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Grantaire is well aware of how pissy his neighbor on the other side of the wall got when he was too loud, but he really does not care tonight that the walls were paper-thin. He is angry, and slamming the cabinets while he digs through them looking for the bottle of whiskey he hid the last time Enjolras took all his alcohol seems like a good release right now. He finally finds it in one of the rightmost cabinets, hidden in the far back behind a sloppy stack of Tupperware containers, and he yanks it out so quickly that he knocks over the Tupperware tower. His hands are shaking too badly to put the containers back in the cabinet properly, so he abandons the endeavor and takes the bottle to the sofa.
He pulls the cork out of the top of the bottle with his teeth, spitting it onto the floor and taking a swig in one swift movement. He has made promises to Enjolras - countless ones, actually - but that all seems to pale in comparison to his needs now. He feels vaguely guilty, but the overwhelming anger and sadness that he is attempting to drown with whiskey make him forget the guilt for the time being. The whiskey is gone in less than ten minutes. His phone rings a couple of times, but he ignores it, fearing who may be on the other line.
Still on the sofa, he curls around the bottle and shoves himself into the corner amongst the cushions and pillows that Eponine had brought him a couple of months ago, insisting that his flat “lacked proper colour”. The bright reds make his eyes hurt now when he buries his face into one. The bottle presses coldly and uncomfortably into his face, and thus is quickly discarded, shattering on the floor. The sound is something of a last straw, and he starts his breakdown with his face shoved in the pillow.
When his breathing finally evens out and there are no longer any sobs tearing their ways from his chest, he digs his phone out of his pocket so that he may turn it on silent and end the ringing that is ripping at his ears. He taps the voicemails away, saving only the ones from Courfeyrac and Eponine to listen to at a later time. His head aches, and he debates for a moment before clicking into his contacts and tapping Enjolras’ picture.
ii nede yuo ammuro
Grantaire waits quietly, staring at his phone in his shaking palm and waiting for Enjolras to reply. A spike of fear begins digging its way into his heart when no reply comes within the first two minutes. He panics, worried that Enjolras will be mad that he, Grantaire, is drinking again; he is about to lock his phone again when his phone chimes.
What happened?
Grantaire lets out a shaky sigh of relief, tapping out a speedy reply once more. His autocorrect has long since given up on trying to help him through his text messages.
ymm dadd agune nd ii ndee ur hlep mno chriee
The text sends, and Grantaire waits in silence yet again. The reply takes longer to come this time. Grantaire assumes Enjolras is just attempting to decipher the message. He feels slightly guilty again, but the emotion flees when his phone chimes.
I’m coming over.
Grantaire laughs tearfully into his pillow, burying his face into the soft ruby fabric as soon as he comprehends what the text message says. He lets the phone fall onto the cushion in front of him, and he pushes himself further into the sofa, the fabric rubbing at his bare back. He laughs humorlessly again and runs his fingers through his hair. He leaves his hands tangled there in his curls. He is still in the same bent-up position when the sound of a key in his front door echoes inside of his head. He does not move, and instead simply listens to the sound of Enjolras opening the door and swearing the second he comes in.
“Damn it, Grantaire.” Enjolras shuts the door behind him and picks his way through the mess of broken glass and paint cans on the floor. Grantaire finally lifts his head to find Enjolras standing there, his blonde curls a crushed mess around his head, wearing pajamas that matched the pillow that Grantaire was still clinging to. “What did your father say to you?”
Grantaire just maintains eye contact with Enjolras, finding that, as he continues, it becomes more and more difficult to keep his head up. Finally, his neck just gives up, and his head falls forwards. Enjolras swears again, swipes Grantaire’s phone out of the way, and climbs onto the sofa. He pries the pillow from Grantaire’s grasp and pulls his drunk friend into his arms. Grantaire moves quickly, clinging to Enjolras like he is a life preserver in a deep ocean when Grantaire can not swim.
“Shh.” Enjolras says, pressing his face into Grantaire’s messy hair. Grantaire realizes he is crying rather noisily, and tries his best to calm himself down enough to be quiet.
“He... He just...” Grantaire stutters, his words slurring, but Enjolras shushes him again.
“We don’t have to talk about it now.” Enjolras says softly. Grantaire nods gratefully and presses closer to his best friend. After Grantaire has fallen silent, and for a few moments of quiet after that, Enjolras speaks again. “Did you... In your first text, what did you mean to write?”
