"For goodness' sake, Grantaire, will you please hold still?"

Grantaire snorted, the expression on his face made even uglier by his split lip and the bleeding cut across his eyebrow – which Combeferre was currently attempting to clean. His left eye was bruised and starting to swell closed, and strands of his black hair, falling in messy curls on his forehead, was mattered with drying blood.

He looked pitiful, he knew, but undeserving of any kind of pity, especially Combeferre's. The strong, wet pity that he held for the people he was so intent on fighting for – that he was willing to sacrifice his ideals of peace for. Not for him, never for him, and Grantaire would never ask. He gripped the table with his right hand and sat on his left, trying to hide the fact that it was shaking. Useless.

Combeferre sighed.

"I know it hurts," he said as patiently as he could, "but if you hold still for two minutes and let me clean this, it'll be over before you even realise."

"I don't see why you're fussing."

"Because you'd rather leave this untreated? This might need to be sewed closed, Grantaire."

"I know I should've gone to Joly instead – he wouldn't have made me feel like an idiot."

"And yet to came to me," Combeferre raised an eyebrow. When Grantaire didn't respond, he pried further. "I'm sorry. Making you feel like an idiot isn't my intention. But you wanted this to be taken care of. You're in pain, Grantaire. I'm not judging you for this."

"For this," Grantaire muttered through his teeth. "It is still pity."

"Not for this," Combeferre acquiesced. "It isn't pity. I think you shouldn't have hit him. You don't have to prove anything."

"Yes, there, exactly," Grantaire frowned and shook his head. Combeferre looked at him, expression harsh, and Grantaire relaxed his features so that the other could finish cleaning the cut. Not to be so easily quieted, though, Grantaire rolled his eyes instead. "Joly would have given me a pat on the back and offered me wine and bread for this. Then Bossuet would have spilled his glass on my lap. We'd have fallen in bed like the drunk messes we are and tonight would have been perfect."

"You do not give Joly enough credit - he would have fussed as much as I do and you know it. He might not have scolded you for getting yourself hurt in the first place, maybe, but in truth, I do not think I am. I am simply telling you that you shouldn't have hit that man."

Grantaire scoffed.

"The son of a whore deserved it."

"Perhaps he did. But were you in any place to judge?"

"Maybe not. I was only in a place where I could punch his snotty nose and knock off his teeth, though, and if I could insult his mother while I was at it, all the better! Are you in any place to judge me? You are, most likely – after all, you are the one who is forced to keep late hours, washing what grime you can from my skin. Still, I don't care very much about your judging of me."

"No, indeed you don't," Combeferre's voice was uncharacteristically flat.

Grantaire looked at him, a curious look flashing in his eyes – then the interest was gone and he blinked, suddenly teary as Combeferre reached the deepest part of the cut.

"I really should have gone to Joly!" he complained. "He wouldn't have hurt me so! This would have been long over."

"Maybe you should have," Combeferre was growing tired, and impatient. "He wouldn't have told you in so many words, but he would have still asked why you hit the man. What would you have said, then? The truth? Do you not care about this, at the very least?"

Grantaire froze, but quickly hid his surprise again behind his carefully constructed mask of indifference. But he hid too quickly, and therefore carelessly – his shoulders were still tense, and the knuckles of his right hand, still holding the table, were white and swollen.

"You – of course you know," he breathed.

He bit his lip, which made it bleed again. Combeferre, his mood quickly softening, grabbed a piece of cloth and handed it to him. Grantaire took it and wordlessly held it to his mouth.

"I do. I know everything, after all, don't I?" Combeferre smiled wryly, but his voice, though not unkind, was still hard. "Your affections might be overlooked by others, but I have known Enjolras far longer than any of them. I know, and unlike what you might believe, I don't judge you. It isn't my business to."

Grantaire let out a barked, painful laugh.

"For what that is worth. Should I be glad?"

Combeferre frowned.

"I'm afraid this is all I can give you, Grantaire. I hope you can let it be some healing for you."

A moment of tense silence followed, broken only by the screeches of two stray cats fighting under the window and Grantaire's ragged breathing.

"There," The moment passed and Combeferre squeezed his shoulder. "Unless you want to let me take a look at your ribs."

"Unnecessary," Grantaire protested.

"Of course you think so," Combeferre knew – hoped - that if the ribs were truly bruised, Grantaire would have been too weakened by pain to argue with him. Grantaire's movements were slow, sluggish and clumsy, but not too pained, and so he didn't push. "Now, don't remove the bandage for the next twelve hours. And, please, don't attempt to clean it yourself. If the pain gets worse, come to me, or see Joly if you prefer. Just don't pick at it, for goodness' sake, or it'll leave a scar."

Grantaire rose and attempted to stretch, but his knees buckled and he would have fallen to the floor had Combeferre not risen at the same time to put a steading hand to his back, concern etched in every line of his face. Grantaire caught his breath and bit the inside of his cheek.

"What, you honestly believe a scar could make this face look even worse?" A sickly grin twisted his features.

"Grantaire. I really would prefer it if you stayed here, at least until the morning. Your head and your ribs could have suffered more than I can see."

"Again, I repeat – you think a punch or two could injure my brain more than it is already damaged?"

Combeferre sighed. "You don't care, do you? You've made that point clear."

"Good, then."

"And you know I do. You've also made that point quite clear."

"And rightly so. You are a fool, Combeferre."

"Maybe. How do you expect me to believe you will care enough to feed yourself properly and get enough rest?"

"Because I don't need to care," Grantaire shrugged. "I just can. I have a roof under which to rest, and enough francs in my pocket for many warm meals, and plenty of drink to wash them down. Why deny myself what I can afford? I could be rich yet still go hungry, but what good would that do? The poor people of Paris will still freeze, and starve, and there is nothing I can do about it, so I intend to rest and eat, not because I want to, but because it is simply easier. I can not care with a full stomach as much as I can with an empty one, so why would I take the difficult path? "

Exhaustion was lighting stars behind Combeferre's eyelids. He rubbed his forehead, which earned him a few more minutes of clear thought. He focused of the man standing in front of him, his crooked nose, his bloated lip and dark eyes, his dirty clothes.

"Your cynicism blinds you, friend. I might be a fool, but I care – we all do. You are our brother and we do not hate you."

Grantaire kept quiet. He shrugged on his coat and slowly, wearily put on his hat.

"… and neither does Enjolras," Combeferre finished, watching Grantaire's face for any sign that his words had had any effect on the other's spirit.

And a sign he found, subtle, but present: Grantaire grunted, shakily. His cheeks were still flushed, although he obviously was increasingly sober by the minute.

"If I listened to you," he said after a moment, his voice quieter than Combeferre expected, almost thoughtful, even. But his eyes were faraway, distracted. "I would not have teeth to eat my bread with anymore. Good night, Combeferre. I might see you tomorrow."

He left, quietly shutting the door behind him.

I'm afraid my Grantaire voice is not quite there yet - as always, please tell me what you think, it would mean a lot to me! Thank you for reading. :)