Chapter Text
Grantaire leant against the window of the train watching the British weather do its best to make him feel as miserable as possible.
So far there had only been one highlight to this trip. The old cow three seats behind and the miserable bastard in a suit two seats in front had both been giving him filthy looks since Derby. He normally wouldn’t travel First Class but he had a headache and needed the peace and quiet. They obviously disapproved of ‘his sort’ cluttering up their precious exclusive carriage. Their expressions of horror when the ticket inspector had clipped his ticket and thanked him had been entirely worth it.
Left to his own thoughts, he stared out at the grey and wretched landscape that rushed past. He knew in his head that the science of rain was the same here as it was in America, Russia, Italy or France, but his heart hated it, hated the fact that he was back.
He had managed to successfully avoid this damp little island for five years. He'd gone out of his way to avoid it, deliberately picking flights that took him via Paris rather than London or Manchester whenever he travelled. He travelled a lot.
The last year had seen him mostly in Russia and the Eastern Block, apart from a two month stint in Venice. Then he had received word from his grandfather; it was the only thing that could ever tempt him back.
He hadn’t been able to return at once. He had responsibilities, a contract to renegotiate. His agents had been as compromising as possible (he knew they were unduly lenient with him, were prepared to put up with an awful lot) but still it had taken another four months before he was able to come back.
As the train paused at Leicester he turned away from the window, away from the poster advertising an installation at the Pace Gallery in Soho. One of his.
+
The acclaim for his work had taken him completely by surprise. When he had gone out to the States he had expected to spend his three years there indulging in his art before being unceremoniously ejected, hopefully with a degree, and expected to try and fumble his way through the rest of his life as best he could.
That life had taken an entirely different direction in his second year when he was approached by a representative of JVJ during an independent student exhibition he had helped to organise in an abandoned warehouse by the river. At first he had scoffed. What did JVJ, the mysterious yet highly renowned philanthropist and gallery dealer, care for some little student experiment in Providence, Rhode Island, for fuck’s sake!
Little was known of the eccentric, who preferred to send agents in his place to commander his Darlings, his Congregavit. But his reputation was enormous and highly respected at an international level. It was the sort of reputation that opened all kinds of interesting doors. Interesting to everyone, that is, except Grantaire.
He sent the representative on his way with his traditional arbitrary use of medieval English vulgarisms, much to the horror and dismay of his lecturer when he found out.
“You told a JVJ rep to fuck off?” His screech could be heard in the faculty lounge. Grantaire had just shrugged.
A week later he had found a young woman leaning against the door frame of his campus studio, waiting for him. He had frowned at her, pulling all his defences up. He didn’t know it, but he had just met one of the most important and valuable friends he would ever have.
She explained that she was from JVJ, not a rep as such, more of a partner. She wanted to convince Grantaire to come on board. He outright laughed.
“You lot haven’t done your research,” he scorned, unlocking the door to his studio. She had followed him in, gazing around at his work, most of it unfinished. He noticed how she really looked at the things around her, carefully analysing, her head tilted slightly to one side, a strange knowing look playing around her face.
“I think we know exactly what we’re getting into with you,” she asserted, turning to face him, folding her arms.
“You’re difficult, you’re demanding and you’re a pain in the arse. You’re a nihilist and you prefer to be left alone. But your work is good. Better than good. It’s challenging, dark and unapologetic. It’s just what we want.”
It took a few more meetings, quite a few drinks and one last row with his lecturer before he finally agreed. JVJ became his gallery dealer, sponsor and beneficiary. He had a couple of ground rules before he signed his life away. The first and most important of these was that everything would be displayed under the pseudonym R. The second was that he would create whatever he wanted in whatever medium. He was happy to take on board requests and fulfil any quota they required so long as he had final say as to what was displayed with his name on. The final one was that he wouldn’t have to deal with anything. The partner, Cosette Fauchelevent, was more than happy to oblige.
For the first year he had remained extremely suspicious of the whole thing, expecting the rug to be pulled from under him as soon as the next Darling came along. His philosophy was that if the old man wanted to throw money at him for no reason at all, well, who was he to complain? What actually happened was worse.
