Grantaire should've known that it was destined to be a bad day when he woke up around ten in the morning with a splitting headache.
It wasn't a hangover, since he only drank the tea Combeferre brought over last night (he was trying to cut back on alcohol, much to Enjolras' satisfaction). Given that the pale morning light streaming through the window made it feel like somebody was driving a nail through his head, it was probably the beginnings of a migraine. With a groan, the cynic half-stumbled, half-rolled out of bed and into the bathroom to fumble around for the box of Advil in the medicine cabinet.
After dry-swallowing two pills and praying to the god of headaches that the light wouldn't make him want to jump out his third-story window anymore, he peered at himself in the mirror. It was no secret that Grantaire hated how he looked, and actively didn't try to make himself look presentable, but that didn't stop him from picking apart every single flaw he found in himself in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes, his hair was more of a mess than it usually was (he had a permanent case of bedhead, it seemed), his nose was too big, he looked paler than usual…
The only reason he stopped himself was that he suddenly remembered that he had class. It was a Wednesday, so that meant he had art history at eleven, and would meet Jehan for lunch afterwards. It was almost half past ten by the time he remembered, so he'd have to run to catch the subway if he wanted to make it to class on time. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he really just felt like going back to bed and didn't care much for class, but he'd feel bad if he ditched Jehan with no warning.
Grantaire quickly pulled on a pair of ripped-up, paint-splattered jeans and an old t-shit featuring a band he hadn't listening to in years as he grabbed his messenger bag off the chair in the kitchen. He almost didn't notice the post-it note in Enjolras' impossibly neat script stuck to his bag.
There's coffee for you in the kitchen. TAing for Lamarque until four. See you at the Musian. Love you.
He and Enjolras had been living together for a few months and dating for almost a year, though Grantaire still couldn't understand what it was that other man saw in him. Even though it had been several months since his landlord jacked up the rent and Enjolras had told him to just move in with him, part of him still couldn't believe it when he woke up with a Greek god incarnate next to him in bed almost every morning.
The cynic shoved the note into the pocket of his jeans as he ran out the door.
Even though he caught the train with about a second to spare, he still ended up arriving late to class anyway. The professor gave him a disdainful look as he tried to sneak in the back quietly, but he couldn't bring himself to care all that much.
The lecture fell on deaf ears as Grantaire opted to doodle in his notebook instead of pay attention. He was in no mood to appreciate the history of old, European white guy painters, anyway. Instead, he found himself doodling a scene from the movie he and Enjolras had watched the night before. It was a stupid made-for-TV movie with no real plot that Enjolras actually fell asleep halfway through. But hey, if something actually got his workaholic of a boyfriend to sleep, Grantaire couldn't begrudge it all that much.
He frowned as he looked his sketch over. That looks nothing like the chick in the movie.
Not only was he remarkably good at pointing out all the flaws in his physical appearance, but he was also remarkably good at pointing out all the flaws in just about everything else that he did- especially his artwork. He took commissions online as an added source of income, but he rarely showed anyone he personally knew his paintings (except Èponine, because she was basically his sister) with the explanation that, "I can't have your eyes bleeding all over the nice carpet."
The sketch in his notebook stared back at him as Grantaire's frowned deepened. Jesus, I gave her bug eyes. And her nose is way too big. Fuck, why do I even try? I should've picked a major I'm actually good at- sleeping or some shit like that.
With a sigh, he closed his notebook, folded his arms, and put his head down on the desk.
After what felt like twelve hours, the class was finally dismissed. The professor gave Grantaire another look on his way out, but he just forced an innocent smile and wave back at her as he met up with Jehan, who was waiting for him across the hall.
The poet's face lit up almost immediately when he saw him. "Hello, R."
"Hey, Jehan."
He must've sounded as depressed as he felt at the moment, because the smile faded from Jehan's face and was replaced with concern. "Are you alright?"
"No. I am I ever?" Grantaire asked dryly.
Jehan frowned. "What's wrong?"
"You ever have one of those days where you wake up and the whole world feels like it's on backwards?" Grantaire sighed. "And nothing seems to be going right, and you just spend the whole day wallowing in self-pity?"
Jehan nodded mutely.
"Because I'm having one of those days."
"Did something happen…?"
"Aside from the fact that I'm a complete and total failure?" Grantaire turned to walk to the café they always had lunch at on Wednesdays, and Jehan walked along beside him.
Placing his hands in the pockets of his floral-print jeans (Jehan had the most ridiculous fashion sense out of all of the Amis, frankly, and Grantaire was almost positive that the green shirt he was wearing was Courfeyrac's), the poet spoke sternly. "You are not a total failure."
"The only thing I'm good at is being a little shit, and we both know that."
