Grantaire knows exactly when his whole life went to shit.
And of course it started with Enjolras, because who else could make Grantaire both fly and die, sing and howl, laugh and agonise?
It wasn't exactly Enjolras' fault—or rather Enjolras didn't intend it as something that could in any way harm Grantaire. If he ever thought about Grantaire, it was usually during their insanely long quarrels which tended to put everyone else to sleep. They always started out as meaningful debates—the value of human life, the risks of untamed freedom, you know, the deep stuff—and both Enjolras and Grantaire could go on and on for–fucking–ever only to find themselves three hours later, out of breath, clashing over things like 'what colour is the prettiest' or 'which pizza topping tastes best'.
And as soon as the evenings ended, Enjolras would pass Grantaire with little to no interest, his eyes looking through Grantaire as if he were a ghost.
Grantaire sometimes expected him to stop mid–sentence only to ask Grantaire: 'Hey, what was your name again?'
If he ever needed Grantaire's name, that is, which Grantaire somehow doubted.
Did all of that stop Grantaire from loving Enjolras desperately—so, so much that it made him hurt in all the places he'd had no idea existed in the first place? Why would it? That was in fact partly why Grantaire never tried to bottle up his feelings.
He enjoyed them.
They made him feel alive.
There were a few things that he liked—hanging out with the gang, cigarettes, occasional one–night stands—there were things that he liked way too much for it to be healthy—casual drinking, those long runs when he would paint for days without eating or sleeping or answering his phone until all his friends would assume he'd died—and there was Enjolras.
Before Enjolras gathered them that day to announce that he was taking an internship in Paris, Grantaire had been having quite a lovely day. One of his paintings sold—to an older rich woman with seventeen cats, that's true, but a sale's a sale nonetheless—and he finally managed to get all the angles right on his latest piece. He showered for the first time in three days and left home, ready to eat anything other than some old cornflakes for a change. The weather was surprisingly good for so late in October, so he took a stroll through the park on his way to the bar, and when he finally came in, there was only Enjolras by the counter, so Grantaire took his sweet time teasing Golden Boy on his pinkish drink with a straw.
How could he be so happy then, so relaxed? If he'd had even the slightest idea what was about to come...
"I've taken Lamarque up on his offer of an internship in Paris," Enjolras said, his expression serious, but not exactly concerned.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac nodded like there was nothing new or alarming about this information, the rest of them shouted loud congratulations towards Enjolras, and Grantaire found himself gasping for air, eyes wide open in shock, his right hand tightening around the bottle of beer as though he'd fall if he let go of it.
He barely remembered the following weeks, he just knew—one day he'd enter the bar and wouldn't find Enjolras there. Suffocating on the mere thought of it, he stopped hanging out with the gang whatsoever.
And when November came—cold, grey, depressing—Enjolras was gone. And with him all the things that kept Grantaire grounded.
"You need to stop wallowing in your despair, R. It's pathetic," Éponine says, opening Grantaire's windows and probably wondering how long it's been since he last aired out the room, judging by a few wrinkles on her nose.
"I'm not wallowing," he insists. "I'm reminiscing."
"Well then, you need to stop reminiscing." There's a smile lurking in the corners of her lips, but she does her best to conceal it. "Go out, eat some food, meet some people, live your fucking life. And if you dare tell me some dog's shit like 'there's no life without him', I'm going to beat you to death with my fucking purse, I swear to all the gods. And there truly will be no life for you without him, you poor bastard."
Grantaire can't help it—he grins. He's always been game for Ép's tough love routine.
"You wouldn't do that," he tells her. "Who'd listen to your endless rants on Pontmercy's stupidity, huh?"
Éponine gives him a wry smile, and Grantaire knows he probably deserved that. There's always something heart–breaking about the way her eyes brighten just for a split second and then dim with sorrow every time someone mentions the idiot that is Marius Pontmercy.
"R, I'm serious." And the way she presses her lips together indicates that she, indeed, is. Very serious. "If you don't want me to rant on your stupidity for a change, you'll shower and get dressed, and then accompany me to a dinner thrown by none other than C-bros."
