"That's all you're going to have?"

Enjolras ignored the question, adding milk to his bran flakes.

"Seriously. Enjolras." Combeferre's voice adopted a rare yet stern urgency. Enjolras slammed his spoon into the bowl and turned to his best friend. Combeferre continued. "Is that all you've had today?"

"I'm fine," Enjolras glared at Combeferre. His eyes were like ice, catching Combeferre's breath in his throat. Enjolras was known for his quick temper, and while Combeferre had definitely seen that look before, he was rarely at the receiving end.

Enjolras turned away from his friend. His back was tense and Combeferre knew that Enjolras had zoned out. Combeferre hated this withdrawn and angry state. Enjolras and Combeferre were ordinarily inseparable. They were more than friends; rather, each considered the other a brother.

Usually, Enjolras would come to Combeferre to calm himself. Combeferre's patient logic had the unique ability to relax his friend's tense brow and light a smile in his serious eyes.

Usually. Combeferre frowned but was distracted by the flailing form that stumbled into the kitchen.

"'Ferre! Skipping out on the party?" The sloppy man straightened himself when he saw the man hunched over the table. His lips stretched into a smile and he shook his bottle towards him. "Hey, hey! Apollo's back!"

He joined the blond man at the table, despite Combeferre's subtle attempts to stop him. "Where've you been, Apollo?"

Enjolras ignored him.

Combeferre cleared his throat. "Grantaire, leave him be. Let's just go back to the others."

Unfortunately for the three men, Grantaire was too drunk to catch the serious undertones in Combeferre's voice. Grantaire tipped his head back, laughing and splashing beer over the tabletop. His dark curls spilled over the back of the chair as he slipped lower into the chair.

"This is a sight," he slurred. "A god fraterrrr . . . frat- uh . . ." Grantaire took another swig of his bottle and tried again. "Not used to seeing the great Apollo . . . doing something so human." He rolled his head to address Combeferre. "Never see him eat." He directed his attention back to Enjolras. "And you choose – what? Cereal? What is that shit? If you're gonna pour the milk, then put it on some good shit. Put it on some Lucky Charms." Laughing again, he raised his arm heavily and slapped his hand across Enjolras' back.

The contact snapped Enjolras into action. He was suddenly on his feet.

"Fuck off."

Enjolras' eyes had lost the icy coldness that had met Combeferre's before. Now they were like fire. Enjolras hulked over the table, his face inches from Grantaire's. His eyes flashed violently while his lips disappeared into a tight line. His face was red and his chest expanded and contracted heavily. Grantaire was the antithesis of Combeferre's cool effect on Enjolras. He easily irritated the blond – practically daily, but this was different.

"Enjolras –" Combeferre began.

Grantaire interrupted, wide-eyed with Enjolras's proximity. "You are so sexy –"

Enjolras grabbed Grantaire's collar and yanked him to his feet. His face morphed into a terrifying sneer. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" He shook the drunkard with each shout and punctuated it by throwing Grantaire away from him.

Grantaire flew backwards, tipping over the chair he had been sitting in and landing on his back. His bottle shattered, shooting triangles of glass across the floor. Grantaire's mouth gaped open as he tried to pull himself up. His movements were stupid and uncoordinated. Combeferre rushed to his side to help him up.

"Enjolras." Combeferre's voice was low. There was a question behind the evident disapproval.

"Don't even." Enjolras turned away from the two men, combing a hand through his sweaty curls. He turned back and pointed harshly at Grantaire. "I am through with him."

Combeferre balanced Grantaire against his shoulder. The drunken man, still dazed and stained with wet patches of beer, leaned his full weight against his friend. Combeferre could admit that Grantaire's habits were pathetic and often annoying but he also knew that there was something else irritating his best friend.

"This isn't about him. What's going on?"

Grantaire sloppily stepped forward. "Apollo."

That word was a trigger. Grantaire started using it the first time he had met Enjolras, blabbering on and on in his usual inebriated state about how perfectly the blond resembled the Greek god. Enjolras, who rejected personal attention unless he could use it to advance a social justice agenda, hated the nickname.

"I am so fucking done with you!" Enjolras lunged towards Grantaire. Combeferre pivoted to stand between the two men. "'Ferre, get out of my way. 'Ferre, I'm not fucking with you. Get out of my way." Enjolras pushed against his friend.

In these situations, Combeferre was as collected as Enjolras was impulsive. He stood two inches over his friend, but Enjolras was stronger. Yet he did not have to work hard to restrain his friend. Enjolras calmed against the bulk of his friend and stopped fighting against him. Yet his fury was far from abated. Enjolras took a step back from Combeferre and fixed a steely, unforgiving glare on Grantaire.

"You are useless. You are nothing. You live for nothing. You believe in nothing. You are nothing to me. You are nothing. Nobody likes you because you can't even be real with us. You're drunk all of the time. You don't contribute anything to the cause. You just screw everything up. You hear that? You screw everything up." Enjolras' voice had escalated until he was shouting at the top of his lungs. "Grantaire, get out."

