They agree to meet up before the funeral. Courfeyrac arranges it, calling and texting until he's coaxed all of them into agreeing to show up at the Musain, just as usual, at eleven o' clock.
The funeral will be at twelve.
They're a diminished group, only parts of a larger whole. They're missing Feuilly and Bossuet. They're supposed to be missing Combeferre, too, but she shows up a little late, moving like an old person, all slow and stiff.
They don't want to think about the other person they're missing.
Carolyn Grantaire skips breakfast now; lunch, too, if she can, so that maybe she might mistake the gnawing feeling in her stomach for hunger. There's a raw emptiness in her, now, like feeling too much and nothing at all, all at the same time. This morning, she staggers out of bed and into the shower with her eyes still glued shut by sleep, and afterwards throws on yesterday's clothes. She isn't wearing black. Her hair is unbrushed.
The cut on her head is already healing. She's lucky. Her mother keeps telling her how lucky she is. She's not Bossuet, whose head-injuries might change his quality of life significantly, assuming that he actually lives. She's not Feuilly, who still isn't breathing without the help of a machine and who doesn't have any family to keep vigil by her bed. She's not even Bahorel, who's not going to be returning to the girls' football team any time soon on account of the compound break in her leg, or Combeferre, who's trying to teach herself to write right-handed because the shattered bones in her left arm are going to take so long to heal. No, Grantaire's lucky.
She doesn't feel lucky.
She feels tired. She felt tired on the day of the accident, she remembers, and she hasn't stopped feeling tired since then.
She goes through the motions, mostly, but there are these awful moments of clarity that make her long for the numbness of exhaustion again.
This morning, on the way to the Musain, her steps are mechanical. She doesn't know why she's even going. On the other side of the street, she spots Joly, and ducks her head in the vain hope that he won't see her. She doesn't feel like talking just yet.
But – God, that's typical – he does see her. His hair, which literally is carrot-coloured, Grantaire always thinks, glints in the late morning sun as he crosses the street in quick, anxious steps.
"Hi, Grantaire," he greets her, and already she has to resist the urge to roll her eyes because seriously, how has she never noticed before how gratingly high-pitched his voice is?
And now he's squinting sideways at her. "You look... really tired," he says limply, and Grantaire laughs; a hard, plosive sound.
"I look like crap, you mean," she says. "Yeah, I know. Not as crap as Bossuet, though, I'm guessing – apparently they had to shave all his hair off before his operation; bet he looks a right sight, now." Maybe if she talks about the unspeakable enough; if she ploughs into it without hesitation, she'll be able to shatter the tension that's been hovering, unshakeable, over the six of them, preventing them from really talking.
"Grantaire, about today, you don't have to -"
She looks at him properly, now, her eyes narrowed almost into slits; thick eyebrows descending.
"Don't." The word emerges a low growl. It's all she says, because it's all she can manage. She strides off ahead of him, after that, leaving him to scurry after her, bleating apologies. Idiot.
-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-
"You're sure you don't want me to pick you up - ?"
Anna Combeferre shakes her head, ignoring the resultant twitch of consternation in her father's jaw. "Mum will want you to go with her to see -" she hates the way the words stick in her throat; it's ridiculous; they're just words, "- to see his parents."
She can't even make herself say his name. Why can't she do that? It's stupid. She's been in and out of Mr and Mrs Enjolras' house so many times over the years that she might as well call it 'home 2.0' and have a bed there. She pauses in the act of fumbling with her seatbelt, accosted by a memory. In it, she and Enjolras are maybe eight or so. They're climbing a tree in Enjolras' back garden. Enjolras is intent on reaching the top. His face is full of fierce determination even now, so young, and his hair is a wild tangle. He did get all the way up there, she remembers. She didn't. Well aware of her limitations, she'd stopped before the branches became too supple and far apart, knowing she'd most likely fall. Enjolras has – had – always taken life full tilt. She's more careful and moderate by nature. Enjolras' school reports always called him 'engaging' and 'challenging'. Combeferre's say things like 'reliable' and 'conscientious'. She'll never be remarkable in the way the he was, and that's fine by her. That's okay. What isn't okay is that someone like him can be there one minute, so full of the future, and then gone in a second. It doesn't make sense, no matter which way she tries to think of it, and she's never had trouble making sense of things before.
"You alright?" her father's voice, laced with concern, jolts her out of her reverie.
"Fine," she tells him tightly, eventually getting her seatbelt undone, "I'm fine. See you in a bit."
She's hoping that will be it. She'll get out of there without having to deal with any more of this awful silence (punctuated occasionally by awkward, half-hearted questions). But the door proves even more difficult than her seatbelt, because she has to turn in her seat and her cast is bulky and just gets in the way. She can practically hear her dad's brain churning over what to say next.
"Do you -" he sounds so unsure, "Do you need some help?"
She shakes her head tersely and – oh, God, finally – manages to get the door open. Gingerly, she gets out of the car.
"Well then," says her father, feebly, "See you later."
Then she closes the door and he drives away.
-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-
"I'm worried about Feuilly," Jehan says, honestly. "I keep waking up in the middle of the night and thinking she's – she's – something's happened to her while I've been asleep.
Courfeyrac plays for time by taking a sip of still-too-hot-to-drink hot chocolate, because what do you say to something like that? For once, he's lost for words, and it makes him feel uncertain and off-balance.
"She'll be alright," he manages, after a moment, "You watch, she'll wake up and be like, Jehan, you could've picked a more interesting book to read to me while I was nearly-dying."
Jehan blanches at this, and Courfeyrac attempts to backpedal hastily.