Jehan tugged on his ginger braid nervously. "You're not a little shit."
"I feel like I am."
Before Jehan could respond, Grantaire missed the last stair coming out of the building, and he fell into a puddle of dirty water on the side of the concrete path. He swore under his breath as he picked up the book he was carrying, which didn't survive the impact with the puddle nearly as well as he did. Though his clothes were now soaked and a bit muddy, he was otherwise unharmed. Fortunately, he'd had enough sense to put his phone in his bag before leaving class, so there was at least one thing that had gone right that day.
"Are you alright?!" Jehan asked, offering him a hand. Grantaire took it, but didn't respond as he examined the book. It was somewhat beaten up copy of A Game of Thrones- that was also now waterlogged, by the looks of it.
"This was Joly's," the cynic said quietly.
"…He'll understand," Jehan said, biting his lip a bit. "It was an accident. I think he'll be glad that you weren't hurt, truthfully."
"I'm such a goddamn moron." Grantaire gave a frustrated sigh, though he sounded more angry at himself than anything else. "I should've put it in my bag. It's not even mine, I'm such a shitty friend, I…"
"R," the poet interrupted, his voice firm despite the fact that he was a generally soft-spoken person, "it's just a book. A book can be replaced. Joly will understand. What can't be replaced is you, and no matter how much you hate yourself right now, I promise that we still love you. Everyone has something beautiful in them, even if you don't see it. I truly believe that."
The cynic stared at him, not knowing what to say.
Jehan offered a timid, gentle smile. "Go home and change. I'll see you at the meeting."
"Right, I…" Grantaire gave the shorter man a pat on the shoulder. "Thanks, Jehan. Really."
"You're welcome."
Somehow, Jean Prouvaire always knew just what to say.
After showering and changing into clean clothes, Grantaire ended up napping on the couch in his living room for a few hours. By the time he woke up, it was time to head over to the Musian for the ABC Club meeting. The café was only about a fifteen minute walk from his and Enjolras' apartment, and it had started to drizzle outside. Grantaire, however, could not be bothered to care much about the rain as he pulled on a sweatshirt and headed out the door.
It was a bit chilly outside, and he probably should've been wearing a thicker (or waterproof) jacket, but he didn't feel like going back and changing. Though he was still largely unhappy (mostly with himself), his talk with Jehan had made him feel a bit better. Prouvaire might've been quiet and rarely ever made eye contact, but he was a good listener, and gave good advice when needed.
Everyone has something beautiful in them, he'd said, but Grantaire failed to see what was so beautiful about himself. Combeferre was patient and levelheaded, always the guide. Courfeyrac was the emotional center in the group, always there to offer a smile to someone in need. Jehan was the kind poet who saw beauty in everything. Bossuet was so good-natured, he even laughed at his own bad luck. Joly had enough love to fill an entire country. Feuilly was so hard-working and optimistic, and Bahorel was so strong. Marius was the dreamer, and Enjolras…he could wax lyrical about everything that made Enjolras beautiful (and he had, multiple times).
But him? He was nothing but a drunken fuck-up, a depressed cynic to his core who just continually let people down every chance he got.
I don't even know why I bother, he thought, as he arrived at the Musian a few minutes early for the meeting.
"R!" Courfeyrac called from the table he was sitting at with Enjolras and Combeferre, "Hey!"
Though the meetings usually started promptly at half past five, the Amis usually wandered in anywhere between five and a quarter to six. Enjolras and Combeferre were always early, and Feuilly was usually the last to arrive, depending on what time he got off from work.
Grantaire gave a small wave of acknowledgement and sat down next to Combeferre after kissing Enjolras on the cheek. Noticing that his boyfriend didn't look to be the best of moods, Enjolras frowned.
"Are you alright?"
"Wish I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that today. Then maybe I'd be able to pay for next semester."
Enjolras' frowned only deepened. "Answer the question."
"I had a pretty shitty day, yeah." Grantaire shrugged. And I hate myself, but that's really nothing new.
"I'm sorry, bro." Courfeyrac reached across the table and put a hand on his shoulder. "Tomorrow'll be better. What happened?"
"Tomorrow'd better be better. I'm running out of shit to fuck up."
"You do not fuck shit up," Enjolras cut in sharply.
"I've made a hobby of it," Grantaire replied flatly. "Let's just say that pretty much everything that went wrong today, did." Oh, and I did the self-deprecation thing you hate so much. That, too.
"The day's almost over." Courfeyrac said, "And you're with friends now. You'll be okay."
Enjolras nodded in agreement. "He's right. Whatever happened today, it's over, alright?"
Courfeyrac grinned. "Of course I'm right. Hey, Enj, can I get that in writing? I want to have it mounted on a plaque above my fireplace."
