem. The dreams feel too real, and there are times he’s aware he’s dreaming even while they happen. It doesn’t change his actions, however, because he always behaves in whatever way seems most natural, given the situation. Then what’s his excuse?
Somehow, in the dream, he’d known he would disappoint Enjolras. Even as he’d dressed for the occasion and made his way to the Barriere du Maine, he’d known he would do something that would prove to be a disappointment. His words would fail to rouse the populace, the people would know he didn’t truly believe in what he spoke, and he would be treated for the fool he was at the Musain. And more, even if he was successful, he could never hope for Enjolras to return his affections.
So he’d hidden his insecurities in his liquor, he’d cajoled the locals into a game of dominoes until he’d detected Enjolras’ presence in the corner of his awareness. And at that point, he’d been too ashamed of his failure to confront Enjolras, so he’d continued playing, all the while hoping Enjolras might call him out. Maybe a confrontation would fix whatever paralyzed him. But Enjolras had slipped away, and the disappointment in the air had been almost palpable.
That day is the first of his studio classes Raf skips. He emails the professor, telling her he’s caught the flu, and he’ll get the work done outside of class. He’s been trying to keep on track for his senior year; his parents have never been over pleased with his decision to be a studio art major. They believe it a wasted occupation, and one that will leave him with little means to support himself. But they’d grudgingly allowed it, under the condition that he complete his degree in the proper amount of time. Any additional semesters he would be on his own, no financial support whatsoever.
Raf has no plans for that. Much as he enjoys the college atmosphere (and the college drinking, until lately), there’s an itch under his skin to be free of all this. A feeling that there’s something more that he’s missing. More to the dreams than what he’s seen.
He’s forgotten something important, but he can’t place what it is.
Somehow he knows things would fall into place if he remembered. He’s off-balance, half stumbling through life as he struggles to find meaning.
He leaves the TV on while he works—he needs the background noise to serve as a distraction from his current piece. It’s a self portrait, the first he’s done since freshman year. It bears no resemblance to him, however, except that it was once vaguely shaped like a human face. He’s obscured all details in harsh, angry brushstrokes. A shade of pthalo green here, for the haze of absinthe in his dream. Into that he blends burnt umber, muddying and distorting the shapes. It’s his shame, his guilt. It’s the knowledge that he will never be good enough, never be the man Enjolras expects him to be.
Words from the television screen are echoing back at him—a celebrity cheated on his wife, some athlete was found to be taking steroids, another two celebrities started dating. Raf makes a disgusted noise, and he jams the button on his remote just as the TV announcer says something about a local grassroots movement to raise awareness. What for, Raf doesn’t catch, as the screen blinks out. It reminds him too much of his dreams, however, and he could do without the constant memento of his failure.
That night, Raf drinks. He doesn’t pull any punches, breaking out the bottle of good vodka. He barely feels the burn as it goes down, his aim to become so wasted he doesn’t dream. He never dreams when he’s that far gone.
He wakes with his throat dry and his head pounding, but he blessedly has no fragments of images from his subconscious.
Raf realizes halfway through the day what’s bothering him most.
His name. He can now remember everyone’s names in the dreams, has seen the faces of the students so often that in some ways they feel more familiar to him than his peers. Combeferre and Joly with their medical texts, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Jehan with his poetry. Others, too, all with vivid personalities. And Enjolras, always Enjolras. And yet...he knows with certainty the name he carries is not his name in the dreams.
It’s such a foolish thing to be bothered by, but the more he thinks about it, the more his own name seems not quite suited to him. Not entirely. And that frightens him, the idea that he may be losing hold on reality if a name in a dream can give him meaning.
He tells himself it’s not cowardice as he drinks again that night. He can’t handle the distraction of the dreams, so he supplements it with the distraction of alcohol, imbibing more until his mind is hazy and his body languid. He falls asleep curled in on himself, unable to decide which reality he prefers, and wishing in spite of the alcohol for sleep to bring some clarity.
“Don’t disgrace the barricade!”
He flinched. Of course Enjolras was angry. He deserved such anger, such reproach, although he would never wish it. He sat at the table, all energy gone, and said. “Let me sleep here.”
There was a cold fury in Enjolras’ eyes. “Go and sleep somewhere else.”
But he was uncowed, looking at Enjolras with gentleness. “Let me sleep here—until I die.”
The disgust on Enjolras’ face was evident—it held no regard whatsoever for him. “Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.”
“You will see.”
He wakes to his alarm with shots ringing in his ears. He blames the hangover. He has class, however, and much as he doesn’t feel like going he doesn’t want to press his luck. He gulps down a glass of water and two aspirin, throws on some clothes, and shoulders his bag.
