Leader, warrior, figher.
I will be the best of my generation.
I will be the best of my generation.
Enjolras/Achilles
multi-verse, multi-everything, multi-para. please read about & verses!
Enjolras/Achilles
multi-verse, multi-everything, multi-para. please read about & verses!
It took all his willpower to keep his attention down, to not snark back. He’d apologized, wasn’t that enough? He made no move to get up, he did not meet the other man’s eyes. Instead he ground his teeth and managed a nod, trying his best to seem contrite.Grantaire focused on Achille’s feet— waiting for the man to walk away before he made any move to leave. Embarrassing? He knew, of course, Achille was referencing his behaviour at losing- at being bested. Perhaps it was incredibly childish, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that the blonde was rubbing it in.
The sceptic breathed out slowly- he just nodded again, and still refused to look up.
Achille watched him for just a moment longer, his eyes narrowed into little brown slits and he whipped around to face away. Grantaire was childish and Grantaire was a sore loser, and Grantaire was undeniably the most irritating man he had ever laid eyes upon and ever had the misfortune to meet. Grantaire was awful, terrible, he could smell the alcohol on him and he reeked of despair and he was just too handsome for his own good and–
Achille stopped himself, took a breath and let his shoulders fall slightly, still squinting at Grantaire.
‘Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?’
When the picture was picked up, Grantaire looked up. Oh-“Achille-” He breathed out, watching the blonde cross in front of him and sit down. Judging from the other’s reaction, he was still pretty pissed about the situation. But Grantaire’s anger had since faded into depression.
Had the blonde realized the drawing was of him? He licked his lips, biting his lower lip as he watched the man’s back. He reached out— then withdrew before the contact came.
“…I’m sorry,” he muttered, unsure if he would be heard.
He heard his name being spoken and he did not turn to greet the other man, Grantaire’s anger had been ucalled for and Achille’s own anger had been born from him. He seethed as he sat there, he was hardly able to hear the teaher’s voice as he focused on the feel of Grantaire’s eyes on his back.
He turned to look at him eventually, he didn’t look angry, though. He seemed calm and he seemed more to pity the other man than anything else. Achille said nothing.
it was not until the class was let out and he had to stand and pass Grantaire again that he spoke.
‘That was embarrassing. I hope for your sake that nobody else remembers it.’
Grantaire watched him go— took it as an insult when he should’ve just breathed it off. He went and showered, but was still angry, even as he went to his next class.He sat in the back of the classroom, early- he was still sort of angry. Not quite as irate as he had been, and as he was coming down from the raging high, he was coming down hard and hitting low. His sketchbook out before him, he just—
Had to distract himself.
He began drawing without really thinking much about what pencil to paper would produce. Anything to keep from the inevitable low, but he felt it tugging at the edges of his mind, all-consuming and self-destructive. He needed a drink.
It was then that Grantaire realized what, or rather who, he was drawing. But he couldn’t even muster the slightest of anger to scribble it out or tear it up. He simply removed the page from the book and let it fall to the floor. No longer his concern. He started another drawing.
Achille did not quite realise how may classes he had with this Grantaire, how deep their mutual interest ran, so when he saw the man’s back, hunched and tensed with anger, from the doorway of his classroom, he frowned. He didn’t want to enter and he didn’t want to sit beside him or anywhere near him, but what choice did he have?
He entered and scooped up the piece of paper from the floor beside the other man. It was a drawing with such likeness to himself that it made him frown. He placed it down on the table beside the other man again and crossed to sit himself down, sitting in front of him. Achille was angry, livid even, that Grantaire would take to losing so badly.
“I am— not a sore loser!” Grantaire snapped, throwing his jacket at the back of Achille’s head. Of course, the moment after he’d done it, he realized it was a bad idea, but hell if he would run from it.Or- you know-
Admit it.
"FIght me then. Right now. If you win, I’ll even fucking buy you dinner.” It was a taunt, he was pissed, and really-
A bad idea.
This was definitely far from one of his more graceful moments, and he really shouldn’t have let Achille get to him the way he did. But should’ve and did are two entirely different topics. And he did let Achille get to him, and he wanted to best the blonde and put him in his fucking place, and rage ruled him for a moment when he reacted, when he spoke, and even as he realized it was wrong, he didn’t care.
