This was more a cultivation of my own feelings than anything else. I didn't mean for this to end up in Grantaire's perspective, because I uaully write Combeferre, so I don't know what happened. Nor did I intend on him being as self-loathing as he is here, but I suppose I'm not surprised. I'd have liked to incorporate more of his loathing of the world, honestly.
Anyway, here's modern AU Combeferre trying to comfort depressed Grantaire. Implied awkward friends with crushes dancing around one another.
Grantaire's bad days are bad from the very beginning. They start out exactly like today. He wakes up, after a decent sleep in his own bed, and the first thought in his head is that he's not going to do anything today.
There's plenty that he could do. His life is not empty, by any means. There are his classes, and his shitty, worthless job at the grocery store. He could be doing coursework or filling out applications elsewhere, but he's not. Then there are his paintings, which are not bad, but still go nowhere, simply because he is the artist. He lacks motivation. That's what holds him back, and his whole life, it's been unshakeable; it's as if this is the way he was meant to be. Stagnant, unmoving, unable to progress… he's useless. No matter what he could accomplish in the next few hours, even if he truly wants to get something done, he's not going to.
So Grantaire cuts his losses, and decides not to get up.
He spends long hours in bed, curled up on his side, staring blankly at the wall. There's not much he can do beside think, and his thoughts continue to spiral downward. If he could get out of bed, he'd get himself a drink, and numb to his sadness in a couple hours. But as of right now, even that seems to take too much effort. As time goes on, as he thinks himself into a darker and darker hole, time begins to feel meaningless. Hours go by— it must be noon by now— and he barely notices. The phone rings, but he doesn't answer it. He feels numb, deadweight, like he's becoming part of his mattress. A part of him wishes he would, just to stop being unmotivated Grantaire.
There's an uncomfortable knot twisting in his stomach, and he isn't sure whether he's going to throw up or kill himself.
The front door opens, and he hears it, but the sound doesn't register in his brain. A moment passes in silence, and then a voice comes from behind him. He jumps, just slightly.
"Grantaire."
The voice that calls him out of his thoughts is firm, but with an underlying gentility to it. He knows that tone. Grantaire glances over his shoulder, and then curls further into himself. "How did you get in here?"
Combeferre is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. His face is blank, but his eyes are mild. Grantaire is surprised that he's here. They're friends, of course, but Grantaire didn't think they were the kind of friends who came into each other's apartments uninvited. Besides, he's more Enjolras' friend, anyway. Worthy of the great leader. So why is he bothering with him?
He's very non-threatening, of course, but Grantaire still gets defensive.
"Your spare key isn't very well hidden," he answers. That's true. There's only one measly potted plant he had sitting on his porch, so there is no other option. Grantaire has no witty response, for once, so he stays silent. He doesn't feel like his wry humor today.
The blonde, too, says nothing else— no explanation for showing up here, nothing. It takes a moment for Grantaire to figure out what it is. A few of their friends were supposed to meet for breakfast this morning, Grantaire included. He didn't show— he forgot. But this sudden realization doesn't startle him the way a missed appointment would startle anyone else. Why be surprised? The insufficient drunk has failed at something yet again.
"So, did I wake you?"
"No."
"Why didn't you come this morning? I… We were looking forward to seeing you."
Grantaire catches the slip, and his eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing. Combeferre is… out of his league. And that's putting it lightly. The guide is good, and nothing but. He's not Enjolras, granted, more of a mortal man than his godlike best friend. Still, he hasn't got a vicious bone in his body. He doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, doesn't fall behind on schoolwork or fail tests or flunk classes… His worth as a human being is still more than Grantaire himself. Truly, best not make something out of nothing. "I was busy," he answers dryly, and then scoffs at his own bad humor. "No. I just didn't feel like it, that's all."
Combeferre hesitates for a second. He steps into the room, toward the bed. Grantaire doesn't invite him any further, but doesn't move, either. Dark eyes watch the guide as he stands in the middle of the room, rubbing awkwardly at the side of his neck. A few more seconds pass, and he sighs. "Don't do this to yourself, R."
He knows. Of course he knows. Combeferre is too fucking intuitive. The cynic lets out a long, low breath, and looks from gentle blue eyes to the unpainted ceiling, attempting to collect his thoughts before he speaks. No need to fall apart in front of the guide. "Do what?" His voice comes out bitter, though he doesn't mean for it to be. He's bitter at himself, not at Combeferre. On defense, he projects his self-loathing outward, just as he always does. "Be honest with myself? The whole world is shit, and I don't want to put up with it today."
"That's not true."
"You're right, it's just the part of it I live in."
Again, the guide says nothing. Grantaire just huffs, rolling back over on his other side, waiting for the other to leave him be. Just leave him alone.
But Combeferre doesn't. "Hey," he calls, his tone airy and soft. It's something that Grantaire can hardly understand, that tone being used addressing him. It isn't something he hears often. A hand suddenly lands on his arm, and his muscles tense. The voice pauses again, and then somehow manages to come out even more meekly. "Don't… I came here to try to help you." Combeferre holds his gaze, pale eyes full of concern, lips parted, as if he wants to say something, but the words won't pass his lips. The cynic starts to think that maybe there are no words. All the usual bullshit people spout off, the 'it's not your fault,' the 'you're not a failure,' he doesn't want to hear any of it. Apparently, Combeferre knows that. He isn't saying any of the meaningless crap; in fact, he seems to be trying very hard not to. In which case, he's being sincere about this, about wanting to help him.
Is that why he came here, then?
The eyes on him are genuine, honest. Worried. No one ever looks at him like that. It makes it tempting to open himself up to someone else, even in just this small sense, which is something Grantaire doesn't do very often. But that's what Combeferre wants from him, right? Isn't that what the look on his face means?
He concedes with a small nod, tries to convince himself that he doesn't want Combeferre to stay as much as he is starting to realize.
They sort of fall together, without either knowing exactly how they did. Combeferre sits on the bed, and shifts so his back is against the pillows. Grantaire props himself up beside him, leaning against him lightly. One of the guide's arms ends up slung over his shoulders, and strangely enough, it's comforting. Having someone there for him is something the cynic is not used to. Of course, this could mean less than he wants to think it does. Combeferre may consider that he's just helping a friend out; after all, his friends are always his first priority. If that is the way he sees things, though, he doesn't express it. Good, because Grantaire would rather pretend.
"You didn't miss much," the guide murmurs finally, seeming much more at ease now. "Courfeyrac rambled for a long time about his latest conquest, and Joly fretted about some food recall he heard about on the news today." A light shrug. "That's about it."
"Hmm," Grantaire grunts in response. He's still not happy, per se. Not cured. But in this position, he can at least begin to think clearly again, more objectively. And Combeferre's cologne is nice.
Perhaps, even if he does nothing today, it won't be so bad.