It started with The Mind of Thetis which, really, wasn’t even his best work at the time, just something he had knocked together. JVJ included it in an exhibition in New York. Then it went to Pennsylvania, then to Washington, before travelling on to California. Then he heard it had gone up to Vancouver in Canada.
His bank manager suddenly started being nice to him. The faculty staff kept inviting him to events, trying to introduce him to people. He rang Cosette to ask what the hell was going on. She said she’d handle it.
In the end, being part of the Congregavit had proven to be a good decision, one of his better ones. JVJ was a valuable ally and he had given Grantaire more artistic freedom than he could have imagined.
The year after he graduated, his Breakout series was exhibited in Europe. These works were based on the King’s Park Lunatic Asylum in Long Island which he had broken into on a trip to New York in his first year at Uni. It had kick-started his obsession with abandoned and derelict buildings within urban landscapes.
First the series went to the UK to be displayed in Leeds, Liverpool and then a quick stint in London. Then it headed out to Eastern Europe where it turned out he was quite the cult figure.
Completely baffled by people’s interest, he agreed to travel out to the Eastern Block, to take part in installations and to continue creating pieces based on his experiences out there. His Pripyat collection was, understandably, especially popular in Ukraine. The Promyshlennyi series was his most recognisable work, with his 'Floor of Books' painting becoming his most successful art piece to date. The image had been inspired by a deserted classroom in the abandoned Russian city.
In the wreckage of the former Soviet Union, he continued to cultivate his alter-ego, determined to stay as far out of the limelight as possible. Wherever he went, he always left a piece behind, signed with his famous rebus. These were displayed by local galleries as a badge of honour: “R was here!”
R became a whisper, a myth, a legend on the independent art scene. He worked to separate the man from the artist, suddenly introducing himself wherever he went as Grantaire, sacrificing his more comfortable identity for the sake of a quiet life.
His trip to Venice had almost been disastrous. After the honest, bleak landscapes of Russia, he found the fussiness of the Italian city to be grossly decadent and distasteful to his nihilistic appetites. He was frustrated and hardly produced anything. A small exhibit of works was displayed at the Punta della Dogana gallery to some amused interest from the locals.
When he got on the plane to Hungary he promised himself he would never again return to that self-satisfied over-hyped marshland in disguise.
He entertained himself by keeping up with the latest gossip regarding R.
R had quickly become its own entity, with the internet outdoing itself with increasingly absurd and unlikely conspiracy theories. He had a whole website dedicated to it, cringingly called ‘Rtist’. Several people claimed to know the “real R”. He had died at least three times and had apparently sired any number of children all over the world. One small group were adamant that he was Prince Harry, who famously had achieved an A Level in Art. Their evidence was that the R stood for royal. This amused Grantaire greatly.
His personal favourite, and one that he actively encouraged by trolling the forum where it had started, claimed that he was actually a woman forced to assume an ambiguous identity in order to get the credit for her works in a predominantly sexist society. Something about the tone of the argument reminded him of Enjolras.
Enjolras, who he hadn’t properly spoken to in five years. Enjolras, who always sent him an email on his birthday and at Christmas (he did the same, every year, without fail). Enjolras who apparently had been at the terminal that day, as he was so reliably informed by his grandparents, but had arrived too late. When he’d read that email he had very nearly got on the next plane home. Nearly.
+
Grantaire took his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his emails to find the address of the estate agents that Cosette had sent him. Cosette had been an absolute angel in the past few months. In the three years they had worked together they had inevitably become close friends as well as colleagues. However she had gone above and beyond all duties for him recently and he owed her a tremendous debt.
It was Cosette who flew all the way to Budapest to be with him when he got the news that his beloved grandmother had cancer. It was Cosette who fixed his contract so that he would be able to work from London for the foreseeable future.