"You know I didn't mean that, yeah? I was just exaggerating; being stupid. Yeah?" he says again, a touch desperately now, because Jehan still isn't saying anything.
The other boy manages a weak "Yeah," and Courfeyrac is trying to think of a topic that doesn't involve Feuilly or Enjolras when the Musain's door swings open, sending the wind-chimes above it tinkling madly, and a familiar brown-haired girl wearing those awful thick-framed glasses steps carefully inside. Courfeyrac, overzealous in this new tenuousness, stands up and waves enthusiastically to get her attention, even though they're sitting in the same corner they always take.
"Courfeyrac, seriously," says Grantaire, dryly, from where she's sitting at Jehan's other side. No one notices the automatic glance she sends to her left, at the seat where Enjolras would usually be sitting. No one sees the way she sags a little in her seat, dropping her chin onto her hand. They're watching Courfeyrac, who is all but flinging himself at Combeferre in an unrestrained show of mingled relief and what under normal circumstances might be called excitement.
"I didn't think you were getting out until later this week!" he says, pulling her into a hug.
"Uh – well -" says Combeferre, breathless; strained, "I suppose today counts as – special circumstances."
"You're hurting her," Joly says.
"Bad dog. Put the injured girl down." Grantaire's tone is dry, but it's the first attempt at humour she's made since their arrival, and Courfeyrac, apologetically releasing a gasping Combeferre, can't help but feel a small surge of relief at this minor turn of events. Grantaire is the one person he's a little afraid to talk to, if only because he doesn't want to hear the complete hopelessness in her voice.
Nobody says anything for a minute. Combeferre gingerly settles herself into a seat and Bahorel, sitting across from her, breaks the momentary lull:
"Your mother still stressing out like crazy?"
A slightly wheezy laugh. "A bit."
"Shit, Combeferre, your mother's neurotic. You're still alive, so-"
It's Bahorel's turn to mess up. Except, unlike Courfeyrac, she doesn't even bother backtracking and trying to smooth things out. In typical Bahorel fashion, she goes on:
"Ok, so I'm just going to say it, because no one else seems to want to. Enjolras is gone. It's shit. It's fucking unfair. But it is what it is. We can try and pretend everything's normal all we like, but he's not coming back. He's getting buried today. And that's it. So we better all stop acting like kids and deal with it."
No one says anything.
Jehan and Combeferre are looking at her with concern. Courfeyrac looks poised on the edge of a retort.
Grantaire stands up, so quickly that her chair skitters backwards. The look she gives Bahorel is poisonous, but apparently she's beyond words, too, because she stalks out of the cafe without a word; without even stooping to pick up her bag, or snagging her coat from behind her. Courfeyrac starts after her, but Combeferre shakes her head at him, and he subsides back into his seat.
So now there are five of them where usually there would be nine. The loss of Enjolras is an acrid, tangible thing. It hangs like smoke, cloying and unavoidable. It makes their eyes sting and clogs up their throats.
And twelve o' clock ticks closer.
-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-
It figures, Grantaire thinks, bitter without quite knowing why, that pretty much the entire town would show up for Enjolras' funeral. She spots Zephine, Dahlia and Favourite, the women who run the flower-shop just off the high-street, and wonders what the heck they're doing here. Enjolras had probably never spoken to any of them once in his life.
Enjolras' coffin is a shiny, dark reddish wood. She can't look at it without imagining the cold, rigid body inside it.
In the pew in front of hers, some of Mrs Bergham's foster kids – the Thenardier kids and a black haired boy called Mont-something-or-other – are talking amongst themselves while the organ plays. Their muffled voices fill Grantaire with a tight, pulsing rage. She doesn't believe in all that crap about disrespecting the dead (it's not like they're ever going to know; they're dead, that's the whole point), but that lot should shut up and show a bit of respect anyway.
Grantaire sits on her hands, pressing the palms against the warm wood beneath her. She thinks about how angry she is, because it's easier than thinking of other things.
The music stops. The vicar's address is dry and trite. Grantaire doesn't listen.
People read things out, ascending to the lectern with trembling hands and tight faces. One of them is Enjolras' father, who manages to keep his voice steady the whole time, though he keeps blinking rapidly as though he's trying to wake himself from an awful dream.
Enjolras' mother, a few days ago, called his friends each in turn to ask if they'd read something for him. Grantaire flatly refused. Jehan and Combeferre both read. Jehan reads some poem or other – Grantaire doesn't know or care who wrote it, and Enjolras would probably think it was a bunch of crap, anyway. The last lines, he chokes out, fairly forcing himself to finish the piece. The paper reverberates in his hands, and he bites his lip in a fruitless attempt to rein in his tears. Combeferre, for her part, fares better; she doesn't read, but talks about a memory of Enjolras from when they were younger. Her voice shakes slightly in places, and she has to briefly pause, but she doesn't cry.
They all rise to their feet. Pick up hymn-books. Open them. Sing. Enjolras' mother chose the hymn. It's something about being lambs of God, and Enjolras would've hated it, Grantaire is sure.
She doesn't cry. The roiling heat in the pit of her stomach keeps her from crying.
And then it's over. His close family are following the coffin-bearers to the cemetery for the burial itself, and everyone else is filing out into the daylight, to the humming drone of the old organ. People cry. They cling to each other. And suddenly, Grantaire realises that she wants to cry, but now that she wants to, she can't. She's dry eyed. Weightless.
She had thought today would make her feel something; some sense of finality. But it doesn't. There's just that same complete, flat lack of belief even in the face of the truth. That same refusal to accept that he is gone. Her friends gather. They immerse themselves in their pain, because it's the only way to move through it.
Grantaire can't. She's stuck. Maybe she wouldn't move on, even if she could.