“What do you mean?” Grantaire murmurs into Enjolras’ rumpled pajama shirt. Enjolras frowns slightly.
“Well, ammuro is not actually a word.” Enjolras points out with a forced laugh. Grantaire pushes himself further into Enjolras’ personal space.
“I meant amour.” Grantaire clarifies tiredly, his words still jumbled. Luckily, Enjolras has experience in picking apart his drunken speech. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’ll always come.” Enjolras promises, his voice quiet.
“I love you.” Grantaire lets himself close his heavy eyes, his brain still buzzing and out of his control. Enjolras just keeps rubbing his back and holding him close.
“I love you, too, Grantaire.” Enjolras answers without missing a beat. Grantaire hums in response and falls asleep right then and there. Enjolras falls asleep twenty minutes later, content that Grantaire is safe for now.
Grantaire comes into consciousness to the sound of something beeping. There is muffled cursing - in a voice he immediately recognized as Enjolras’ - and the beeping disappears. Grantaire blinks his eyes open and immediately groans at the way the light stabs him in the brain.
“Oh, you’re awake.” Enjolras is in front of him in a moment, tugging at his wrists to pull him up to stand. Grantaire goes unwillingly, barely able to keep himself upright. He notes vaguely that the floor is clean and free of paint cans and broken glass.
“You don’t have to-” Grantaire begins, but the look on Enjolras’ face makes him swallow the rest of his words.
“I know I don’t have to.” Enjolras tells him simply as he tugs Grantaire’s filthy slacks off and replaces them with soft black pajama pants that smell like Enjolras’ cologne. Grantaire sighs and lets himself get distracted by Enjolras’ hands on him and the smooth slide of fresh clothes over his oversensitive skin. He feels his stomach lurch suddenly, and Enjolras must recognize the look on his face from their years of friendship because he finds himself being shoved towards the sink. Enjolras quietly pulls Grantaire’s mess of loose curls out of the way while his best friend empties the contents of his stomach into the kitchen sink.
“I’m sorry.” Grantaire mumbles when he is finished, letting his head fall against the counter. Enjolras tugs him up so that he is leaning against the blonde man instead while the sink gets rinsed with water from the faucet.
“Don’t be sorry. It was your father.” Enjolras answers, still distracted by rinsing the sink. “Come on. I made coffee and burned bacon.”
“That was that noise, then.” Grantaire comments vaguely, letting himself be dragged to the kitchen table, where he slumps into the chair and lets his upper body rest on the table while Enjolras forces a mug of black coffee into his hands.
“You’re going to show me where you’ve been stashing this alcohol.” Enjolras says while he splits the plate of bacon between the two of them. He throws the aspirin bottle to Grantaire, who catches it gratefully; they do it all with the agility of men who have done this all before, more than once.
“I suppose I am.” Grantaire mumbles around a mouthful of coffee. Enjolras sits down across from him at Grantaire’s paint-spotted kitchen table and shoots him the kind of withering look that always makes his heart clench. It is silent for a few minutes, the quiet broken only by the crunch of bites of bacon. Grantaire is, unsurprisingly, the one who breaks it.
“Didn’t we have a meeting this morning? What time is it?” Grantaire twists to look at the clock on his microwave, but Enjolras is already shaking his head and waving his hands. Grantaire is hugely fond of how much Enjolras moves, how he uses his body to get his point across. It is quite endearing, if he does say so himself.
“I called Courfeyrac earlier, he has it all under control. I think he’s calling Marius for backup, if the fool can tear himself away from Cosette long enough to help out.” Enjolras mutters the end of his explanation with no small amount of bitterness. Grantaire frowns and pulls his bacon apart with his long painters’ fingers.
“Are you alright, Enjolras? You do not seem quite yourself.” Grantaire asks quietly. Enjolras waves him off.
“Of course, of course.” Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, which Grantaire is only just noticing is damp. He must have showered here not too long ago. Grantaire's heartbeat stutters, and he hopes his face does not reveal him. “Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“I...” Grantaire looks down at his hands, pieces of bacon still held between his fingers. “Yes, sure, fine. My father... dropped by yesterday. Blind drunk, you know. And he... just... Enjolras... He...”
“You can stop. I understand. You don’t have to finish.” Enjolras says softly, his voice warm and comforting. Grantaire resists the urge to look up and see what look has painted itself across Enjolras’ face, choosing instead to close his eyes as tightly as he can. The bacon falls from his hands as he brings his palms up to cover his face.