Cosette had arranged a charity exhibition and auction of his work in York for Cancer Research, something positive to do while they waited for everything to be finalised. That exhibition was the first time he really paid attention to what other people thought about his art and it struck him pretty hard. He told himself it was for charity, that they were merely donating to a worthy cause but the staggering amount of money raised that night could not simply be explained away like that.
People had come from all over the country, all over the world, to get the opportunity to own a genuine R.
He had gotten spectacularly drunk that night, even by his standards. He was grateful that Cosette was staying with him at the time. She made sure he was tucked up safe in bed with a bowl, a glass of water and two painkillers by his bed.
She had subsequently sought out and purchased a studio in London on his behalf. This studio had a double purpose. Grantaire would be able to indulge in some 'real life' and he planned to set up a photography workshop, a little something to keep him occupied. R could then continue providing pieces for JVJ as agreed. She told him the studio was his, bought with his money and in his name. It was not part of the JVJ Empire. He felt extremely grateful for that.
Arriving in Saint Pancras International, he heaved his large rucksack onto his shoulder and headed out into the wet and weary city.
+
The estate agent eyed him suspiciously and, to be fair, he didn’t blame her. He wasn’t wearing his suit, he had no umbrella so his hair was a complete shambles and he looked like he had just fallen off a park bench.
After presenting his passport as a form of identity she finally handed over the keys to his new studio. He played with them in his pocket, memorising their outline as he hailed a taxi to take him to his new place of work.
He stared up at the building in awe. It was his, actually his. He’d never had anything like this before. It was overwhelming. Turning the key in the lock he felt a chill spill through him. It was perfect.
It was separated into three clear areas. The first area had a front space ideal for a reception, with a door that led through to the rear which could be used as a photography studio. Up the stairs was a small space just right for an office and staffroom area with a little kitchenette. Across the hallway was a larger studio space with big windows and a skylight. It was faultless. Grantaire owed Cosette a huge bunch of flowers for her epic choice.
He tried the light switches and taps. No electric and no water. That was a bit of an issue. He’d be able to get them switched on, no problem, but right now he had no place to stay. He had hoped to crash in his studio but while he was prepared to put up with a lot, even he had his limits and a lot of those revolved around the need for heat, light and water. He took out his mobile and googled for local hotels.
+
There was so much to sort out. The first thing he desperately needed was a smoke and a coffee, perhaps with a little nip of something for focus. Then he’d make a list.
He hated dealing with things, but he honestly couldn’t expect Cosette to fix his whole life, especially from the other side of the Atlantic. No, his first job would be to advertise for a Personal Assistant, someone who would be able to organise his extraordinarily complicated life, put up with him and make sure he made it to places on time and in appropriate attire. It was not a job for the faint hearted.
He arranged for an advert in a number of London free papers and moved on to his next task; he needed a roof over his head.
He had only been back in the country for three weeks. He had no credit history here, or employment history. He had no English referees, though he was sure JVJ would provide one if he was desperate. He knew it was going to be a nightmare trying to find somewhere to live.
Although he could have easily afforded to buy somewhere, it would have taken far too long for his liking, as well as the added risk that he didn’t know how long he would be here. Buying a studio was one thing, committing to an actual house was quite another.
He hadn’t shared with anyone since his first year at Rhode Island. Living with a group of people his own age had rubbed his corners off a bit, but not much. He still was extremely guarded about his personal space and privacy. He was, however, a bit more relaxed about making plans. Working with Cosette and JVJ had also made him appreciate the difference between control and structure which made him a lot easier to interact with.
Which reminded him; he needed to register with a doctor at the first available opportunity to get his medical records sent over and his prescriptions filled at the nearest pharmacist. He hadn’t been able to bring much through customs due to the regulations so he only had about a week’s supply left.
This whole moving countries lark was far too much like hard work. He grabbed his keys and headed out to find a pub. Halfway down the road he paused at a newsagents to pick up a couple of local papers. At least then he could start solving the housing situation.
Sitting in a quiet corner, pint in hand, he ran his fingers down the list of likely rooms. A lot of them called for young professionals and he wasn’t entirely certain that he fitted that category. He also wasn’t sure he wanted to live with people who thought he might be a young professional, for that matter.
