It was a long, hard night. Enjolras would sleep briefly, fitfully, then awake furious, sweating. He would wonder why, what dread dreams had pursued him, then he would remember. Grantaire. He would then pace, swear, curse, scream, cry, for hours, then collapse to the bed, shaking. He must have done this a half-dozen times. Finally, when he awoke, the sun had risen. He realized he had classes. Mechanically, he dressed, hardly aware of his actions. His only thought, dimly, was that maybe he would meet Combeferre, some distraction. He stumbled (I mean, walked with emphasis for dramatic effect :D) out the door, forgetting his keys. Fortunately, he also forgot to lock the door. He was nearly to the street when his feet encountered an encumbrance. Distractedly, he glanced down. A heap of rags had been thrown in front of the door. He tried to kick it out of the way, but it was heavier than expected. It moved. A rough, dirty hand emerged, followed by a coarse, shaggy head. It was Grantaire. (ha ha, Donna... I know how much you love those. It was an accident, I swear. Oh, Erin and Oliver are coming x x.... heh
I'm no' drunk... sigh anyway...)
Grantaire awoke at the kick, ready to head off any attacker. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried, or even succeeded, to mug him while he was sleeping it off. Instead of a dirty youth or ragged man, he saw an angel. The sun was shining on Enjolras' hair, which was in loose curls, haloed around his head. Grantaire blinked, dispelling some of the drink induced blur, allowing him to recognize his idol. He gasped, sharply, and babbled. "Enjolras, please, I'm sorry, take me back, I-I didn't..."
Enjolras stared down at him, the war-god incarnate. Sharply, he retorted, "Get out of my way, Grantaire! You are, were, and always will be, a waste of time. That's all you were."
Grantaire blinked back tears. This was not the Enjolras he had loved. It was, rather, the man he had idolized, not the man whose bed he had shared. His mind froze, he brought forth the first thought whole enough to speak. "I-Enjolras, please! I want the republic, I do! I want the republic, I want the republic..." His voice trailed off into sobs. (I actually apparently tried this last night on my Enjolras-friend...this was during the period of time that has been lost to the ocean of alcohol....both symbolically and literally... anyway, proving for all time that my 'true personality' is Grantaire... heh)
Enjolras swallowed. He couldn't deal with this. He was always in charge, always solved everyone's problems. Who could he turn to? He needed Combeferre, or Feuilly, but he wasn't ready to face them, to explain, either. He sat on the step, beside Grantaire, and sobbed.
A few minutes later, Enjolras was himself again. Grantaire was leaning against the wall, head turned down. Enjolras considered simply leaving, going to classes, leaving this man to his fate. Finally, he managed to convince himself that he should at least bring him inside. If only so he wouldn't get robbed, beaten, or killed, or find some other peril. He didn't owe Grantaire anything, he reconciled, however, he did know the man, and felt certain obligations. Sighing, he lifted the heavier man, (using his Super Revolutionary Mountain Goat Powers, as taught to him by Jean Valjean) and struggled his way, gracefully, up the stairs. Laying Grantaire on the bed, tucking him in firmly so he wouldn't damage anything. Glancing around, Enjolras realized there wasn't much to damage, anyway. He hastily gathered his papers (which, of course, had not been destroyed), gathered the bits of garbage, and contemplated having to write his 'dear' Papa for more money. Damn. He scowled at Grantaire, who half-smiled back, before flinching. Enjolras softened his expression, slightly. What else had he expected, he considered, bitterly. Once a drunkard, always a drunkard. I am a fool.
He glanced at the clock. He had missed his first class, but if he hurried could make his second. He cast an eye over Grantaire, who was playing with the blanket, and alternately humming and muttering to himself, eyes wandering the room, never still. He really shouldn't be left alone like this, but Enjolras was in no mood to stay, at least without a break. Suddenly, he had an idea. He waved a hand in front of Grantaire's eyes, watching the drunkard's reaction. As he suspected, the man saw only the beginning and end positions clearly; he wasn't seeing very clearly.
Enjolras untied his hair, removed his boots, and slipped on a huge white shirt his mother had sent, god knows why. This he belted with a long strip of white material he found, probably torn loose during his rampage. He checked himself quickly in the mirror, deeming himself sufficiently god-like to 'appear' to Grantaire. Walking with even more grace than usual, he reentered the bedroom, trying to appear wise and benevolent. And not laugh, scorn, or run away.
In a deep, somber voice, he intoned, "Grantaire, winecask. I, Apollo, have come to speak to you."
Grantaire nodded, in a manner of speaking.
"Your...lover...Enjolras will return, but only if you obey me! You must stay here, in this bed. There is water and bread. But stay! Or I shall smite thee!"
Waving his hands theatrically, in what he hoped were sufficiently smite-y gestures, Enjolras walked slowly, backwards, until he was out of Grantaire's bleary sight. He leaned against the wall, stifling laughter and outrage. He heard the drunkard sigh, and removed the ridiculous garb before peering in. The man was asleep, looking peaceful at last. Sighing, Enjolras forced himself to stand without the wall, and made his way to class. He just hoped this little ruse worked.