Enjolras knocked three times, successively louder, then tried the knob and let himself in. The tenant had gone out, most likely, on whatever business he had. He could leave a note, and consider the business over. He found himself in a small, threadbare room - large enough for a square table scattered with cards, a shabbily upholstered divan, and little else. Bottles and books scattered indiscriminately throughout as ornaments, with a sprinkling of glasses and cigarette ash. Enjolras looked for paper, found none but last week's broadsheet, and no ink. It was very like Grantaire, he thought: an active, but disordered and self-indulgent mind.
The inner door swung open, to reveal Grantaire himself, as disheveled as his quarters. Hair down, shirt open, no shoes - he wasn't dressed for this hour of the morning, let alone visitors. The shirt, wrinkled, was surely last night's. He gaped at Enjolras, pulled the door shut.
"Enjolras! I didn't hear - have you been here long? Ah... Will you sit?" The drunkard collected his wits as best he could. Meantime, certain noises emitted from behind the door - rustles and loose floorboards. Grantaire had not the grace to look embarrassed, only a little wry at Enjolras's cooling expression.
"I had no thought of disturbing your rest at this hour," Enjolras said, standing, with the quickest of glances at the door. "I came to apologize for last night. I - I said too much." Grantaire had abandoned half a bottle of red wine to storm out. Enjolras had been prepared to withstand the popular disapproval of the gesture - or rather, its result - before Combeferre had pulled him aside to explain matters calmly and make him feel a complete fool. One of the reasons, not the most flattering, he found Combeferre invaluable.
Grantaire watched him, wary. "Indeed you did." And then his face lightened, to a half-smile. "It's forgotten, my friend. I know a little about saying too much." Enjolras nodded, relieved, and then was shocked to the core by the coughing - unimaginably, undoubtedly male - from the bedroom. Grantaire did color, now, above the wine-flush, but he shrugged as if to say, 'what's to be done about it?'
Enjolras looked away - from Grantaire, from the door, to find something safe to rest his eyes on. The cards were suspect as well, now. He opened his mouth without thinking; stopped, and tried again. "I'll go," he bit off. "Good day."
"A good day to you, Enjolras," Grantaire sighed, and let the man make his escape. He locked the door, found the water pitcher, and peered into the bedroom. Empty. He shut that door, leaned against it heavily. "Dieu, what an apparition!"
On cue, the armoire door edged open, admitting a young man less dressed and more sheepish. "Do you never have anyone in to dust? I looked under the bed for my waistcoat and -"
"I'd never find anything again - not least your waistcoat, Combeferre."
"What did he want?"
"To beg forgiveness."
"Oh no." Combeferre sat, next to his boots, trying to stifle a laugh. It wasn't fair, or funny, but he could almost imagine Enjolras's face.
"Oh, yes. A very pretty apology, before you became impossible to ignore." Grantaire peeled himself off the door-frame, set the water down, and lay back across the bed. "Did you think he'd storm my bedroom like the Bastille?"
"I hope you would throw yourself on him, to save my reputation."
Grantaire smiled, "A splendid way to die, no doubt. And what pyre were you rushing off to immolate yourself on?"
"Anatomy." Combeferre looked over his shoulder, meeting Grantaire's lazy smile. He let the boot drop on the floorboards, and lay back across Grantaire's chest. "With Enjolras stalking abroad, I might as well study here," the errant student noted, and reached up for another kiss.