He called a few numbers but found they had either all long been taken or required some references or paper work from previous landlords. Two pints later he was feeling quite desperate. It was as though this fucking city didn’t want him living in it.
He flicked through his call history. He had made thirty-seven calls. He huffed impatiently. He decided that he would make a maximum of thirteen more calls before he went back to Sheffield, writing off the whole thing as a bad idea.
The first three failed to answer his call at all. The fourth one sounded very apologetic indeed but the flat had just been rented out only minutes before. Call number five was even worse as the woman didn’t sound at all apologetic and hung up on him briskly. He tapped in the number for call number forty-two and held his breath.
A light voice answered at the second ring, just as Grantaire had taken a mouthful of beer.
“Please,” sputtered Grantaire, quickly covering a cough, “for the love of all that I don’t believe in, tell me the room is still available!”
There was an uncertain pause on the line, before the voice, which was evidently trying to suppress a giggle, replied the affirmative. Relief and jubilation washed through Grantaire.
“Oh thank fuck for that!” he exclaimed, drawing some looks from the bar, “It’s mine. I claim it!” he began scrabbling around for a pen to circle the advert in the paper with stars and fireworks. There was a delightful chuckle from the other end of the phone as the voice protested that he hadn’t even seen the room yet. Grantaire was not to be swayed.
“Don’t care,” he said, his free hand making a sweeping gesture across the table, barely avoiding spilling his drink. “It could be a cupboard as far as I’m concerned. I’m not even sure about the requirement for windows and a door at this stage.” The happiness had definitely gone to his head. Who knew what his potential new housemate must have thought.
Luckily he still seemed to be laughing easily. Grantaire felt drawn to his laugh, this easy warmth that flowed through his speaker. He leant forward, as though making a confession to the phone.
“Do you know you’re the forty-second person I’ve rung today about rooms for rent?” Grantaire thought he might have fallen in love a little at the next moment when the enchanting voice made a Hitchhiker’s Guide quip. He had to have this flat. He needed this flat. Everything about this felt good, somehow, a feeling he wasn’t used to experiencing all that often.
The other person didn’t sound all that convinced and, to be honest, Grantaire could understand. He could come across a bit strong, especially if he was starting to cycle. Oh he prayed to non-existing entities that he wasn’t about to cycle, that it was just the situation, the beer, the new studio, the fact that he was back in this horrible little country.
“I assure you, I’m the perfect flatmate,” he lied. Well, they’d find out soon enough. Judging by the post code the flat wasn’t that far away from his studio which would be a useful bolt-hole if things got rough.
In the next moment they were arranging to meet at a pub so they could all have a preliminary chat. As far as Grantaire was concerned, it was a done deal and he put the phone down thoroughly satisfied.
+
He’d calmed down a bit by the time he made his way into the designated pub at the appropriate time. He’d spent the afternoon sorting out a few more details with the studio and had retired to a café with wifi so that he could Skype Cosette to let her know he had got his keys ok and that progress was being made with housing and things. She seemed pleased.
“Have you emailed him?” she asked, right at the end as they were winding the conversation down. Grantaire sighed. He didn’t need to ask who she was talking about. He bit his lip, pulling his hand through his curls defensively.
“I will. Just, not til I’m settled. I’d like to know where I am before I make contact.” She nodded and didn’t press him any further.
The pub was quiet. He went to the bar and ordered a pint. He was still enamoured with the joy of being able to order real ale again. He had been thoroughly bored with the American lagers, although he had approved of the many Russian spirits to be enjoyed in the East. But real ale made him think of cold Yorkshire winters and good home cooking.
He cast a suspicious eye over the occupants of the pub, looking out for any likely housemates. In the far corner were two men about his own age, one stocky and well-built with light brown hair that tumbled about his head in loose waves. The other was slightly taller, with strawberry blonde hair shoved up into an untidy bun, with gleaming green eyes that he could appreciate from all the way over here. This was surely Jehan, the owner of the voice from earlier.
