Author's Note: This is a modern AU, and the M rating is for the libral swearing that occurs in the latter half. I hope you enjoy!
Jehan was scribbling poetry into the margins of a half-written essay as Combeferre tisked at his work ethic. The others were engaged in similar activities. Courfeyrac on the Wii, Joly pacing with a textbook in hand, Feuilly ramming his cap on, Bahorel harping about a fight, Bossuet wending his way to the kitchen sink, and Grantaire nursing a drink of some description.
The room they occupied was brightly lit. Enough so that Grantaire found the words to complain about it anyway. The furniture looked like it would be more at home in a thrift shop, but at least there was a lot of it. Most of the group was draped on the couch or one of two chairs
"Come on!" Courfeyrac cried, shaking Jehan's shoulder.
"Mm" Came the impassive response.
"It'll be fun!" Courfeyrac reasoned, slightly desperate.
"Of that I have no doubt," Combeferre sighed, turning to face Courf, "But you are making a ruckus. If you haven't convinced him in the last ten minutes, I doubt further yelling will help."
Courf turned away, frowning comically. Jehan nodded his thanks to Ferre and returned to his scribbles.
"Would someone please shut the lights off?" Grantaire growled from the recesses of a beanbag chair.
"Would you please stop drinking?" Courf growled back.
Grantaire declined to respond, instead taking a swig straight from the bottle.
"That's not healthy." Joly commented, peering over a pair of reading glasses.
"Never bothered you before" Grantaire hissed.
"Yes, but-" Joly began.
"Life is more worth forgetting now than ever before" Grantaire muttered, taking yet another drink. Joly, and the others, were momentarily silenced.
Glass shattered.
Fourteen eyes turned to saucepans. Seven heads turned to face the sound. Fourteen ears strained for another.
Another sound came in the form of a hand sweeping the carpet for shards. Bossuet poked his head into the room a moment after. He smiled wanly, holding out a bloodied hand with glass shards collected in its palm.
Joly squeaked, scampering over to look at the hand, Grantaire rolled his eyes appreciatively, and the others merely looked unsurprised by the development.
"I hope you plan to clean that up." Ferre nodded to the hall. Grantaire, having taken a few more sips in the interim, laughed suddenly. Seven heads now turned to look at him.
"Are you going to share?" Ferre asked, tipping his glasses downward after the fashion of a secondary school maths teacher.
"It's just…it looks kinda like the accident. Y'know, with all the blood." Grantaire giggled.
All fourteen eyes widened, and all seven mouths acquired expressions of horror, for Grantaire rarely drank so much that he lost all inhibition. He was still laughing, quieter now, in his beanbag.
Jehan put his work down slowly onto the coffee table. His hands shook. Joly nearly dropped his textbook, saved only by Feuilly. Bossuet left the room, his footsteps echoing into the kitchen. The sound of the sink trickled in.
Grantaire finally ceased his laughter. Ferre wasted no time in wrenching the bottle out of his hand. Grantaire put up a feeble fight, but it was clear he'd had more than even he could handle.
"Dear God" Ferre murmured, seeing several empty beer bottles hidden poorly behind the chair. He looked at the bottle in his hand, one of wine, which looked to be about half filled. "You've had enough" He nearly whispered, looking sadly at Grantaire, who was groping for another bottle.
The room was still silent. Grantaire had a talent for that, in the absence of his foil. Bossuet reentered, joining the quiet.
Grantaire, however, managed to break the cloak once more. He did it by vomiting clumsily on Ferre's feet. Ferre, for his part, didn't react. He just stared. His eyes glistened slightly.
"My Lord" Joly murmured. As far as anyone could recall, Grantaire had never drunk more than he could handle. None of them had ever seen him vomit, certainly. Joly instantly busied himself with a resistant Grantaire. "We'd better get you to bed." He muttered. Feuilly and Courf manhandled Grantaire, kicking and growling, out of his chair. Joly, being several inches shorter than the others, scampered behind. Grantaire flopped onto Ferre's bed face first. Courf and Feuilly left Joly to deal with the mess of a man.
"What have you done?" A voice, Ferre's, came from the bedroom's doorway. He was staring at the ceiling.
"Who're you askin'?" Grantaire slurred, having heaved himself onto his side. Ferre blinked, his eyes surveying the room.
"If you weren't so drunk," Joly hissed, shoving Grantaire's legs onto the bed. "You'd know" He finished. Grantaire blinked drunkenly at the man. Joly was hardly ever angry, and it was generally comical when he was. This…this was not comical in the least. Even Ferre seemed put off by Joly's contorted features.
"This has us all a little wound up." Ferre said. He strode across the room, placing a hand on Joly's shoulder. "Just get him to sleep. We'll talk about it in the morning."