The glare Courfeyrac received probably could've sent a small animal into shock, but his grin only widened as he laughed.
The other Amis staggered in gradually as five-thirty approached, but Grantaire found himself distracted, even when Courfeyrac tried to tell him about this awesome Dante book that he and Jehan were reading, or when Bahorel boasted about his latest bar fight. Joly didn't seem to care very much about his book when Grantaire apologized for what had happened earlier, but was instead "just glad that you weren't hurt."
Even as Enjolras went off on a tangent about the nature of man, Grantaire couldn't bring himself to listen all that closely. Normally, he'd be butting in every five or so minutes, arguing with their fearless leader and pointing on the flaws in his arguments, but tonight, he was quiet and kept his eyes downcast, lost in his own thoughts. Though they disagreed on just about everything, there was something about the passionate blonde that captivated the cynic when he spoke, that made him actually believe in something. Enjolras was never without Grantaire's attention.
But not tonight.
Enjolras kept glancing at him worriedly between sentences, pausing for familiar counterarguments that weren't there.
Instead, Grantaire found himself staring at the wooden table, drowning in self-hatred.
Why am I even here? He thought. All I do is take up space and piss people off. I'm not even intelligent enough to raise any good points. I just fuck everything up. They shouldn't have to put up with me, especially not like this.
Vaguely, it felt like the room was spinning, and his stomach along with it.
Almost immediately after Enjolras stopped speaking and went to go get more coffee, Grantaire mumbled some sort of excuse about having to get some air and slipped outside. By now, it was dark and pouring rain, and he was wearing nothing heavier than a thin sweatshirt. Rain water seeped through his clothing as he wandered the streets, not really caring about where he was going. Somehow, he ended up at the park several blocks away from the Musian.
The bench he sat on was uncomfortable and soggy, but he buried his face in his hands anyway. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that sitting like this while the rain was almost coming down in sheets was a bad idea and that he was probably going to get some kind of nasty illness from it, but he had absolutely no desire to move.
I really fucking hate myself.
Grantaire had no idea how long he stayed like that, and probably would've stayed like that all night, if he hadn't heard a familiar voice gently say his name.
"Grantaire."
When he looked up, it wasn't raining anymore- at least, not on him. There was an umbrella being held out for him, and attached to that umbrella was Enjolras, red pea coat drenched with rain water and blond curls sticking to his face. His lips were curled small, hopeful smile, instead of anger or disappointment.
The cynic couldn't help but stare.
Wordlessly, Enjolras offered him his free hand and pulled him to his feet. They stood there silently, listening to the rain fall around them as Enjolras laced their fingers together, not taking his eyes off Grantaire. The smile on his face didn't disappear as he gently squeezed the cynic's hand and walked him home.
"Enjolras?"
"Yes?"
Grantaire shifted so that he was looking up at Enjolras, though his head was still pillowed on the man's chest. Enjolras had one arm loosely wrapped around Grantaire while he lazily played with his hair with his free hand.
"Why do you…" Grantaire paused, searching for words. "Why do you put up with me?"
Enjolras frowned, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his damp, ink-colored curls. "You're wonderful, Grantaire. Even if you don't see that, I do."
"I…I don't…"
"I know you don't. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation." Enjolras spoke surprisingly gently for someone who was normally anything but. "If you saw yourself the way I see you, then there would be no way that you would think so poorly of yourself. I count myself an honest man, R, so believe me when I say that."
If there was one thing Grantaire was terrible at, it was receiving compliments. Unsure of how to respond, he buried his face in Enjolras' shirt (which was technically his shirt, but who's counting) and mumbled something unintelligible into the man's chest.
"Grantaire. R. Look at me, please."
Reluctantly, Grantaire did as he was told.
"You are one of the most intelligent, kind, talented, and generous people I know." Enjolras brushed a particularly unruly curl out of his boyfriend's face. "I meant what I said. You're wonderful."
After a minute or so of silence, Grantaire shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I just can't…"
And then Enjolras leaned down and gently pressed his lips against Grantaire's, hoping to convey what he couldn't in words. He hoped Grantaire could understand just how important he was to him, how he kept him grounded, how he wasn't the fuck-up he believed himself to be, and how truly loved he was.
But Enjolras knew he couldn't chase away Grantaire's demons, or fight his battles for him. The most he could do was try to pull the man out of his darkest thoughts, assure him that the sun will rise, and hold him close.
And for now, that was enough.
A/N: This was largely based on a prompt from tumblr that involved Grantaire having a terrible day and ultimately storming out of the Musian and into the pouring rain, only to have Enjolras pop up and comfort him. I hope I didn't make poor Hugo roll over in his grave too much.