Disclaimer: Victor Hugo owns Les Miserables and I own very little.
A/N: I am very much aware of the fact that I should not be doing this. There are a million other fics that I have not finished so I should not be starting this at all. The only silver lining is that it won't be long. The thing is, I happened to watch Shrek 4 and Shrek and Fiona reminded me so hilariously of Grantaire and Enjolras that I couldn't resist. This brings me to a few important warnings: First of all THIS IS SLASH. There, said that. Second of all, this fic is essentially a fairytale so read it as such. It will have no regard for French history and relatively little regard for the book. I realize that when authors say that it's usually an excuse for bad writing. I have nothing to say to that except see for yourself how good or bad I am. Now on with a little first chapter.
"… is not enough! We need more weapons. The time is drawing near to…"
There was a loud crash from across the room. Enjolras, irritated that his speech had been interrupted, shifted his gaze from the eager faces of the young revolutionaries to a certain table in the corner. There, a familiar drunkard who they had all assumed to be asleep was now suddenly on his feet. He surveyed his surroundings with wide eyes. There was a broken bottle of absinth on the floor next to him. He had knocked it over when he had woken up with a jolt, resulting in the noise which had caused Enjolras to stop in mid sentence.
The young leader glared at the mess on the floor and the person responsible and his face contorted in a grimace somewhere between anger and disgust.
"If you insist on being present at these meetings, winesack, you will kindly refrain from making yourself noticeable."
Grantaire blinked a few times as if genuinely surprised by the ferociousness of the comment. He seemed truly offended which was a novelty to the others. He normally remained unaffected by such remarks.
"Enjolras…? Where…? What are we all doing he- Mon Dieu, am I really back?"
There was a chuckle among the students.
"Yes, well, welcome back to our planet, friend," Feuilly greeted him merrily.
Enjolras, choosing to ignore the disturbance, turned resolutely back to face his audience.
"As I was saying…"
"What year is it?" Grantaire asked, once again interrupting.
There was a collective sigh. The leader of the ABC closed his eyes and a look of concentration appeared on his face, as if he was refraining from lashing out at what he considered to be an intruder to their meeting.
"It's 1832, Grantaire," Combeferre answered calmly, "and I really advice you not to interrupt anymore. Enjolras is not in the mood for it tonight. And you, Enjolras, save your anger for the barricade tomorrow."
"To- tomorrow?" Grantaire uttered. "But…"
Combeferre put a finger to his lips, silencing him.
Grantaire's eyes remained wide and astonished, as if he could not believe his predicament, but he slowly sank back to his chair without another word.
"As I was saying," Enjolras began again, "now that Lamarque is dead, the people of Paris will realize it's time to rise…"
Grantaire listened with an expression of utter bewilderment as plans of the upcoming revolution were laid, discussed and repeated. For as long as twenty minutes he stayed quiet. Then a seemingly innocent phrase from Enjolras seemed to pull him from a daze.
"Courage my friends! By this time tomorrow we will be at the barricade!"
"No!" Grantaire shouted, jumping up and this time overturning the table. "No, this isn't how it's supposed to go! You can't really think that you can start a riot now and be successful! It took us two more years to organize everything! Don't you remember?"
To his credit, Grantaire didn't shrink away when his blond Apollo crossed the room in wide strides to stand before him and grabbed his collar. Enjolras' face now expressed rage worthy of a Greek god.
"Out! Out of here, you worthless drunk! I am in no way obliged to listen to your pathetic ravings! Go home to sleep it off and leave us be."
"No, Enjolras, hear me out, I am not drunk! I have not been drunk in years!"
This caused another burst of laughter from the students. At the same moment Grantaire happened to look at his feet and when he saw them, he promptly dropped back into his chair. Shaking his head Combeferre stepped in, gently pushing Enjolras away and swinging Grantaire's arm around his shoulders to lift him up.
"Come, my friend. I'll take you home."
Grantaire wriggled free and backed away a few steps. He was evidently capable of standing on his own two feet but, judging by the disbelieving gaze he was directing at his shoes, that fact surprised him. He gave the room and the people in it one last wild look and exited the café in a rush.
Feuilly scratched his head.
"What's the matter with him?"
"The usual," Enjolras said dismissively. "His green fairy is making him hallucinate."
"It's strange though…" Combeferre muttered.
"Did you smell any alcohol on his breath?"
Enjolras thought about it.
"No. And I was inches away from his face. We must have gotten so used to the smell that we don't feel it anymore. Good riddance. Now come back to the table."