(This is a little one-shot I came up with quite some time ago, but I only just found the time and courage to write it. Hope you'll like it!)

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

It was cold outside. So very, very cold. The city of Paris had hardly seen any sun for two weeks straight; only dark grey clouds, lurid wind and icy hail. It was freezing and many of the people living on the streets didn't even stand a chance. They cried; and they died, and yet life just went on like it always did. It was never going to change.

Feeling bitter and resentful, Grantaire trudged through the snowy alleyways and tried to shield his eyes from the misery of the poor. He needed to get away; he needed to get out; find a drink. Or two.

Grantaire hated the winter season. He hated it so much, that he wished he could just fall into a drunken slumber and not wake again until spring. Because in his eyes, winter only brought death. There was no joy; people were not merry. How could they be? Without a roof to shield under, or a blanket to be wrapped around in. It was the most terrible season of all and Grantaire just prayed and hoped it would end very soon. All winter meant to him was a confirmation that life sucked; that man was bad; and that things were never going to change.

Oh, how he hated winter.

He hurried inside the little Café that had become his second home and made himself comfortable in his own little corner. There weren't many people in, but at least there was a fire; at least it was warm and at least there was enough wine to last the night. He looked around the room but saw no familiar faces; all those he knew; all those he counted as his friends, had left this miserable place to seek comfort and joy with their families. They had left to celebrate the holiday season with those they cared about.

Grantaire did not have a family to visit. The only family he had, were those few men who warmed the space between these four walls almost every single night. But they were not here. They were never here on Christmas Eve. And so Grantaire sat alone, in the darkest corner and toasted to the only thing certain in life: death.

For hours, he was just sitting there – drinking – and he thought about the few happy memories of times he had spent with his new found family. He thought about his sparring matches with Bahorel; about the scarce artistic moments with Feuilly when they discussed art and showed each other their work; he thought about how Courfeyrac always managed to make him smile, even on his darkest days; about Joly's worried face whenever he opened yet another bottle. He remembered the frequent walks through the park with Combeferre and how his bespectacled friend always very nearly convinced him of his worth; he chuckled as he recalled the day that Jehan learned him how to braid someone's hair with flowers and he smiled softly as he thought about Bossuets careful movements around the room and still knocking over the waitress' tray.

And then of course, there was Enjolras; Grantaire's own beacon of light. The time he spent with this Golden God pretty much only consisted of fighting and arguing and so there were little happy memories he could think of. But they were still there. He would never forget that time when Enjolras actually laughed at one of his jokes; or the time when Enjolras complimented his artwork; and he would certainly forever treasure the time that Enjolras came to his apartment and apologized for his hurtful words. Each one of those memories had a special place in his heart and they kept him from turning into that truly miserable heap that he had threatened to turn into so often.

There weren't many moments, but each one of them was very precious to Grantaire and he wouldn't want to give them up for the world.

He sank a little further down in his chair and a melancholy smile spread across his face. He wondered if the happy memories of his friends sometimes included him as well. He wondered if they even saw him as their friend; as a part of their family. At times he was sure they did; but then there was another sneer from Enjolras; or another disappointed look from Combeferre or Feuilly and at those moments, Grantaire wasn't so sure anymore. He took another swig out of the bottle in front of him and he closed his eyes; determined to just pass out here until the morning came and he could start drinking Christmas Day away as well.

Oh, how he hated the holidays.

Grantaire was sunken so deep into thought that he didn't notice the tall, slim figure coming up the stairs of the Café. He wasn't aware of the firm strides the person took towards him and he didn't recognize the face of the warmly dressed man until he sat down in front of him and tapped his shoulder.

Grantaire's eyes widened. Of all people he had never expected to see that face in front of him on Christmas Eve. Enjolras. There he was; opposite of him; with a pale face, flushed cheeks and a nose bright red from cold. The blond man smiled wryly at him and took off his scarf and hat as well as his coat and gloves. And all the while, all Grantaire could do was sit and stare, because his perfect, smooth and marble Enjolras was sporting a spectacular blue eye and on top of that, a dark bruise decorated his jaw. Grantaire was aghast.

Enjolras ignored his friend's expression and turned around to order himself a coffee while throwing a disapproving look at Grantaire's bottle. When Grantaire still hadn't spoken after his coffee arrived, Enjolras raised his eyebrows at him and frowned. "What?"

Grantaire blinked, thoughts of confusion and incomprehension running through his head. 'What', he asks? He comes here on Christmas Eve while he should be away with his parents. He comes here to the Café, sits his bruised self down in front of me and he asks 'What'? He slowly shook his head and turned his gaze back to the bottle in front of him. "Nothing," he mumbled.

Enjolras shrugged his shoulders and sipped at the coffee; allowing it to warm his frozen body and relax his tense muscles.

"No actually, not nothing," Grantaire grumbled after a few minutes and he gave Enjolras a strange look. "What are you doing here, Enjolras? I thought you were going to your parents' house and weren't due back for another week. And what the hell happened to you?" Grantaire put his bottle down with a loud thump and leaned forwards in his chair; worry and confusion edged across his face.

Enjolras sighed and sat down the little cup of steaming coffee. Grantaire's puzzlement did not surprise him and neither did his chain of questions. He too would be in disarray if a friend came into the Café all bruised and limping when for all he knew that person should have been safe at home with his family. "You do not need to concern yourself about me, Grantaire. I can imagine that you have far more important things to do."