Achille looked more upset than anything, upset and not angry–though inside he was fuming he had been trying to control his anger as best he could over the last few years. Grantaire was riling him up and trying to get a rise out of him and Achille would not fall for it. Not now.
His hands clenched at his sides and he looked back at the other man, eyes squinting. He wanted to hit him right there in his angry little face, to break his nose or something, but he didn’t, he didn’t. He didn’t do anything other than pick the other man’s jacket up, shove it back at him and walk out of the door. He was flustered and angry and he needed air, he needed to get out of the building and away from that man.
Grantaire still hadn’t moved- he was all sorts of angry, watching that beautiful blonde (he wanted to him, hit him hard in that pretty fucking face) pick up his hoodie.But the apology wasn’t unheard and he sighed, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. At least it was a good match.” But aside from dropping his arms, Grantaire didn’t move, blues watching his opponent- the man who bested him- he couldn’t help but feel resentment.
That came across as him being a sore loser and he knew that was wrong but- he couldn’t help himself.
Finally, he turned his back on Achille, going to shower before his next class. Thank God for gym showers, right? It was likely his reputation was ruined now- that didn’t help with his anger.
Achille watched him almost sadly as he was shown his back. He frowned a little, the elation of the fight, of the win and simply the goddamned adrenaline had been yanked away from under his feet and he felt nothing but anger about it. His lips pressed tight into a line and he swiped up his belongings to leave.
As he did leave he stopped in front of Grantaire one last time. ‘There’s nothing worse than a sore loser, Grantaire,’ he said, looking at him, eye to eye, brown irises alive with irritation, and he huffed.
He didn’t offer his hand for the other man to shake and he didn’t offer anything other than what he said, all he knew was that he would beat him again, again and again and again until Grantaire could stand to lose. Now he turned his back on the dark-haired man and went to leave.
Now, to their classmates— this was beauty. The other students watched in shock and awe, as Achille and Grantaire fought- whispers, all eyes on them.Grantaire fought with a fierceness so far unrivaled— even when pinned he struggled to be free. And when Achille was backing off, he had a moment of shock while the blonde removed his hoodie. Well fuck. He wouldn’t have fought fair, had it been reserved.
He shifted into stance again, ready to go once more—
But then the instructor was calling time, telling the students they needed to clear out. It- really was unfortunate, Grantaire cast a glare to the instructor before he looked back to Achille.
“…We’re going to have a rematch.” It was bitter and angry- he didn’t move.
Achille didn’t really understand the anger there, but when the class was called to an end he had to look up at the clock. time had flown and he had barely noticed it, he wasn’t as tired as he usually was either. A smile crossed his face when he looked back at Grantaire and he bowed his head a little–he knew full well that the other wouldn’t want to shake his hand.
‘I’ll look forward to it. I hope you’ll be okay until then.’
The blonde realised then that he had done something he had not set out to do. He had angered and embarrassed the other man. For a moment he hovered.
'I’m sorry,’ he offered, picking up his hoodie, 'I didn’t mean to go all out.’
Grantaire grunted, and gave it the best he could. A hit to the stomach, then his jaw and then he swung and was caught-How had he fallen for that?!
But, refusing to give up, he packed force into his free arm and elbowed Achille as hard as he could manage. He was not about to lose, nowhere near ready to go down. He came back strong, once freed, not allowing an opening in his onslaught.
He did stumble back as he was elbowed, but he didn’t let up on his defence, not now, not when he had Grantaire so blindingly angry. For a moment he thought, as he watched the other man come towards him, that he might actually get hurt this time, he might actually have found somebody who would hurt him. He wasn’t sure that he liked it.
He came back at him, his fists swinging, arms blocking, and he didn’t stop until he had Grantaire on the floor again, he didn’t stop until he was straddling the man’s hips and he had him down. Even Achille knew when it was time to stop though, he stood up again, scrambling back, he wanted it to be fair and to have Grantaire pinned down was not fair.
Achille was hot, his body had been hit and his face, he thought, with the way they throbbed and the way they seemed to burn. He pulled the hoodie off and dropped it to the side.
‘I will not lose.’
Grantaire was left breathless for a moment- from sheer shock alone. And then the blonde was speaking, moving away and fuck-Fuck.
