Chapter 21

By the time Grantaire reached home, Enjolras had called him and texted him seven times. He collapsed on the couch and took a shot of vodka for each message in quick succession. He winced…he hadn't taken shots in so long…

He looked at the messages:

Grantaire, please, come back.

Please, dearest, just talk to me.

'Aire, I do love you. Please, just call me.

And so on…

The burn was overwhelming, heat rose up his neck to his ears. Another notification came from his phone. It read, I'm sorry, and he downed another shot of vodka. His head began to spin; he really had lost most of his tolerance.

His phone chimed again. He turned it off. Now, drinking from the bottle.

He looked at the clock. It wasn't even noon. A derisive laugh escaped his mouth.

Half an hour later, when Jehan got home for his lunch break, he gasped. His hand went to cover his mouth. A perfect picture of terror.

"Grantaire, darling…" He ventured carefully.

"Yes, Jehan?" He mocked the honey sweet tones of the poet's voice, leaning forward, with his forearms on his knees.

Jehan was about to respond, when Eponine burst through the door. "'Aire, what the hell, I've been calling you for twenty–shit…"

Grantaire looked up at her face, "Sorry, my phone's off." He mumbled. He pulled out his phone and turned it on, before tossing it onto the table. It rang with about eight more messages, about half of them from Eponine. In response to the calls, he reached for the bottle of vodka again. Eponine swiped it.

"No!"

"Eponine!" He cried out reaching for it, as she walked away.

"No, not until you tell us what's going on!"

Rubbing at his temples with his fingers, he groaned. He opened his mouth when his ringtone went off.

Jehan looked at the phone, "It's Enjolras."

Grantaire stared, while Jehan held the phone to him.

"Grantaire, sweetheart, aren't you going to answer it?" Jehan inquired cautiously.

After another pause, Grantaire grabbed the phone, unlocking it and holding it to his ear. He tried to say something but words died in his throat.

"'Aire?" He heard on the other end, "Are you there?"

Grantaire remained silent.

"Grantaire, look I'm sorry. Can we just–I love–…shit, you're not even there, are you? Fuck, I…fuck." The line went silent. Grantaire dropped his arm.

He reached for the vodka and drank deeply from it, once he had acquired it from a protesting Eponine. He set the half empty handle on the table, before he spun on his heel, and strode down the hall.

Jehan tried to follow him, but he slammed the door in the little poet's face and locked the door.

Breathing heavily, he fell onto the bed, curling into a ball and trying not to cry.

Somehow, he didn't wake again until the next day. The clock read 11:00, and sun filtered through his window. He wondered how he had slept for so long. Checking himself in the mirror, he shuddered. Red circles lined his eyes, and his face was pale. Dark stubble contrasted against his cheek. He stumbled out of his room, and Eponine and Jehan jumped up.

"Don't do that! Don't you ever lock that door again!" Eponine shouted.

"What?"

"You locked your fucking bedroom door! We couldn't get in."

"That was the point…" He grumbled.

"Grantaire, when you're that upset, at least give us a way to check on you." Jehan insisted gently. "Please? We were scared."

"I'm fine…"

"Yes, but we couldn't tell. We couldn't hear you. We were afraid…" Jehan trailed off, looking to Eponine, before ducking his head.

"I wanted to break down the door." Eponine snapped.

Grantaire ignored her, and instead reached out and mussed Jehan's long hair, causing a flower tucked behind his ear to fall to the floor. "Grantaire–" Jehan whimpered.

"Everything will be fine, little one." He reiterated.

Jehan protested, as Grantaire shuffled to the kitchen, pouring himself coffee, from the pot Eponine must have made that morning before she went to work, as it was freezing. He poured a shot of vodka into it, as he didn't have whiskey.

A knock came from the door. Grantaire froze, as he heard Eponine answer it.

"'Ferre, babe, what's up?"

"Where's Grantaire?" Grantaire choked, when he heard his name.

"Here." Grantaire announced, as confidently as possible, which was not very, making himself visible from the kitchen. He faltered, as he saw Combeferre. The philosopher's mouth was pressed into a tight line, and his jaw clenched.

"This is from E." Combeferre handed Grantaire a piece of notebook paper, folded into a small square.

"What is–" Eponine began, but Combeferre cut her off, guiding her gently out the front door, leaving Grantaire with the note and Jehan.

The poet looked at him.

Slowly, Grantaire unfolded the note.

Dearest Grantaire,

I wanted to talk to you, but you won't answer my calls or texts, and I can't really blame you for it, so I'm just going to hope you read this.

I'm sorry. So sorry. For so many things.

First of all, I'm sorry I never told you that I loved you. It isn't an excuse, but I guess I never realized that I hadn't. I felt love, and I just figured you understood. I thought I had said it, or said something that meant it, so I guess I just never did, because I thought it had been done. I apologize.

Secondly, for how I treated you last night. I should have been honest.

And, finally, for trying to drag this out. As enjoyable as our time has been, and as much as I wish I could enjoy my last couple months with you, I realize a clean break would be easier for us both. It isn't fair to go on with this relationship, when there is a time limit. I'm sorry I thought this was better.

I love you. I do. Even with all the mistakes I made, please, believe this.

Please, keep in touch. I will miss you. Thank you.

I am so sorry it had to end this way. I never planned for this.

With all my heart,

Enjolras

Combeferre and Eponine reentered the room, as Grantaire finished the letter. As he read the final words, Grantaire felt sobs wash over his body, nausea threatening to overwhelm him. His breath hitched and very soon, he was wheezing, breathing hard with tears streaming down his cheeks. He collapsed onto the coffee table, his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands over his face as his shoulders shook.

"Oh god, sweetheart…" He felt Jehan's arms around him, and Eponine's hands on his knee.

"'Taire, hon…"

He heard a groan from the door. "Jesus Christ…this isn't right." The door slammed, as Combeferre left.

Eponine and Jehan tried to soothe him, as he cried in their living room, but he wished they would leave, so his itching fingers could reach for a drink.

A/N: I made it worse. I'm sorry.