Et Voila!
Next chapter, I promise that you'll even get some answers. Gasp!
Chapter Four: You Don't Know That I Miss You
Enjolras' teachers had always told him (and his parents, though they never cared enough to do anything) that he looked like such a lonely child. But they had been wrong; Enjolras may have been alone, but he was never lonely. Loneliness implied a relative sadness at the prospect of isolation, and it had never felt like any great tragedy. His parents were cold and distant, and so he grew up the same way, a very chaste and serious child. Their attention always had a deeper motivation, so he had quickly learned to watch their actions. He saw that he existed for a purpose and chose to embrace it, choosing to learn from his father's behavior.
The kids at school always seemed too immature for him; they didn't have anything in common so Enjolras hadn't wasted the effort to try and find a bridge. They all came into this world for some reason or another, be it parents' love or an accident. But their reasons for existing didn't interfere with their quality of life. His did; and even though he hadn't understood at the time, he knew enough not to let them serve as distractions.
When he was eight years old, his father began teaching him about the company he worked for and the keys to shrewd business. His father gave him advice, like to always partner with someone higher up than him. Anyone lower than him had nothing to offer. Enjolras took the words to heart, and ignored the kids in school even further. Or never make a deal anywhere but in his home territory. A deal was nothing more than two parties trying to gain resources from each other, sneakily trying to take the upper hand. Giving the other party the advantage of familiarity was a sign of weakness. It didn't take much for Enjolras to connect the dots, even then. He was bred to become an ideal business partner to his father, and then eventually his successor.
Most children were raised believing that their fathers were all-powerful. Enjolras learned early on that his father was almost as close as a human could come to omnipotence, and being taught how far this would take him in life, he agreed to learn as much as he could from him.
When he was nine years old, his father had taken him on one of his business deals, so he could get a sense of what sorts of transactions he would have to become familiar with. His father had explained to him that this was merely an investment pitch, and that if he decided to make a deal, the terms and agreement would be discussed back home in Manhattan.
Enjolras had the flu at the time; it had been going around the school, and really shouldn't have gone but his father had insisted, stuffing him full of Nyquil whenever his coughing and congestion got too bad. Because of that, he generally didn't remember much of the trip or of the business deal. He thinks there was something about routes and some kind of children's program. Nothing that his drugged nine year-old mind could hold onto.
The most important thing that had happened was the boy. Enjolras didn't even know if any of it was real, he had been swimming in cold medicine, but he had remembered a boy knocking at the window of the motel they were staying at, and looking embarrassed when he answered. The kid, almost his age mumbled "sorry, wrong room," and had disappeared before the blond could stop him.
Today, it seemed ridiculous, but as a nine year old, he'd been sure that the mysterious, gangly boy had been looking for his father, and that he needed something. After all, his father was still all-powerful in his eyes. Plus, he ran a large corporation, so it made sense that his father would have been able to help the kid.
Enjolras woke up the next day to their packed bags and his father's insistence that they leave before the plane took off without them. Unsure as to whether the boy was just a fever dream, Enjolras didn't mention him to his father. That didn't stop him however, from remembering the face at the window. Aspects of image were hazy from Nyquil dreams, but in other ways shockingly crisp. Where Enjolras' features were soft and still held onto baby fat, the boy was all sharp angles and child-sized eyes. Whatever that kid had wanted, Enjolras couldn't forget it. He dove into the company, trying to figure out what the boy could have needed from his father.
It had taken him less than a year to learn through extensive research that his father wouldn't have helped that boy if he could. His corporation was an entirely self-sustaining operation. It supported its stockholders at the expense of the people they were marketing to. Enjolras slowly realized that his father may be as powerful as Superman, but he didn't help people. With that realization came disgust, and hatred quickly followed.
Enjolras still couldn't relate well with others, but it wasn't important. His peers didn't matter. He spent all of his time educating himself about the world around him, and what part his family played in it. And the day he realized just how nauseatingly rich he and his family was, Enjolras nearly ran away from home. With all the problems facing the less fortunate in the world, he felt disgusted by his wealth.