The artist got to his feet and there was an anger behind those blue eyes. Okay, so he shouldn’t have held back. He knew that. He knew what a disrespect it was to hold back, but for everyone else here-
The whispers started. No. Grantaire could not lose the one thing anyone had ever noticed him excel in. He was not about to allow his pride such damage.
“Again,” he agreed and tried to laugh, but it was clear- the distress in his voice. He didn’t hold back this time, trying to take that beautiful bastard out.
This time it was more difficult, but Achille hadn’t lost a fight in years and he wasn’t about to now. That being said he almost felt bad for the other man, he noticed the whispers and he noticed his anger, he had two choices. One, let him win, or two, take him down. He supposed at the end of the day, they could draw and call a truce but he didn’t fancy Grantaire would be so keen.
He landed a punch to the other’s stomach, and then his jaw, waiting for the other man to hit him back so that he might floor him again. They fought for a good few minutes before Achille had Grantaire’s arm behind his back and his own arm around the other’s neck.
‘Give up, yet?’
Grantaire had been about to shake the new fellow’s hand when the quip came. His own hand dropped, a brow arching before he laughed.“Cute,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Cocky. I like it.” And his face split into a grin before he grasped Achille’s hand with a firm grip. “I’m going to make you eat those words."
He had gone undefeated thus far. As if some dashing new comer could topple his triumphs. Grantaire had no intention to lose- in fact, he was feeling overly confident, deciding that maybe he needed to hold back for this cocky bastard the way he did with the other boys.
When they were given the OK though- Well. He wasn’t expecting to have to give it his all, but the new guy seemed to actually have skill with this-
He assumed that the grip was meant to hurt his hand but it did nothing, his hands were already wrapped with tape, bones pressed tight.
It didn’t take him long to land the first punch, and then another, and then he had his leg around Grantaire’s body and had pulled him to the ground, pinning one of the other man’s legs, bent awkwardly, between himself and the mats on the floor. He was well practised, well trained, he had been for years and he was not about to let a slack-jawed Frenchman beat him for the sake of going easy on him.
‘Told you,’ he said simply. He stayed there for a moment or two, making sure the other man would feel the zing of pain in his leg, and then he got up, letting him up, too.
He got back into position, unaware of the eyes on him. He looked sweet! His hair was blonde, curled, like a halo around his head, and his eyes were the brown of dark chocolate, with all the focus and determination of a predator, a person used to getting what he wanted and deserved.
'Again?’
Grantaire had a reputation. A very mixed reputation, but a reputation nonetheless, that was spread around campus. When it came to the physical classes, he was hard to surpass. Everyone who’d gone against him in a fight? They lost. Miserably, even.
The man, for all his shortcomings, was a nimble fellow, once a dancer. He could skirt around a blow and deliver a return like no other. Light on his feet, he could still pack a wallop- he was hard to beat.
And it was still early in the year.
His reputation otherwise was how he spent his nights- and much of the weekend- drinking. Some said he was an artist as well, but there was no proof of that, except for those who actually noticed him in class, drawing in his sketchbook instead of taking notes.
This particular day was a Wednesday- he’d woken up late and felt rather sour through much of the day. Until, of course, it came time to spar. He was ready to take down whoever came up, and many of his peers had become reluctant to try.
He had been in the country a year and in the university for somewhere over, but around, three months. Classes were going as well as he could have hoped and, thankfully, there was hardly any language barrier left. His French had been steadily improving since he was sixteen–it seemed his parents had anticipated their moves–and now he was fluent. His accent, however, was still questionable.
He felt exotic in this country, while many people were foreign he had not met another Israeli. In his quest to meet more people he had signed up to a new physical class, though unfair as it may have been, thanks to his background, he went along.
Red shorts partially covered strong legs, a darker red (almost black) hoodie rolled up to the elbows covered strong arms. He was not big but he was lean and skilled, light. His feet were pink, tongues licking at the soft mats that covered the floor as he warmed up, eyes on the other participants–he could hardly call them opponents.
The leader of the class came and, upon spotting a new face, put him with the man in green. Grantaire, he thought he heard. Achile said nothing and merely went where he was told–other boys chuckling quietly as he did.
‘I’m Achille. Nice to meet you,’ he held out his hand to shake. A little smile came over his lips, 'By the way they act I assume that you are the best of them. Try not to be too embarrassed when I win.’ His voice was smooth and his accent distinctly middle eastern.
His said nothing more.