Oh great. That is what he needs right now—Combeferre and Courfeyrac talking about how happy Enjolras is.
"I think I'll pass."
"No, you won't. Go shower."
"You like me miserable, don't you?" Grantaire murmurs, purposely bordering on cruel. "It puts your own life into perspective."
"R, you're one of the few people in the world who truly give a shit about my Marius drama, don't pretend to be vicious now, it really doesn't suit you and it most certainly won't grant you a 'get–out–of–dinner–free' card. Go shower."
He feels a slight urge to argue tingling inside his chest, but it passes as soon as he blinks. He hasn't really argued with anyone since Enjolras left, like him going away somehow sucked all the fun from disagreeing with people and contradicting their ideas.
He sighs and grabs a towel from a pile of clean laundry that has been lying in the armchair for a week now.
"I'll be ready in ten," he promises Éponine, acknowledging his defeat.
Who knows, it might actually do him some good. And if not—Combeferre is famous for his impressive collection of alcohols from all around the world. And there's no pain that cannot be eased by a bottle of Russian vodka, Grantaire knows it for a fact.
When he finally emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel and dripping water all over the floor, Éponine is busy typing something furiously on her phone. Grantaire raises a brow, waiting for her to spill.
"I'm too fucking tired of you guys lacking an arm to cry on, I have my own problems, thank you very much," she hisses, not really explaining anything, but her expression goes soft, almost caring. "Combeferre," she adds when Grantaire refuses to move and keeps staring at her enquiringly. "He's asking me now, if we could eat ice–cream and watch 'Out of Africa' instead of getting seriously pissed and gossiping about Joly and Bossuet's shared girlfriend."
"Terrible, terrible idea," he admits, thinking about young Robert Redford and the uncanny resemblance between him and a certain gentleman inhabiting that one hollow place in Grantaire's heart. "I vote for getting pissed."
"I'm more interested in this Musichetta business, but I won't oppose to some whisky while we're on that," Éponine says, half–smiling. "Get dressed, R, or I'll drag you out as God made you."
And she would, Grantaire doesn't doubt it for a second.
He dives into the pile of laundry and finds his favourite jeans and a T–shirt with an image of melting icecaps on it. He bought it entirely with the purpose of prompting Enjolras to effuse about the importance of stopping the climate change before it's too late.
(And he did. Of course he did. Enjolras was so easy to manipulate into never–ending speeches.)
He goes back to the bathroom and tries to put on the clothes as fast as he can to please Ép, and while doing so he bangs his head against the upper shelf with a loud, blunt sound.
"Are you going to be okay?" Éponine cries from the living room, and she sounds just a tad too invested in the question to be asking solely about his inevitable bump.
"I think so," he answers, rubbing the back of his head and reappearing in the living room. "It may need some ice, though, if you'd be so kind...," he teases.
Éponine rolls her eyes at him.
"I meant the Enjolras thing, you dimwit."
"I know what you meant," Grantaire admits, blowing her a kiss. "I stand by my answer. I will be okay, truly. Not today maybe, but some day. I miss him terribly."
"I know you do, R. We all miss him. Oblivious as he was, I kind of liked the dumbass."
"You keep calling him that. It's not his fault I'm all butterflies and rainbows whenever I think of him, you know."
"It's no one's fault, R," Ép sighs. "And if I were to blame someone, I'd blame both of you equally. It's not like you didn't goad him. And did he ever do something to put a stop to it? He loved antagonising you and it felt sexual, that's why we never bothered to intervene. You reckon any of us liked witnessing your ongoing foreplay? Except Courfeyrac maybe, I'm sure he'd have nothing against watching you go all the way. Hell, he'd probably be cheering." Grantaire tries to fight a sudden blush and fails miserably. "Now please put on your jacket and let's go! There's nothing you can do about his decision now, except maybe moving to Paris yourself and then following him like an unhappy annoying duckling. Hurry up, before Combeferre has a chance to talk more people into watching this fucking sob story about killing lions together."
