CHAPTER 2 - I SHOULD NOT HAVE TRUSTED YOU

It was well after midnight when Enjolras left the Cougourde d'Aix. The meeting had gone exceptionally well and he should have been overjoyed. He ran over the figures they had promised him in his head and gave a heavy sigh of mingled satisfaction and disappointment.

He had lost the soaring eloquence and lively wit he had shown just fifteen minutes ago. A black humour, most unusual for his impassioned and devoted mind, had firmly descended upon him, snuffing out the flame of happiness that had been lit by the meeting's success.

The image of Grantaire playing dominoes would not leave his mind, though he could not imagine why. He sternly told himself that he should not feel so hurt by this but, for some weird reason, he did. He felt let down and betrayed by the group sceptic, who'd promised to do so well. To top it all, Grantaire's failure meant that he had missed out on a valuable report and the anger was bubbling like fire in his passionate young heart.

"Had Etienne or Christophe done this to me, I should be distraught – they are my best friends!" he said to himself. "But I care not a jot for Grantaire and his senseless rambles! I should not feel hurt! No, I am not hurt! I am furious, yes, but I will not let this bother me!"

And so Enjolras tried to swallow the bitter feeling of betrayal that made his throat tighten and his fists clench as he stomped home angrily. Well, it would hardly be apt to call it 'stomping' – Enjolras was far too elegant and controlled for such actions. He was walking with brisk, angry strides that clattered loudly on the smooth cobbles, while an angry tirade of thoughts flowed through his solemn young mind.

His return journey brought him once more past the Barrière du Maine. He cast a glower towards its doorway, ready to continue walking, when a bright figure stumbled over the threshold…

Grantaire. Utterly inebriated.

Not trusting his control over his anger, Enjolras turned on his heel to walk away before he could harm his failed Ami. He was halted once again by his name being called in a slurred voice.

"Enjolras! Fancy meeting…you here." Grantaire staggered towards him with a beaming smile. Enjolras dug his fingernails into his palms, glaring at him with a countenance so icy, he really might have been carved from stone. If looks could kill, Grantaire would have just gulped down his very last glass of absinthe.

"It's a nice night!" Grantaire observed cheerfully, throwing an arm familiarly around Enjolras's shoulders and walking along with him. "Where's Com'ferre?"

"At home, I would expect. He'll have done his duty for the republic, the same as all the others will have!" Enjolras spoke with frigid contempt, as he fiercely shook Grantaire's arm away. Grantaire simply continued to grin, too drunk to comprehend.

"You know, there was a man who looked like he had…" Grantaire giggled, not finishing his sentence. "You better not tell Joly. He'll think its contagious, silly boy!"

"Christophe may have an over active imagination when it comes to his health but he is one of the smartest, bravest, most considerate men I know!" snapped Enjolras, halting and scowling at Grantaire. "He is devoted to the cause and devoted to his friends. You have no right, no right whatsoever to criticise him!"

They stood facing each other on the street. Their waistcoats were identical, yet in every other matter they were complete opposites. Enjolras's face was uncommonly white and smooth, his eyes blue and glittering; his straight blond hair was tied back and there was a glare of absolute derision across his face. Grantaire on the other hand, was tanned, with a bruise on his jaw (a souvenir of his last drunken encounter). His raven curls fell onto his forehead and into his half-focused emerald eyes. His expression was one of comfortable contentment, despite the glare of which he was on the receiving end.

"Why am I even wasting my breath on you?" Enjolras's lip curled into a sneer. "You're not going to remember a word come morning! Go back to where you belong, Grantaire, go back to your absinthe! You are not worthy of that waistcoat!"

"Julien…" Grantaire laid a tentative hand on Enjolras's arm. He wasn't sure what was happening, exactly, but he didn't want Enjolras to leave.

"Just let me be! I knew there was no point in trusting you! I can't believe I was so stupid! Go sleep it off, Grantaire. Do what you do best!"

With that, Enjolras wrenched his arm free and strode off, leaving a baffled Luc Grantaire in his wake. He had drunken far too much to comprehend what had just happened and therefore, his spirits were only slightly dampened as he began to stagger home. Enjolras's words had chilled him a very little, but that chill was quickly thawed by the liquid warmth of the alcohol in his stomach.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Enjolras simmered even more than he had before, as he turned the corner. Had he really believed that Grantaire was capable of keeping his word? Of course he hadn't! The man was hardly capable of getting through a meeting without drinking half a bottle of absinthe. He rarely spoke sense and when he did, it was only to laugh at him or tease him. He had known that Grantaire was going to let him down! Why had he let Combeferre talk him into giving the drunkard a chance? Why, in the name of all that was righteous, had he given him that task? He'd always known that Grantaire was worthless!

"A worthless, incompetent, drunken wastrel!" Julien snarled to himself, as he opened the door to the building where he and Combeferre shared rooms. He paused outside the door of the apartment which was occupied by Courfeyrac and Prouvaire.

He thought briefly of Courfeyrac; cheerful, confident Courfeyrac. He was a law student, with a mischievous, sometimes juvenile sense of humour; a bit of a Casanova, who did not take his studies too seriously. Yet for all that, he was loyal, steadfast, kind-hearted and utterly determined. It was certain, Enjolras thought bitterly, that he had not failed in his task tonight, whatever distractions had come his way.

Still occupied with these thoughts, Enjolras climbed the stairs and let himself into his own apartment, only refraining from slamming the door by reminding himself that Combeferre was probably asleep - even with everything that had happened, his disgust and anger with Grantaire could never outweigh the affection and closeness he had with Combeferre.

Enjolras proceeded through to the bedroom and, in the dimness of his shadowy surroundings, made out the still figure of Combeferre lying in the bed opposite his own, breathing evenly. So he was asleep.

Trying his utmost to be silent, Julien Enjolras undressed forcefully in the darkness; tearing his cravat, waistcoat and shirt off and throwing them at the foot of his bed, before whipping down his breeches and pulling his nightshirt on savagely; as if treating his garments roughly would somehow banish his anger. He pulled out his hair-ribbon and then threw himself onto his bed with an angry sigh, shutting his eyes, determined not to think of Grantaire's failure a moment longer. He had just rolled over and settled down when a familiar gentle voice cut through the gloom.

"Julien, what's the matter?"

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