The sun was rising again. This time, on the first of February. This time, two weeks and three days later. This time, alone. This time, only one thing was the same:
Grantaire was hungover.
He groaned, turning over in his cot. He succeeded in falling to the floor, a mess of sheets and extremities. Tired curses streamed from his mouth in quick succession. They became more and more inventive until he finally ran out of words that could realistically go with "ass".
He shoved the sheet from himself and stood. Well, stumbled. He floundered, eventually finding the wall, which served to hold him in a reasonably upright position. Leaning there, he panted and clutched his head.
A minute or so later, he was off, walking on wobbly legs toward the kitchen. He reached the main space of the house, which could no longer be referred to as a room. Space that was not occupied by the couch and TV was cluttered with cups, plates, and an alarming array of bottles. Everything from beer to vodka was strewn on the ground.
Grantaire clumsily picked his way across his mess; he dropped onto the couch with a muffled thud. On the dented coffee table there were two as yet undrunk bottles of wine.
Grantaire reached for the nearest. He gave the label a cursory glance, eyes not reading the words. He slammed it against the table, sending shards of green-tinged glass flying. He ignored the ragged edges and spilled drink as he inhaled the wine.
Less than an hour later, Grantaire had settled into a stupor. It took nearly a bottle and a half for him to stop thinking. At least, the glazed look he was giving the blank television suggested that.
Not a sound came from the third story apartment until late in the afternoon. At precisely 5:46pm, Grantaire lurched from the couch, stumbled into the bathroom, and threw up. Only bile and wine came up. The kitchen was decorated in so many dishes that one would be hard pressed to find space for food. Even if there had been space, Grantaire had run out of real food the day previous. All that was left was dollar store ramen, and even drunk-into-oblivion Grantaire wouldn't eat that.
"One week." He whispered, looking briefly at the calendar on the wall. Seeing the picture that decorated "February", a waving French flag, Grantaire, gripped in some sort of rage, ripped the calendar from the wall and cast it into the toilet. He slammed the lid shut and fell to the ground. Before long, he was sprawled on his back, savoring the coolness of the floor.
It may have been minutes, it may have been hours, but Grantaire eventually roused himself enough to wobble back to his half empty bottle. It was almost ten before another noise was heard.
The door creaked; the bottle fell; someone yelped.
Even more glass littered the floor, but no wine. No, the bottle had been empty for hours. The sound of the door had awoken Grantaire enough that the bottle slipped. From the doorway, Ferre had yelped.
"Fuck!" Grantaire exclaimed, declining to sit up.
"Agh!" Ferre cried a moment later. In the blackness, Ferre had tripped and nearly fallen on one of the bottles scattered on the floor. "The heck?" He muttered, groping for a light.
The string of cursed that left Grantaire's lips was even more inventive than his morning run. This time he combined his vocabulary with "shit" instead.
"My God…" Ferre breathed, "…What…what in hell…?" His eyes peeked out above his glasses as he surveyed the room. His face was contorted into a look caught between disgust and disbelief.
"The fuck're you doin' here?" Grantaire slurred in Ferre's general direction. Ferre's head made a dramatic swing over to look at the disheveled head that peeked over the couch.
Disheveled is too weak a word. Grantaire's messy curls were quirked at bizarre angles, many sprinkled with a substance that Ferre assumed was vomit. His skin was slightly waxy and several orders paler than usual. Under his half-lidded eyes, he had garishly purple circles. He had a two or four day stubble scratching his jaw and several shaving cuts that had begun to scab.
"Coming to check on you." Ferre murmured. He picked his way across the mess to Grantaire, "It's been over a week since we saw you."
"One week, three days" Grantaire supplied, letting himself fall back onto the cushions.
"What…is this?" Ferre whispered. He blinked hard, and his hands were shaking a little.
"My apartment, or did ya think I was stayin' in someone else's?" Grantaire slurred his words slightly. Ferre blinked again. He sat down on the couch beside Grantaire, who was lying in a haphazard ball.
"That's not what I meant" Ferre's voice maintained a soft quality, "What is this. The mess, the smell, the –" Ferre didn't finish the sentence. He merely gestured to the bottles and broken glass littering the whole room.
"What's look like?" Grantaire muttered. He flipped onto his back and crossed his arms after the fashion of a petulant child.
"I'm not certain," Ferre said, "But I think you've been drinking."
Grantaire guffawed in a way entirely disappropriate to Ferre's tone. It was, in fact, slightly hysterical. He was reaching a fever pitch when he spoke,
"I thought ya'd never notice!" He cried. Ferre stared.
"Why?" Ferre asked plainly. His voice was barely loud enough to be heard, even without Grantaire's laughs.
"Though I'd said" Grantaire muttered, his mind yanking him back to a week and three days ago, "Life's more worth forgetting now than ever before"
Ferre gauged holes in his own hands with his eyes. His fingers tapped in time to his racing thoughts. His eyes darted across the bottles once again and finally rested on Grantaire. He yanked out his phone and texted, rapid fire.
To: Joly: I need you to come to R's apartment right now.
Not a minute later, the response came
From: Joly: Why?
To: Joly: Just get here.
From: Joly: Why?
To: Joly: Now
Even in a text, Ferre booked no argument. Though Joly did not respond, the door creaked open fifteen minutes later. In those fifteen minutes, neither Grantaire nor Ferre had spoken. Grantaire had, in the beginning, taken Ferre's phone. Once he had read the texts, and voiced his disgust in the form of a growl, he resumed his stupor. Ferre just sat, lost in thought.
"I'm he-re" Joly chimed, not seeing the disaster of a room right away. He had a beaming smile on his face, and his cane swung through the air gaily. His expression changed in an instant when his eyes opened. "Goodness" was all he could say.
"I need you to look at him." Ferre said.
"Yes, right." Joly rushed, nearly tripping, to the couch. He squatted in front of Grantaire, taking a pulse from his neck.
"Fuck off" Grantaire muttered, squirming sleepily. He pushed drunkenly at Joly's hands. Ferre had stood up, and was pacing slowly. He ran his hands through his hair and over his face.
"What would –" he stopped short of finishing his favorite phrase.
"Enjolras do?" Joly finished it for him, breathing the words. Both men cast their gazes to the ground, blinking back tears. Grantaire merely turned to face away.
"I don't know"