At Combeferre and Courfeyrac's they manage to stay clear of the sensitive subject for a total of forty three minutes and seventeen seconds—not that Grantaire's counting. But then they turn on TV, and there's a talk show host roasting this douchebaggy politician, Grantaire forgot his name—or he never really knew it, because when does he ever trouble himself with useless political trivia—and they all immediately think of how much Enjolras would love it.
It's Courfeyrac who says it out loud—the spell is broken. Combeferre stops smiling, and Éponine takes an annoyed swig out of her bottle.
"So I guess we're starting to address the elephant in the room now." And then, after yet another swig, "I'm not nearly as drunk as I want to be for that."
"We can talk about him, you know," Combeferre says quietly, aiming for his 'wise and indifferent' tone and missing by several lightyears. "It's not like he's dead."
"He's dead to me," Courfeyrac mutters with a serious expression. "He didn't return any of my last seven calls."
"In his defence," Combeferre offers and cracks a smile, "they all happened one after another in the middle of the night no more than...," he looks at his watch, "eighteen hours ago."
"Still, it might have been urgent!"
"And that would be a perfectly reasonable assumption, had the calls not been followed by a text saying: Never mind, I finally found your hidden stash of condoms under Combeferre's bed. What are your condoms doing under Combeferre's bed anyway? Call me to elaborate on that as soon as you read this text."
Éponine lets out a really embarrassing snort, while Grantaire's brain is busy short–circuiting.
"I have so many questions," he cries. "First of all, why is Enjolras leaving his condoms behind? Why does he even own condoms, is he familiar with the concept of sex?" Something in his chest hurts when he dwells on that, so after a short but heated discussion with himself he decides not to. "Second, what were you doing seeking for condoms under Combeferre's bed? Are you two having a secret affair? Is that why you moved in, Courf?"
Combeferre just rolls his eyes and the very motion is so unusual for him that Grantaire laughs.
Courfeyrac moved in not long after Enjolras had left. He claims it was all a big coincidence, since after sleeping with his landlady and having to flee from her not so subtle advances following that drunken mistake he was in dire need of a place to crash, but they all know better. Being a big softie at heart, Courfeyrac wanted to soothe Combeferre's pain—could he split his affectionate persona, he'd move in with Grantaire, too. And then go to Paris to take care of Enjolras and his unbearable habit of pretending that he's immune to human emotions.
"No, they were Enjolras', okay?" Combeferre sighs. "He was giving them away at university after that sex ed talk we were all invited to participate in."
"And when he says invited, he of course means forced," Courfeyrac offers helpfully.
Yeah, Grantaire remembers. Suffice to say, it would be an impossible thing to forget—with Enjolras delightfully invested in making a point of balancing fun with reason, not exactly blushing but attaining just a tinge of pink across those impressive cheekbones.
"Anyway," Combeferre says, deciding to ignore Courfeyrac, "I confiscated them after the incident."
"Ah, the incident," Courfeyrac says dreamingly and then... giggles. He straight up giggles.
"The incident?" Grantaire and Éponine ask simultaneously.
She sits up straight and puts the bottle down, which means this is probably the first moment since their arrival that she's actually interested in their babbling.
"We don't talk about the incident," Combeferre says as if it's some kind of a house rule, but he also looks like he's about to break said rule in no time.
"You don't talk about fight club. That's the only thing you don't talk about, mate," Éponine says. "And also your job, 'cause it's boring as fuck, no offence."
"None taken," Combeferre answers, his tone indicating that at least a tad of offence was taken anyways.
Éponine just laughs at that, nudging him to continue, so he does.
"Do you remember that night after graduation?"
"Do we remember?" Éponine groans, and Grantaire can feel his intestines burning. "There's no way I will ever stop amusing myself with the memory of Enjolras, completely wasted and calling me his BFF. Literally never gonna happen."
Grantaire has never told anyone, but that was also the night when Enjolras pressed his nose into Grantaire's neck—so vulnerable, so delicate, Grantaire wanted to entwine their fingers together and whisper sweet nothings into Enjolras' ear; and even if he for some mysterious reason had acted on that need, there's no way he would admit it—and sighed in irritation.
"You smell like honey," he blurted, sounding angry for some reason.