Over time that embarrassment turned to conviction. He was a part of the fortunate few, so he planned to make the most of it. He donated to charities, devoted his time to fighting homelessness and hunger, sought to understand the complex politics of the country and the world around him, and formed his opinions on what steps need to be taken to fix the corruption and injustices of the world.
It never concerned him that he didn't connect to the world he was trying to save. It never even crossed his mind until he got to college and met Combeferre. Enjolras had intended to share a living space with the man but not interact; there was no obvious advantage to allying with him. But then he spoke to Combeferre; they got along well, and held similar beliefs. Within weeks, they were already working together to create the social activism group that eventually became les Amis de l'ABC.
It never occurred to him until a few months later that he regarded these people not just as his trusted lieutenants and intellectual equals, but as his friends. It was a strange sensation to say the least. Even though most of them were more open in their affections and more relaxed in their pastimes, he rarely needed to explain himself to them. Sure, they told him that he needed to lighten up, but they understood if some of the mechanics of friendship confused him and if he got uncomfortable, they rarely pushed.
In his more maudlin moments, he sometimes wonders to himself if this is what family was like, and if he had somehow found it in this unlikely group of college students. All he knew concretely was that for the first time, his teachers never approached him concerned that he seemed lonely, and it was a relief.
Although, it was possible that, for the first time, Enjolras was experiencing loneliness. So far, he didn't like it.
It had been almost three days since Combeferre had talked to him, and he still had no idea what to make of the strange conversation. He couldn't even focus on it though, because all he could think about was how impossibly silent his phone was. Every time any of the Amis texted him about a meeting, he always started slightly, half hoping to hear from Grantaire. Every time he refused to show disappointment.
Grantaire was a relatively new friend, he was argumentative, and sarcastic, and cynical. More often than not he was drunk. His father would pass over him without a second glance but despite everything, Grantaire was secretly, absurdly brilliant. And Enjolras had almost made the same judgment calls on him as well. At first, Enjolras hadn't been able to stand the drunk. Had Combeferre and the others not been there to point out his harsh judgments, Enjolras might never have realized just how much his father had succeeded with his protégé.
Then with the rally… well, he still wasn't sure what he'd intended to say to Grantaire with the rally. Be it an apology or a peace offering, that rally had been the bridge that offered a new kind of understanding. After that equal footing was reached, Enjolras hadn't quite been able to stop like he'd thought he would. Instead, the new goal became making sense of the cynic. Slowly, he thought that he was starting to understand the man who claimed to believe in nothing.
Months of debating over texts and in person at meetings had started to give Enjolras a clue of his argument structure, and the tricks he played to twist a topic. He had grown accustomed to getting out of class expecting a text refuting whatever argument he had made. It became as much of a game of wits as a battle of beliefs, and left both of them red faced and breathless from yelling and laughing.
And then there would be moments in those arguments, brief moments, where Grantaire would drop the amused smirk and the sharp quips, and look at him with different eyes. Enjolras played everything close to the vest, but Grantaire was the complete opposite. His emotions played out on his face and in his posture, everything was so close to the surface that, at times, it baffled him. But those quiet moments, Enjolras felt just a hint closer to truly seeing Grantaire.
But then, out of the blue, the texts stopped. The cynic no longer showed up to meetings, and had taken new shifts, so no one saw him anymore. At first the others asked questions, but after a few weeks of being unable to find him they had given up trying. There seemed to be a general consensus in opinion that Grantaire would eventually come back to meetings if he wanted to hang out with them, and if he didn't then there was nothing that any one of them could do.
It didn't stop Courfeyrac from pestering him nonstop about "what he'd done" and demanding that Enjolras apologize for "whatever dumb ass thing you've said." No matter how much he insisted that he hadn't done anything, Courfeyrac refused to believe him, or drop the matter for long. It was only just barely that Enjolras kept himself from snapping at the law student.
Enjolras, who normally prided himself on his careful control over his emotions, could barely keep track of his feelings on the whole matter, flashing between worry and anger so quickly it nearly gave him whiplash. He barely had time to register the many scenarios of terrible accidents, and hospital visits before others entered his mind.
There were times when Enjolras irritated even himself with his own impatience, and this definitely qualified.