Grantaire was asleep much faster than it seemed he might have liked. He thrashed vaguely and complained weakly, but he was out within five minutes. Joly left the room, seemingly satisfied, or at least apathetic, to Grantaire's condition.
"He'll be fine in the morning." Joly announced.
"And so shall we." Ferre said, making a motion toward the bedrooms, "It's best we all get to sleep."
With practiced ease and surprisingly little reluctance, the whole lot divided themselves between the two remaining rooms and the couch.
Night came and went. The sun rose, casting its rays past the blinds. Grantaire, oddly, was the first to rise, courtesy of what he cursed as "the fucking death light". He stumbled through the hall into the bathroom, nearly collapsing on the sink. He coughed, emptying his stomach once again. This time into the sink.
"Fuck" He groaned, forcing his gaze to the mirror. He looked away right after. The mirror was draped with a bolt of red fabric. "Fuck"
He gripped the sink tighter. Memories, largely fragmented, of the previous night, made themselves known. He shook his head, succeeding only in worsening his headache.
"I didn't…" Grantaire whispered, "I fucking did" He very nearly fell out of the bathroom. He felt along the wall until he reached a door. The door swung open on his first push. In he staggered, flailing against a bedpost.
Joly blinked tiredly at the swaying blob which resolved itself into Grantaire. He was not graced with the forgetfulness that Grantaire was. The incident was as fresh in his mind as it had been during.
"Why are you here?" He asked quietly.
"M here…M here…" Grantaire began his sentence, "M here…I can't 'member…I did…said…shit"
"Eloquent" Ferre said from the doorway. "Did you vomit in a more appropriate receptacle this time?' He nodded to Grantaire.
"S'pose so" Grantaire responded, falling against the opposite wall. Ferre, declining to continue, grabbed Grantaire under the arms and propelled him into the living room. He deposited the walking hangover on the couch and sat beside him.
"The others shall want to know why you said…what you said." Ferre murmured.
"I dun 'member what I said." Grantaire muttered.
"That is a lie. I heard you swearing liberally in the bathroom." Ferre responded, "You compared Bossuet's hand to a dead body…an unfortunately specific dead body."
Grantaire stared into his hands. He swallowed weakly, refusing to look up. Just then, Joly, Courf, and Bossuet slipped into the room. Scarcely a moment later Jehan and Bahorel appeared.
"Sit" Ferre ordered. They all obeyed, scattering on the furniture. "We can't leave this any longer."
"Who says?" Grantaire growled.
"Common sense and Joly's medical text books." Ferre answered, not a trace of humor in his tone, "In the words of Atticus Finch, 'The best way to clear the air is to have it all out in the open'"
"Screw him" Grantaire echoed. Ferre made a small show of ignoring him. Normally, such an insult of an exalted book character would have provoked quite the fight, but not today.
"Exactly one week ago-"
"Plus a few hours!" Grantaire interrupted
"Exactly one week, and a couple of hours ago, there was an accident." Ferre began to retell the story. Every face in the room made it obvious that the story was already known. He plowed on regardless, "A young man was leaving a Political Science class. He was on his way to the student health center to pick up his friend, who had been in a fight. The young man-"
"He has a fucking name." Grantaire hissed venomously.
"The young man, Enjolras, was tired from a long day. He had been up all night, cramming for the test in the very class he was leaving." Ferre paused. He gulped and looked at the faces of his friends. They were all strained. "It was January, and the campus was more or less encased in a sheet of ice. Due to his sleepiness, he did not think the look before crossing the road. He fell on the ice, possibly injuring one of his extremities. A car that was skidding on the ice, a student driver, was unable to stop. The car hit the young man – Enjolras – and he…"
Ferre stopped short. Tears were already falling throughout the room. Jehan was buried in Bossuet's arm, and Joly gripped his other. Feuilly had one arm of the chair in a grip of death, and Bahorel and Courf were both crying silently, tears running down their faces.
The only people left dry were Ferre and Grantaire. Grantaire looked Ferre straight in the eyes.
"He died. Or were you going to leave us hanging?" Grantaire drawled sarcastically. Fourteen eyes, for the third time, widened. Grantaire never ceased to amaze. "He died, and he was covered in blood. And he was still fucking breathing when you found him. He was fucking still breathing!" He cried. Grantaire was sitting up all the way, stock straight.
The room did not react.
"Do you understand?!" Grantaire nearly yelled, "He was breathing! He was alive. Fucking alive. For…for…for…" Grantaire stopped. His voice was hitching. He had, in the middle of his sentence, stood up, "He was…" Tears were forming in his eyes, falling down his face. "He was fucking coming to get me."
That was it. The hungover man crumbled to the floor. He was shaking.
"Fuck this. Fuck this to hell" He whispered. Even Jehan, the local purveyor of language had made no attempt at curbing Grantaire's words. "And he has red fucking cloth on the mirror."