"It's called mead," Grantaire said because he was obviously an idiot. And to prove that he indeed was one, he raised his glass and took a huge sip of what was supposed to be mead, but tasted rather like maple juice spiked with tequila, and then shot a challenging look in Enjolras' direction.
Enjolras opened his mouth—lips red and so very inviting—no doubt to shout at Grantaire for being an obnoxious drunkard, the irony of arguing this while completely pissed being lost on him, but then his face lost all colour and he hurried towards the bathrooms never to emerge again. Or at least Grantaire never saw him return, as he fell asleep on the table not long after.
There's a moment of silence when Combeferre refills his glass with white wine and then offers some to Courfeyrac who obligingly reaches out and takes it from him.
"So," he says, beaming at Grantaire for no reason. "When you two abruptly ended your courtship—"
"There was no courtship of any kind," Grantaire interrupts him wistfully. "We argued, and then he felt sick. That's pretty much what I call our usual interaction."
"Whatever you say, honey," Courfeyrac chuckles, and Grantaire freezes.
"How do you...?"
"Oh, I was there," he admits, looking and sounding positively overjoyed. "He was adorable, wasn't he? Pity he refuses to drink more often than not. I honestly thought you'd finally hit it off, but then he passed out in the bathroom, and when we finally revived him, we found you drooling onto the table. Let me tell you, it was mission impossible with you two that night!"
"I wasn't drooling," Grantaire protests because his mind refuses to process any of the other information provided. Were their friends trying to serve as their matchmakers? But that was surely doomed to fail, as Enjolras never expressed any interest in being paired with anyone, let alone Grantaire.
"As fun as it is listening about Grantaire's ridiculous crush again," Éponine interrupts, yawning, "please do get to the gist at some point tonight."
And then it suddenly dawns on Grantaire that there indeed was a point to this story, and it was not his interaction with drunken Enjolras. Or at least he hopes that's not the point, because it'd be plain cruel and not as funny as he expected.
"Ah, right, the incident," Courfeyrac obliges. "Well, it all went smoothly after we finally managed to collect Enjolras from the floor and drag him home."
"Actually it was Bahorel who did all the dragging, since, as I recall, you were too busy writing 'Kiss me if you think I'm pretty' on Enjolras' forehead," Combeferre supplies.
Courfeyrac's smile only widens.
"With a permanent marker!" he shouts happily. "And it got him smooched dead!"
"Yes, by you," Combeferre sighs, and Grantaire pretends to ignore a slight pinch of jealousy when he imagines Courfeyrac's hands all over Enjolras who's maybe, maybe willing to permit it, just this once. Yes, he knows that they slept together right after lycée and then swore to never do it again, but with Courf's charm and Enjolras' passion... They'd make such a beautiful pair, reason be damned. "Anyway, we brought him home, and he was a picture of innocence, all gentle smiles and sheepish nods. We took off his boots and let him be, but when we came back to check on him after twenty minutes or so, he was gone."
"Yeah, Combeferre almost had a heart attack. We organised a search party immediately, but couldn't find him anywhere."
"We were just about to call Javert and ask him for help, which I'm sure Enjolras would not thank us for in the morning, when we got a call from Marius."
"Poor bastard was terrified."
"Isn't he always?" Éponine asks and it would sound cold, weren't it for that broken moan she let out before speaking.
Courfeyrac just squeezes her hand quickly before continuing:
"He said he had been coming back home when he saw Enjolras standing in front of the mayor's house."
"Staggering more like."
Enjolras. Staggering. Grantaire has to tighten his grip on the bottle he's nursing. He's never regretted drinking himself to sleep more than he does at this very moment.
"We got there as fast as we could, probably breaking at least a dozen traffic laws—"
"Not driving while drunk being one of them," Combeferre says, his face suddenly very serious.
"Feuilly wasn't drunk!"
"I saw him have a drink not an hour before that."
"It was one drink!"
"Still, he wasn't sober, was he?"
It sounds like an argument they had many times in the past, so Grantaire clears his throat and prompts:
"So... Enjolras."
"Right," Combeferre says.
