Of Fevers and Unwanted Help
He hadn't been there for several days, and that within itself was enough to make Les Amis worry for their blond friend. Enjolras always made it a point to show up at the café at least once a day if not twice or sometimes even three times. But today he had not made one visit.
Grantaire had left early, having no one to irritate, and walked blindly through the streets of Paris. He found himself outside of a large house that he barely recognized as Enjolras' rooms. He walked in without a word, starting for the stairs up to the third floor.
"Monsieur?"
Grantaire turned to see an aging woman standing behind him on the steps. "What?"
"Can I help you?"
"I'm looking for…" What was his first name? He didn't even know. "Enjolras. Blond, young, pretty face."
"Of course."
"Which door?"
"Second on the second floor, but he won't answer."
"Why?"
"He's been very ill the last several days."
"Ill? Enjolras?"
The old woman nodded. "You're a friend of his, yes? Perhaps you might talk some sense into him. He won't let me call for a doctor."
Grantaire frowned as the landlady led him up to the door and opened it for him. He nodded his brief thanks and slipped into the room. It was dark, only one low burning candle on the bedside table lit Enjolras' sleeping face. He looked pale – paler than usual – in the dimmed light and the drunkard could see beads of sweat dripping from him. He stirred as the door clicked shut.
"Grantaire? What are you doing here?" he mumbled, his voice raspy with disuse and raw from coughing.
"Couldn't find you in the café so I tracked you down here," the scruffy man said flippantly. "You look awful."
This received a glare but no comment in return, so Grantaire moved forward and, upon finding no chair in the mall room, sat on the edge of the bed. Enjolras frowned and tried to scoot away from him, but the other held him where he was, reaching a hand to his face. "Why won't you see a doctor?"
"That's none of your concern," Enjolras hissed.
Grantaire sighed heavily leaning back and propping himself up with his hands. "You, for all your mind, can be dense."
"You're not drunk." It was not a question, but a statement said in an almost awed manner.
"What of it?"
"A rarity."
"As much so as the great Apollo lying in bed, sick as a dog and unwilling to do anything to get himself back to his plotting and planning."
"I can't help it," the fever plagued man murmured.
"Your landlady said she's been begging to send for a doctor."
Grantaire watched the emotions that played over the typically unreadable face. Frustration, anger, embarrassment, and a variety of everything else ran through the hazed over blue eyes and Enjolras finally let out a sigh. "I've no money for it," he said at last.
"That's a lie. Your old man has more money than he knows what to do with," Grantaire said as he reached for a bowl of water that was on the nightstand and dipped a cloth into it. He smoothed back blond hair as he put the cloth to the other man's face as gently as he could.
"And he's angry once more. He cut me off a month ago." Enjolras turned away, inching away from the close contact of the cool cloth with his burning skin.
"You can borrow it from any of us, you know…"
"I will not," Enjolras responded forcefully.
Grantaire huffed in frustration and stood.
"Where are you going?"
"To get a doctor."
"But I told you-"
"You won't be borrowing."
"You don't have money to throw about, Grantaire."
"I do it every time I buy a bottle of wine," the drunkard said with a shrug. "It'll just be a day I'll go without."
"Why…?"
A smirk crossed his lips. "Your revolution would die outwithout you. They need their Fearless Leader, right?" That said he was gone, off to find a doctor.
Enjolras was back on his feet several days later, acting as if nothing had ever happened.Neither he nor Grantaire spoke of what happened and it was not until Grantaire found a small note in his chair that he knew for certain that the entire ordeal had not been lost to a fever plagued mind. It was simple paper and the letters were beautiful, as anything that Enjolras did. The drunkard smiled as he read the two simple words of "Thank you" on the note. He folded it carefully into his vest pocket and stood, wine untouched, and moved to listen closer to what the other spoke of that evening.