The wind is chill as he crosses campus, and he tugs the hem of his beanie over his ears against the cold. He picks up his pace—
The blast of cannons was deafening, but it did little to rouse him. It wasn’t until the gunfire inside the cafe ceased that he was wakened from his stupor. That the gunfire had ended could mean only one thing...
He realizes he’s halted his movement when people brush past him on the walkway. He stumbles, recovering himself. He mutters an apology, the words automatic, but his body is trembling. What was that? He feels an unknown dread, not just over the fact that his dreams are blurring into his waking world.
He hurries the rest of the way to the studio, selecting an easel and dragging it to the side of the room. His hands shake as he unpacks his supplies.
Panic overtook him as he climbed the stairs. He couldn’t be too late...he refused to believe it.
Abandoning his normal choice of canvas, Raf instead chooses a piece of paper. It’s a dark beige color with a heavy tooth—perfect for working in pastels. There’s a tremor in his movements as he clips the paper to his drawing board and rests it against the easel. He doesn’t work in pastels often. Any medium has the potential to be messy, but with pastels he always finds the fine powder dust everywhere after he works—on his clothes, in his hair, on the floor. He needs it today, however, needs that tactile element that only pastels can bring.
He almost staggered with relief on seeing Enjolras—alive, but surrounded by soldiers. He didn’t spare a moment in hesitation; he knew what he would do, what he had to do.
The first touch of pastel scrapes across the paper, setting his nerves on edge.
“Take aim!” A soldier ordered.
“Long live the Republic! I’m one of them!” The words were his own, summoned from some strength he did not know he possessed. He shouldered his way past the soldiers until he stood by Enjolras. “Finish us both in one blow,” he said.
Broad swaths of chalky pigment on the page, slowly beginning to take shape. He sets down one pastel and takes up another.
He turned to Enjolras, almost timid, fearful of reproach.
“Do you permit it?”
The look on Enjolras’ face was that of a man who has only recently been defeated, and seen a spark of hope return. His own soul felt lighter for it, and he suddenly seemed to grasp what this was—Enjolras’ lifting him from the mire where they could both soar, even if only for a moment. There was pride there in his gaze, forgiveness, appreciation, and perhaps more—though it came too late.
Enjolras took his hand, strong fingers entwining with his own, and smiled.
He can hear the deafening report of the rifles. He feels the bullets, there and yet not there. He flinches back, recoiling from the nonexistent impact, his grip going so tight that the pastel snaps into fragments in his fingers.
“Raf...is everything all right?” It’s his professor’s voice, muffled as though he hears it from underwater. “Raphael!”
Oh, right. His name—not his name. He gives a start, coming back to reality (is it reality?) with a lurch. He feels dizzy, and far too tense, the pastel fragments crumbling further in his grip. It’s red, he realizes, a deep blood-red that now stains the pads of his fingers. He looks at his paper, and it takes a moment for the image to resolve itself in his mind, but he recognizes what it’s meant to be. It’s Enjolras, pierced through by eight points of crimson.
“Sorry,” he says, realizing his professor is still staring at him, worried. A couple of his classmates have glanced over, and the last thing he wants right now is eyes on him. “I’m just...not feeling as well as I thought I was. I’ll be fine. I think...I think I just need some air.”
He excuses himself, going to sit outside. The air is damp and chill, causing his breath to fog in front of his face. He can’t stop himself from shaking, though it has nothing to do with the cold. Used cigarette butts litter the ground around him, and he longs to light one of his own, except he’s out. He doesn’t think nicotine would help, either.
There’s a dull throb in his collarbone where a bullet pierced him. Where a bullet pierced him. He looks down, grabbing at his shirt, half expecting to see blood pooling there or on his chest or in his side where other flashes of white-hot pain had lanced through him. There’s nothing, of course, just smudges of red now from his fingers and the pastel.
He looks at his hands. The pigment is stained there, oils in his skin mixing with the dense powder pigment. There’s red lining the creases of his fingers and embedded under his nails and seeped into his pores.
He died. He died. He did it for a cause he knew would fail, but he did it all the same. It would have been easy to lie still behind the bar while the final shots rang out around him, but he didn’t. Why? Because he couldn’t envision a reality without Enjolras?
Or was it because after everything, he’d found something to believe in?
I believe in you.
The look Enjolras had given him before taking his hand is seared into his memory, and he takes some small amount of comfort, knowing that at the end Enjolras didn’t hate him for his shortcomings.
But that thought just makes the ache in his chest all the more painful. Because he’s here, now, and Enjolras...
He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but the dreams are real. He can feel it in a way he wasn’t certain of until now, but there’s no denying it. And he recognizes now why he feels so bereft. It isn’t simply that he can’t remember his name. It’s that without Enjolras, he only feels half himself.