"Enjolras," Courfeyrac repeats, exhaling slowly. "We stepped out of the car, and there he was. Barefoot and with his forehead begging for kisses, shouting something about mismanaged housing policy and throwing water balloons at the mayor's windows."
There's a ridiculous amount of warmth spreading across Grantaire's chest when he dwells on that image. That's it, he thinks. I will never be able to love anyone else as long as this arsehole walks the earth.
And then the warmth crawls further down, causing Grantaire to shift uncomfortably and drop his gaze before Courfeyrac or Éponine realise what he's thinking.
"Wait," Éponine says when she's finished laughing hysterically, what feels like a good half an hour. "That doesn't explain the condom thing."
"Oh doesn't it?" Courfeyrac wriggles his eyebrows pointedly.
And he's the first one to burst out in laughter, the rest quickly follow.
"Stop it," Éponine begs. "I can't breathe!"
"Why don't we know that story?" Grantaire wants to know. "I can't believe Courfeyrac was able to keep it a secret for such a long time! Or Bahorel for that matter. We fucking lived together for half a year after graduation!"
"Well, first of all," Courfeyrac says, pouting, "I'm hurt. You hurt me deeply, R. Of course I can keep a secret! Second... we kind of made a pinky swear, poor Enjy was horrified, and I thought he deserved to be treated with respe—" he trails off when Éponine starts staring at him in disbelief. "Okay, Combeferre made me."
Because of course he did. Combeferre is the scariest person Grantaire has ever met.
Combeferre just smiles like a content lion cub and sips his wine, not even trying to deny it. Grantaire takes a mental note never to get on his wrong side.
"We didn't want the story to spread, you know how touchy Enjolras is about his image," Combeferre explains. "But now he's gone and I simply needed to think of some kind of punishment, so there. Enjoy." And then, quieter: "Please don't tell anyone."
"Oh, excuse you me, I make no such promises," Éponine says as she makes herself comfortable against Courfeyrac's bedhead. "Now let's talk business."
They spend the following hour discussing Musichetta, Joly and Bossuet's new girlfriend, which quickly turns into an unprompted 'never have I ever'—and this is how they find out that Éponine too participated in a threesome once.
"No way!" Courfeyrac cries, even more astir than usual.
"Way," she replies with a cunning smile. "Or a three–way, if you will."
"How? When? Who? Was the other person a girl? Please tell me the other person was a girl!"
"You know 'Parnasse...," she says in lieu of a real answer, and Courfeyrac grimaces.
"I really, reaaally don't. I met the bloke once, and I'm still trying to figure out what you saw in him."
"Haven't you heard? Apparently black souls attract."
"Wow, that's fucking deep, Ép. Was the other person a girl?"
"Oh, come on, Courfeyrac," she hisses, annoyed. "Don't be intentionally obtuse! Anyone who has ever laid eyes on Montparnasse knows he's straight as an arrow."
"Well, that helps me in no way as arrows confuse the shit out of me. I mean sure, they're basically pretty non–complex shape–wise, but when it comes to the pointy head or fuzzy quill, I'm lost." If looks could kill... Courfeyrac notices Éponine's expression and realises he's probably walking on thin ice here. "Okay, let me make it easier. Pontmercy straight or me straight?"
"Bahorel straight."
"Whoa," Courfeyrac cries. "Tough to beat."
"Yeah."
"Then... long story short, it was a girl."
"Oh, go to hell!"
Grantaire laughs. Combeferre frowns. Éponine stands up and opens the window, and then lights up a cigarette.
Everything seems so normal for them, so mundane.
But then there is this painful feeling of loss when Éponine is not told to 'fucking go outside and not make them die of lung cancer', when nobody scowls at Courfeyrac and orders him to stop nagging, when Combeferre's eyes turn to meet another exasperated look, but the ugly armchair remains unoccupied.
Enjolras is undeniably gone.