"Could you please just answer the question? Forgive me, but I do think you came to sit with me for a reason? Or did you think I would simply not notice the wounds on your face?" Grantaire said bewildered; voice rising a little in volume.

"Maybe for the first time in my life I had simply hoped you'd be too drunk to notice..." Enjolras admitted quietly as he leaned back in his chair and carded a hand through his messy curls.

Grantaire could only scowl at that and he purposely took another few swigs from the bottle in front of him.

A small smile tugged at Enjolras' lips and he shook his head. "I was with my parents, actually, for two days," he started to explain slowly; his eyes fixed on the man in front of him. "I arrived there on Monday, got into a fight with my father on Tuesday night and I left again on Wednesday. A day's journey makes it Thursday and here we are. I know you don't leave Paris around the holidays so I figured you might be here and would appreciate some company. Apart from your wine, I mean."

But Grantaire still didn't understand. Where had the bruises come from? Was he attacked on his way home? Robbed maybe? He wanted to ask Enjolras, but somehow the answer frightened him."You always fight with your father," he stated instead; eyes taking in those bright blue orbs staring back at him. "You always fight, but never before have you left for the sake of your mother. What made you behave differently this time?"

And for what might be the first time in his life, Enjolras broke away from Grantaire's intense gaze. "The fight itself," he answered quietly and he knew Grantaire had figured it out, because his friend gasped and looked at him in shock.

"He...you mean...y-your father did that?" Grantaire asked incredulously, eyes tracing the bruises on Enjolras' face.

His blond friend smiled a little, but kept his eyes down. "It was a matter of time anyway...It's not a big deal, Grantaire."

But his whole body language screamed that it actually was a big deal and Grantaire suddenly wished that Combeferre or Courfeyrac were present and not just him. What was he going to say? What sort of comfort was he going to offer? Would Enjolras even want him to say someting about it at all? This was a private matter and he and Enjolras were not nearly close enough to discuss private matters.

"It is a big deal," Grantaire whispered while he did his best to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat. "It is... A father should never lay a hand on his children; he is supposed to love them unconditionally. He is supposed to be proud; to care; to guide and to protect. He is supposed to play with them when they're little and to listen to them when they are older. He is supposed to spend time with them; and he is supposed to know them. He should be the person his children can always come to for guidance or in a time of need. A father is supposed to support his children. So don't sit there and tell me it doesn't matter. I can see it in your eyes, you know. The hurt; the anger; the regret and the resentment. I can see it all. It is a big deal."

Silence stretched between them the following few minutes. Grantaire was amazed by his own words; he had never before spoken with so much conviction and emotion and he could see that Enjolras was surprised; maybe even impressed. He was no longer looking down; his eyes once again piercing those of Grantaire.

"I sense we are not just speaking about my father anymore," Enjolras said softly and he gave Grantaire a pointed look. Grantaire, in return, let out a deep sigh and leaned back in his chair; fumbling with a paper coaster; and shook his head ever so slightly.

"There is a reason I've been spending Christmas on my own for the past seven years," Grantaire muttered bitterly. "Anything better than going back to that hellhole of a family." And he raised his wine bottle at Enjolras before he took another swig. It didn't matter that Enjolras was here; Grantaire was still intend on drinking himself under the table and forget about everything.

Neither of them said anything else about their private situation. Over the past few years, Grantaire had become too bitter to discuss his past and Enjolras did not really feel all that comfortable to share his pain and thoughts with his cynical friend. He knew that in just a few days, Combeferre would be waiting for him with open arms, ready to listen whenever Enjolras felt like talking about it and so for now the blond kept silent. But that did not mean that the two of them couldn't enjoy each other's company now that it was just them. Enjolras nodded to himself and downed his coffee in one last gulp.

"Let us go some place more lively," he said; eyes shining with sudden excitement he himself didn't really understood. He just suddenly looked forward to spend the rest of the evening with Grantaire; talk with him; laugh with him; and just forget about that empty space that threatened to overtake part of his heart. "I have not yet eaten and I doubt you have either. Our friends would not want us to spend Christmas Eve on an empty stomach. I know a nice restaurant where we can go."

Grantaire watched how his friend pushed himself up from the chair and put on his coat again. He wants to have dinner with me? He wants to spend his Christmas Eve with me? He must be more shaken up than I thought. When Enjolras gave him an expectant look, Grantaire sighed and put his bottle back on the table. "That is a very nice idea, Enjolras, but I do not have any money for a restaurant."

Enjolras just grinned smugly and handed Grantaire his jacket. "Don't worry. My father is paying."

It was an argument Grantaire had often used when he and Enjolras were in the midst of a fight and they were both coming up with things they knew would hurt the other one dearly. But it seemed perfect now and Grantaire couldn't help but chuckle at Enjolras' choice of words. "Oh, well, in that case. Lead the way, Apollo."

Grantaire still hated the winter season. He still wished that he could drink until he passed out and not wake again until spring. To him,winter was still a confirmation that life sucked; that man was bad; and that things were never going to change. But Grantaire no longer hated the holidays. Because each year, he spent an evening and a whole day just with Enjolras. And that was really all he needed to make it till spring. He might even go so far as to say that Christmas, was indeed the most wonderful time of the year.

The end.

(And there's that. Please let me know what you think? I'll be forever grateful :) )