Jehan smiled and waved him over.
“Grantaire?” He nodded the affirmative, holding out his hand to shake first Jehan’s slim, delicate fingers and then the other boy’s firmer palm. “This is my boyfriend, Courfeyrac,” they smiled at each other with a polite nod. “And you’d like to come and live in our spare room.”
“Yes, definitely.” He sat down in the empty chair, wondering why he suddenly felt nervous. Jehan produced a piece of paper from his bag and passed it over the table. Grantaire glanced at what appeared to be a list. Jehan smiled sweetly at him, but there was an undercurrent in his eyes that belied him. Grantaire swallowed.
“Is this some kind of hazing?” he asked uncertainly, because if it was, the last miserable lot who had tried to haze him…
“Not exactly,” Courfeyrac spoke at last. “We’ve had a few… issues. We’d like to know now about any problems we might encounter so that we don’t waste your time. Or our time, come to that.”
Grantaire looked back down at the list.
1) Do you eat carrot soup?
2) Do you intend on burning any joss sticks?
3) Do you respect the poetry of others no matter where it has been expressed?
4) Are you sexually attracted to Courfeyrac?
5) Do you have any intention of trying to sleep with Courfeyrac?
6) Do you have a problem with the poetry of e e cummings?
7) Do you have a problem with the poetry of e e cummings in a sexual context?
8) Are you planning on building an army of Cybermen in order to destroy the earth?
9) Do you have any opinions on two people who love each other being in a committed and active relationship?
Grantaire grinned, tugging a hand through his hair. He took a deep breath.
“Ok, here goes. Not really. No. Yes. There is no right answer to question 4. No. No. No. No, but that’s a cool idea. And now is probably a good time to mention that I’m gay.”
He shrugged his shoulders, hoping he had given the right answers. He looked up to see two very wide smiles. He smiled back, shyly.
“So you guys have had a few issues, huh?” There was a collective groan and rolling of eyes. What followed was an easy, organic conversation, starting with the swapping of stories regarding nightmare housemates, followed by difficult University experiences, tough lecturers, easy lecturers and everything else they could chat about.
Grantaire found out that Courfeyrac was a newly qualified solicitor and that Jehan worked in a book shop to suppliment his blossoming poetry career. He found out that Courfeyrac and Jehan had known each other for a number of years but had only been together for ten months.
“Well, look, if you guys need your privacy, my studio is within walking distance of here,” he offered helpfully. Jehan’s eyes lit up.
“Studio?”
“Yeah, I’m setting up a photography workshop. Mostly freelance. I’ll probably end up doing a few weddings as they’re quite a nice, easy job.” He nodded, trying to keep it vague, not ready to share the full extent of his identity just yet.
Courfeyrac suddenly pointed out that this was all very well but Grantaire still hadn’t seen the flat yet. They finished their drinks and made their way down the street to the flat. Grantaire was pleased that it was such a short stumbling distance from that fine drinking establishment.
They opened the street door with a key and made their way upstairs. Another door led into a hallway. Jehan flicked on the light. “Room on the right is Courf’s, that little door there is mine.” They all moved into the hallway together. Seeing Grantaire’s raised eyebrows Jehan blushed.
“I prefer to maintain my own space,” he muttured. Grantaire could understand that all too well. He smiled warmly and moved further down the hall.
“That’s the bathroom,” he gestured to the door just up from Courf’s room. “And this is you.”
It was a small but pleasant room, furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe and a little desk with a chest of drawers doubling as a bedside table.
“Looks perfect to me,” said Grantaire, following the other two further into the flat. At the end of the hall it opened out into a spacious living area with open plan kitchen. A set of French doors led out to a small balcony.
“Jehan is in charge of the rent and bills. He has a separate account you can pay into by setting up a Standing Order.” Courfeyrac rubbed his hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder.
Grantaire looked around him, a strange pleasant sensation filling his chest. It was an unusual feeling for him but he allowed it to wash over him rather than panic him. He could live here quite easily.
“Great. When can I move in?”