And he will stay gone. He has another life now, another 'mission'. He'll keep in touch with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sure, maybe call Éponine a few times to ask her how everyone else is truly doing, because he knows she never beats around the bush (Combeferre and Courfeyrac would assure him all's peachy, and when is it ever just that, really?), and he'll of course invite Feuilly to Paris whenever he meets some interesting Polish activists ("He's from Warsaw, you know, he actually lived there all his life and he's just moved to France. He volunteers for Amnesty International, but he's got his own business, too. You'll love him!"). He'll get in touch with Joly when he's sick and with Bossuet when he's sad, and he'll sometimes need a contact from Bahorel, proofreading from Jehan, or a legal consultation with Marius...
What would he ever need from Grantaire, though? Except for maybe instructions on how not to puke on himself, which would still be kind of pointless because Enjolras consumes like three bottles of wine a year on average, and Grantaire has only seen him puke once—when he was pepper–sprayed right into his open mouth at a protest (if someone would assume that it shut him up, someone would be wrong).
"I need vodka," he says and sounds tired even to his own ears.
God, they must find him pathetic.
"I have a great tea," Combeferre replies delicately. "It got delivered yesterday, it's white with rose petals, I could make some if you're interested."
Grantaire scratches his cheek, pretending to consider it, and finally just nods and says:
"I guess I can have my vodka with tea. Thanks, Combeferre, you're a saint."
They don't watch 'Out of Africa' that evening, as Éponine threatens to strangle them if they try and make her. What the do watch is 'Lion King', which—if you ask Grantaire—is much, much more cruel.
He comes back home depressed and deliciously drunk, a perfect mix which makes him fall asleep almost immediately. Enjolras is there in his dreams—of course he is, why would he leave Grantaire be just for this one night—he's a lion prince who flies from his kingdom and goes to live in Paris. Grantaire cries himself to sleep when he finds out—how could he, doesn't he know we need him?—but then he gets angry. And weirdly motivated to do something about it.
Wait, is he?...
There's a loud noise coming from under the bed. Grantaire moans and covers his head with a pillow, hoping it will stop eventually. It doesn't.
Not opening his eyes, he reaches down and finds his phone vibrating like crazy. Is this an alarm clock? Do they even have alarm clocks in animal kingdom?
"Am I Nala?" he asks, having finally figured out what to do with a ringing phone, but not yet realising that 'Am I Nala' may not be the best way to answer it.
"I'm sorry?" The voice on the other side is definitely female, and much too breezy for this time of night. "Am I speaking to Mr. Grantaire?"
Grantaire reluctantly opens the second eye and squints at a number on the screen. It's Parisian code.
"This is him," he says slowly, although it comes out rather a hoarse bark than an actual response.
"Perfect!" the woman screams enthusiastically and wow, he really hates her right now. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"
"It's the middle of the night, ma'am."
"It's eight o'clock."
"My point stands."
"Oh God, I'm so, so sorry!" And surprisingly, she does sound just that. Extremely apologetic. Maybe he could consider forgiving her in a year or two, once this throbbing headache goes away. "I can call later."
Parisian code, he reminds himself. You might want to hear this.
"No, that's okay," he lies. "I was going to get up anyway." In five to seven hours.
"Mr. Grantaire, I'm a business associate of one of your buyers, Mrs. Gervais." The cat lady? Must be, as she's not just 'one of his buyers', she's been his only buyer this year. "I run a small gallery in Paris and I'd love to display some of your works. Would you be interested?"
She pauses as though she really expects him to vacillate. Yeah, like his answer could be anything else than...
"Hell yeah!" Now he's fully awake, out of bed, and only mildly bothered by his hangover. Somebody wants his paintings—not in their living room, not in the attic, but on display! In an actual art gallery! The woman lets out an amused snort that could probably pass for a cough, but only barely, so he quickly manages to take a grip. "I mean... Of course, ma'am! Extremely interested!"
She doesn't make a sound, but Grantaire is almost sure she's smiling.
"Great. Let me schedule an appointment for... is Thursday fine?"
"Thursday sounds terrific!" He really should work on playing hard to get. "Wait," he says as another thing occurs to him. "Will you need me to move to Paris?"
Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes...
"Oh, that won't be necessary," she assures him and then, having probably heard his embarrassing whimper: "Unless you want to?"
And guess what.