A/N Happy Easter everyone! Hope you had a lovely lovely holiday. Best wishes all around and all our love!
Silence. That's what there was, dear god just buckets and buckets of silence like someone had drained the darkest parts of an empty church and poured all that stifling stifling nothing into his house so it stretched between himself and Bahorel in an endless sea. Ha. Grantaire, your metaphors lack something. Sense, most likely.
"I'm certain there's some way this is my fault." he said finally, wanting the silence to end, wanting Bahorel to stop looking at him as though there was something here that he should be getting and wasn't. Of course it's my bloody fault, just - how? How does this add up?
He'd always been foul at math, even at school. Why couldn't the figures get along? Why did four and four have to battle until they became eight? Why was there the subjugation of subtraction, the political union of addition, the slaughter of division and plurality of multiplication? It seemed unfair, structured, impositional. And yet here one and one and one and one were dancing around in his brain worse than snowflakes waltzing a minuet straight towards hell and he was missing the link. "It usually is. Just humour me and help me understand how." How does it add up, Bahorel? One and one and one and one? What does that make?
"No... it's not your fault."
It isn't. But it is. But dear god it isn't. It isn't. What the hell did I really do? What was it? Just being a bit distracted a while? I could imagine you yelling at me and calling me a bloody idiot, and hell I wouldn't argue. Dieu all the Pantheon and Valhalla know I'm an idiot. So tell me, Bahorel - what the hell is it. What is it really. Please, please tell me.
"It has to be my fault. You wouldn't have done that without some good reason. Please. You wouldn't have." You're cleverer than that. I'm cleverer than that. We were - you were friends and you could not have ditched me - hell worse than - you didn't just ditch me, Bahorel, you completely... just because of that? No. No, dieu no. Not so easily.
That's terrifying.
"Grantaire..." Bahorel shifted awkwardly, looking guilty and sorry and - not arguing.
You're not arguing, Bahorel, and I'm staring. I'm - ha - I'm just staring now. Like that's going to make you argue, make you tell me what a bloody moron I am to think that you'd do that for no other reason than this. A callous bastard to consider the idea because of course you wouldn't. Like staring as though I've been clubbed over the head by a wet fish will make you admit that it's not this easy to lose my friends.
But Bahorel didn't say anything, he just had this look on his face, an odd in-between look of god-I'm-sorry and no-Grantaire-I'm-not-arguing, no-I'm-not-so-can-we-stop-talking-about-this-now? Ha. Ha, there. There we have it dear children and lovers and swains and tables and - damn you all you know who you are. And damn me all for thinking it could be different. Should just be grateful you apologised, then.
What for, Bahorel? Too much energy to stay angry? He heard some sort of choking noise, and realised it was himself - dear dieu that is embarrassing. He was moving, turning, walking, and he knew where he was going and he didn't really care because you know what? Screw you both, you bastards, I'm angry. What do you want me to say? You want me to say that it's my fault this happened? Oh oui - yes indeed. It's the sot's fault for being such a bloody ass that you couldn't bear him any longer, thank you so much for being gracious enough to come and apologise anyway.
Damn me. Damn you. Damn us all to hell and Tartarus and the everlasting fire of cursed affliction - oh and dieu for good measure why not the bloody river in Dante's cheerful little piece? Centaurs and putain Virgil and putain all.
Damn you, Bahorel, you have no right to look as though I'm putain slapping you in your face. This is not my putain fault, not all this. You want it to be me, me, me and then you won't have to feel like this because it's Grantaire the stupid winesack making us angry because he's an insensitive ass who doesn't appreciate the fine friends he has when he has them, and dieu only knows we've no reason to stick by him so why the hell are we bothering?
It hit Grantaire then that there was only one thing missing from this messy beautifully horribly ironic picture, so he opened the cupboard that stood three-legged and stoop-shouldered near his over-full bookshelf and pulled out his one lone last bottle. Sot. Hell did you think you were any good for, anyway? Hell did you think you could stay away from this?
Hell did you try? He took a swig and it was like returning to a familiar and dear lover, and she had him in her arms and was pressing his head against her breast and dieu he could sob for it felt so good. No more worrying about being responsible and careful and the new shiny Grantaire which some people hated and some people kind of liked but no one really understood. No, sot, back where you belong, back in your place where everyone knows you and everyone pities and loves you for showing them how far they could fall.
There was a knock, and he quickly drank again because his mistress knew that he needed it, and she wouldn't ever leave him no matter how much of a stupid sensless sod he was. Aliteration. Ha. Happening a bit quick. "Mind getting that? I'm busy." He could vaguely hear Bahorel move to the door and let someone in, and someone and Bahorel were talking, meaningless phrases about scarves and whether or not he was in and why am I not drunk yet?
"I think I... in... and..." bits and pieces flowed together and then stopped abruptly and he looked up over the welcoming lip of the bottle to see Maurice there staring at him with disappointment on his face.
There you go again, Grantaire. Look at that - another person you've let down. Another person you've dragged into your stupid putain litle pity party and just watch how he'll give up on you. They all do. They all putain will.
"Perceval?" Maurice looked between the two walking wounded, and frowned a little, gnawing at his lip. "Bahorel? What's going on?"
What's going on, my very dear dear ami is that you've had your first experience of being let down by a professional. Get used to the taste, it happens a lot around here. He felt sick to his stomach and put the bottle down, ending up somehow sitting on his own tatty torn sofa with his head in his hands so he couldn't see Maurice's expression change. To pity or disgust or god knows what else. "I'm sorry."
"What happened?" Maurice sounded as though he'd been drinking coffee - and he probably had. "You didn't get in a fight again?"
"Bahorel...kindly came to ... apologise. And explain what has been our issue. For the last four weeks." Wait until you hear it, Harlequin, cher. You'll laugh. No, honestly you will. Now I think about it with my lady here at my side it makes so much more sense. Fancy that. I just had to get drunk again to figure it out.
Maurice looked at Bahorel. "And that issue is?"
Grantaire looked up too and hated himself for it. What, sot? Explanation not good enough for you? You want more, do you? Do you think you even deserve it? But dear god I want it. Maybe Bahorel could tell Maurice it had been something else - something more - something that made sense.
"It..." Bahorel leaned back against the wall and looked between them slowly. "It's just that suddenly none of you wanted anything to do with me or Luc."
One and one and one and one. He looked at the bottle and laughed a little hollowly under his breath. He'd never been any good at math.