He downright refused to reach out to Grantaire first. Enjolras had been the last one to send a text between the two of them, and therefore etiquette dictated that Grantaire be the one to reach out first. Sending the first text would suggest a desperation that he didn't want to display.
"Your emotions make you weak, boy," his father had told him several times. That above all else was the cardinal lesson. "Let anyone see your weaknesses, and they'll be sure to use them against you."
Enjolras resented that he still held himself to those archaic beliefs, no matter how necessary they were for his career. And yet, this couldn't go on. He had no clue where Grantaire was or what had happened to him so long ago. His phone was far too quiet, but he didn't know how to say that he missed their arguments. Didn't know how to verbalize that what they had made sense, and losing it had thrown him off balance. That he still didn't fully understand the whole friendship thing and if he made a mistake he had no way of knowing.
With a sigh and a show of unbelievable cowardice on his part, he picked up his iPhone and sent a text message, not to Grantaire, but to Éponine.
Just tell me he's alive and not in a ditch somewhere unconscious from alcohol poisoning.
Of course, he didn't really expect her to answer. Despite the few months she's spent coming to meetings and finding a place for herself within the Amis, his most vivid memory of her was still the night she punched him in the face and promised to stab him for hurting her best friend. Éponine quickly became known amongst the group as the person not to fuck with, and being smart as she was, she could probably see through his text.
Therefore, he was taken aback when his phone vibrated a few days later, revealing a text from her. It hadn't even mattered that he was in the library and cell phone use was strictly not allowed because she wanted to meet him for lunch. She was willing to talk to him, and maybe help him understand. He got the information for when to meet and quickly agreed.
By lunch time the next day, his jaw physically hurt from clenching it. He walked towards the Musain, his pace quicker than usual and his muscles tensed. Unable to explain the anxiety if he tried, he focused instead on the terrible condition of the city's streets, and recited in his head the work he had to accomplish before classes in two days.
Enjolras arrived at the Musain at 12:30 precisely, and searched the counter instinctively. As he'd expected, he saw Musichetta's smiling face, but no familiar head of wild black curls. A small prick of disappointment wormed its way through his careful control before he quickly banished it. Glancing around, he spotted Éponine was sitting at the two person table in the corner window seat, reading a book. Without a second thought, he approached her.
"I hope I haven't kept you," he said, sitting down in the chair opposite her.
"Not at all," she replied, putting a bookmark in her book before closing it and looking at him. "You said you were worried about R."
"I haven't heard from him in weeks," Enjolras said, unsure if he was saying it to confirm her statement or correct it.
"And you haven't tried contacting him because…?"
She was testing him.
"He hasn't answered anybody else. Why would I be any different?"
"Normally I'd say that's complete bullshit, but you just happen to be right this time."
"So you know what this is about?"
"Yep."
"Do you plan on telling me what's going on, or did you just call me here to gloat?"
"Well, what do you know about what's going on?"
"I know absolutely nothing. Just that Courf keeps nagging me to apologize to Grantaire, and refuses to believe me when I say I haven't done anything."
Éponine actually laughed at that, a short and bitter-sounding snort. When she looked back up at him, he instantly felt something pass between the two of them, an understanding of sorts. They weren't particularly close to each other, but by now they had so many common friends that he couldn't help but see her as an ally. And with her approaching him after all this time to talk about Grantaire, she must need something. This was far from camaraderie, but an unspoken trust passed between them.
"For once, you actually haven't done anything wrong. Congratulations," she said the last word sarcastically, but there was no bite to it. The freshman in front of him just looked tired and sad. "R's just afraid."
Enjolras stared at her, baffled. They couldn't be talking about the same cheerful drunk with a quip ready for every occasion. Grantaire, infuriating Grantaire who let everything slide off his back seamlessly was afraid. It didn't compute, but Éponine knew the cynic better than he could claim to, and she said with absolute certainty that their friend was afraid. He couldn't help but take her word, and his brain tried to fit the pieces together. The other times, back in October and November when Grantaire had been impossible to locate; was he also afraid back then?
"Afraid of what?" he asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Éponine sighed and offered him a sympathetic smile, only worrying him further. She never showed him sympathy.
"Afraid of you."