Grantaire was numb. He did not seem to follow Enjolras' message until those final words. He started and his lips quivered. "You don't mean that?" His eyes frantically searched Enjolras' face for a sign of repentance. "Apollo…?"

He was hopelessly pathetic.

Hopelessly drunk, Combeferre thought.

Enjolras leaned towards him, an unfamiliar glint piercing the deep blue of his eyes. "I hate you."

"Enjolras!" The voice was softer and new. Enjolras spun towards the squeak and was met with a crowd of uncertain expressions. The kitchen was suddenly too full, every eye on him. He was suddenly aware of the pulse of the music from the other room, a techno heartbeat that raced his own.

The tense silence in the kitchen was broken by another squeak. "Enjolras?" It was a question this time, issued by Jehan. He stared beyond Enjolras with large, round eyes. Enjolras followed his desperate gaze to Grantaire.

Enjolras was immediately punctured with regret. Grantaire was huddled on the floor, whimpering into his arms. Combeferre knelt beside him, rubbing circles around his back. He gazed at Enjolras steadily; his face unreadable.

Enjolras froze for a moment, held captive by those eyes that were both empty and full, before bolting to his room. He pressed his back against the door, desperate for its solidness. Indistinct murmurs permeated the wood and cluttered his mind. He closed his eyes. The music had stopped. Sound was moving, concentrated further from his door. Everyone must be leaving. Decrescendo. Four voices. Two voices. Silence. The soprano crash of glass kissing glass. Enjolras closed his eyes. He could see Combeferre picking up bottles, aimlessly throwing them into the bin. One bottle at a time. Destruction was alleviation even for the most peaceful man. Silence was unbearable for confusion.

Enjolras slid down until his knees pressed into his chest. Damn that Grantaire. He was bitter. He hated the effect that man had on him.

Enjolras would be the first to admit that he had a temper. His lips twitched into a wry smile. Combeferre always told him that he was too passionate not to be hot-headed. Enjolras was used to yelling and arguing and turning bright shades of red. He was not used to completely losing himself to anger. He had a temper, but he knew how to control it.

Enjolras held his palms in front of his face. He was trembling. He had completely lost it – and in front of everybody. That was the worst part. He was the leader, and now his credibility was threatened.

His stomach twisted sharply. No. That was not the worst part. Grantaire's face flashed into his mind. That was the worst part.

Enjolras was a powerful speaker. Combeferre often told him that words were his "superpower". He knew how to use them. He had debated innumerable peers and professors and professionals on every topic for which he had a stance, which was most of them. He had left many of them defeated. Humiliated. Crushed.

This was different. Grantaire was . . . Enjolras struggled for the term.

Hurt.

Bzzzzzz. His pocket vibrated dully, yanking him from his thoughts. Enjolras pulled his phone out and checked the screen. His breath hitched, and he hesitated before opening the message:

You in?

Enjolras slowly released his breath. His fingers stalled, idly trembling over the screen. The phone buzzed again:

Got to know now. You in?

Combeferre was going to kill him. Enjolras knew that to be a fact. And not just because of what he was seriously considering doing, but because – for the first time – Enjolras was going to make a significant decision for the group without consulting both him and Courfeyrac.

Enjolras opened the next message automatically:

We need you.

Enjolras' fingers clumsily danced across the screen:

We're in.

"Send," he whispered. His fingers obeyed the command. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the door, sliding the phone across the floor, away from him.

Combeferre did not know how long he had been staring at the closed door. His vigil was interrupted only by the music emanating from the counter. He checked his phone's screen: Courfeyrac.

"Hey," he answered wearily.

"We're back."

"How's he doing?"

Combeferre could hear the smile stretching across Courfeyrac's face through the phone. "Well, he's currently puking his guts out. Jehan's totally freaking out and throwing flower petals at him. I have no idea why. Wish you could see it." Courfeyrac paused. "Everything's back to normal."

Combeferre ignored the question inherent in those last words. "Sorry your party was ruined."

Courfeyrac laughed. "No surprise there. Seriously, though. I think I am seriously going to have to move in with you guys to teach you both how to have some fun."

"You'll just become as boring as us," Combeferre smiled. "Call me if you need any help over there." Combeferre could not stifle his smile as he ended the call; Courfeyrac was able to lighten any situation.

Combeferre stretched, yawning. He should really take the opportunity to spend at least an hour studying. Midterms were a week away and he had been spending a lot of time lately helping Enjolras organize several rallies to protest rising tuition and cuts to various social protection programs.

He frowned at the table, where Enjolras' bowl sat, forgotten. He picked it up and carried it to the sink. It was full: bloated, pale flakes sunk under a cloudy pool of milk. Again, Combeferre lost himself in thought.

He knew his best friend. Even when Enjolras retreated into himself, when he was distant, Combeferre could read him. And he knew: Enjolras was hiding something.