He takes a few more minutes to compose himself, still shaky and trembling after the flash of waking memory. Finally, he rises, going back into the studio. Only a couple people look up as he enters. His professor stands by his easel, looking at the pastel drawing. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he approaches.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Better...thanks.”
She looks like she wants to ask more, but thankfully refrains. Instead she nods her head towards the easel. “Can I ask who it is?”
He doesn’t ask how she knows it’s a person. Even with abstraction and exaggerated features, the subject of the drawing is still clearly a figure. And with the smears of red standing out in stark contrast with the rest of the work, he can understand why his professor expressed concern.
“It’s a martyr,” is all he says.
—
Even so, he ends up getting a good grade for his current progress on his portfolio. A number of the faculty express interest in how he continues to develop his work in the coming months. Then classes are over, to reconvene in a month. He doesn’t go home, not really sure if his mind can work around the sense of dual identity with so many childhood memories around. He tells his parents he’s focusing on his work, which they seem pleased to hear, and he promises to try to head home for the holiday.
He hasn’t dreamed about Enjolras in days. Weeks ago, he might have been happy for an end to the dreams that had plagued him incessantly, but now their absence just makes him anxious. A low level panic sets in later, when he’s back at his room. What if he never dreams of Enjolras again? What if their story is done—they died together, nothing more to see? The thought of that fills him with an unspeakable ache, and for once he doesn’t find himself reaching for the liquor bottle to numb it. He knows alcohol would only make it worse.
Instead he turns on the TV to serve as a distraction, and pulls out one of his primed canvases. There are more works he’ll have to complete before the senior show. Only problem is, his mind is drawing a blank. He’s been using the dreams as inspiration for so long, and now the lack of them is making itself known on his creativity.
Whatever. He doesn’t need the dreams to make artwork. He’s been a visual arts major for almost four years, and an aspiring artist for years before that. He doesn’t need memories of a past life...
He remembers. Back then, before he sought solace in his bottle at the Cafe Musain, before he used his cynicism as a shield, there was a time he created things. He had been a pupil of Gros, and between courses at the university he would make endless pages of sketches. Gestures of figures, of the people of Paris, the civil unrest in the streets. Until what he’d seen had hardened his heart with the knowledge that there was little he could do to help people’s suffering.
After the Amis began their political meetings, with Enjolras leading the discussion, he’d attempted to continue his sketches. He’d even done a few of their fearless marble leader, though those had remained hidden in his desk, never to be seen by his friends or the subject of said drawings. He hadn’t kept it up for long, though, too caught up in Enjolras and his inability to be what the man wanted. He remembers...
The reporter on TV is speaking “...will convene over the next several days to decide how much federal aid...” The words blur. It’s about some crisis going on in another country; he misses the details. His attention is instead arrested by the man standing to the side of the reporter, amidst a jumble of other bodies.
It’s Enjolras, and he looks just as radiant, fearsome, and alive as he’s ever imagined him. Enjolras is speaking to the reporter about complacency, about their duties as fellow human beings, about helping others, and it’s all at once familiar and new. He can hardly focus on what it is Enjolras is actually saying, too caught up in the reality of the man, his hair—slightly more tamed than he remembers—his bright and piercing eyes, his proud mouth.
The camera pans back to the reporter, and he lets out a strangled noise, scrambling to move closer to the TV before he realizes he can’t make the camera turn back. The reporter is talking again, however, and he forces himself to focus. The group of students is hosting a rally tomorrow, and they’re inviting members of the community to donate their time or resources to the cause.
He’s already doing quick mental calculations, figuring money to get gas for his bike for the three hour ride it’ll take to get to where the senate convenes, and any additional expenses after that...
And then what, he wonders. Tell Enjolras he’s been dreaming about him for weeks? Tell Enjolras he loves him? Tell him that in another life they died beside one another, holding hands? A lump forms in his throat. There’s no guarantee Enjolras remembers anything. And what could he possibly think of someone coming to him with that outlandish of a story?
There’s a phantom twinge in his collarbone, and he reaches towards it absently. That’s the other thing. He and Enjolras died beside one another, in another time, for another revolution. He’s sure, in this case, Enjolras’ fellow activists have gotten the proper permits to assemble, but that’s no guarantee things won’t become violent. What if this is just history repeating itself, and going to Enjolras condemns them both?
He rewinds the playback on his TV, going back to the first moment Enjolras’ face appears and pausing. He tells himself he needs to be sure it’s Enjolras, but he was certain of that already. The only purpose it serves is to strengthen his resolve. Seeing that face that has haunted his dreams, knowing Enjolras is really out there, he knows he can’t stay away. Not if there’s a possibility Enjolras has placed himself in the path of danger.