“I’m just like him, aren’t I?” Grantaire mumbles into the heels of his hands. “With the... the drinking, and, God, I am useless, aren’t I? We should all hope to hell that I never become a father.”
“Shut up.” Enjolras bites out at once. His tone is so angry that it shocks Grantaire into looking at him. “Just... Shut up, Grantaire. You would be a fine father, and the drinking, that’s just... a vice. You are not useless. You are actually very useful, to me especially.” Enjolras inhales and exhales deeply. “I swear by it.”
Grantaire stares at his best friend in silence for a moment before his gaze drops to one of Enjolras’ hands, trying to focus on something besides his heart trying to escape through his throat. He frowns at the bandage on Enjolras’ palm.
“Did you cut your hand?” Grantaire asks quietly. Enjolras looks startled and confused for a moment before turning to look at his own hand, as though wondering what Grantaire could possibly be talking about. He furrows his brow and looks back up at Grantaire.
“Yes, I suppose I did.” he answers at once, a confused frown etched onto his face.
“How?” Grantaire asks, his face showing all his concern in his expressive features.
“Glass.” Enjolras’ confusion disappears, and he motions towards Grantaire’s bare arms and chest. “How did you get those, then?”
Now it is Grantaire’s turn to be confused, looking down at his own body in surprise. He sees his young French skin mottled with purple bruises and his expression darkens almost immediately.
“Father.” Grantaire murmurs. If Grantaire’s expression is dark, Enjolras’ is black as the end of space.
“I’ll kill him.” Enjolras says bluntly, and Grantaire believes him.
“You will do no such thing, we need you here. Bahorel's not a good enough lawyer yet to keep you out of prison, even with that face of yours.” Grantaire picks up his bacon again and wishes fiercely that he had remembered his shirt last night. “Thank you for coming. You know you never have to. I know that I... I’m not-”
“You don’t know anything, Grantaire.” Enjolras’ hands are curled into tight, white-knuckled fists on the tabletop when Grantaire looks at them. He worries that Enjolras’ palm might start bleeding with the stress of it. “You don’t... you’re so...”
“I know.” Grantaire stops him in a quiet voice. This is the gentlest morning he can remember spending with Enjolras, and yet it is still the fiercest and most passionate. “Enjolras, stop. I know.”
“I love you.” Enjolras says. Grantaire’s face falls.
“Enjolras, don’t-”
“I will. I’ll tell you until I run out of breath. The others may say I am married to my work, to my country, but I’m still young. Grantaire, we are young, we are twenty still, and I am allowed to love others.” Enjolras keeps steady eye contact with Grantaire, and the latter finds it strangely similar to staring into the sun. “Grantaire, I love you.”
“You shouldn’t.” Grantaire tells him, knowing that it will be to no avail and yet unable to resist the idea that he might be able to stop Enjolras from making a terrible decision.
“And yet here we are.” Enjolras fidgets, his passion becoming too much for his body to contain. Grantaire is so fond of him, loves when he gets like this, so excited and full of fire that he simply cannot hold it all within himself. It comes out in unexpected ways, bursts and waves of excitement and debate, and Grantaire knows he loves him, too.
“Indeed we are.” Grantaire looks down at his hands for a moment before he changes his mind and turns his face back up. “I love you, too.”
“I know.” Enjolras closes his eyes and breathes deeply, his head moving from side to side. “Oh, Grantaire, mon cherie, do I know.”
Grantaire takes advantage of his best friend’s closed eyes, pushing his chair back silently against the kitchen floor and making his way around the table to climb into his lap. This is something they have never done before, something they have never acknowledged, and something they have always wanted. He runs his hands through Enjolras’ damp blonde hair, and it flows through his fingers like water. Enjolras keeps his eyes closed, tipping his head back slightly, involuntarily, and Grantaire winds his fingers in the most beautiful curls of hair he’s ever seen. He keeps his grip tight and moves closer, pressing their lips together finally. It is the greatest relief he has ever felt, and, judging by Enjolras’ sigh, he thinks so, too. Something about their lips meeting sparks something in Enjolras, and, suddenly, he is the predator, and Grantaire is his prey. His hands are everywhere, tearing at clothes; his lips are everywhere, pressing against hot skin. Grantaire leaves his hands wound in Enjolras’ hair and lets him do what he will.
Enjolras’ phone is ringing off the hook, vibrating and playing “La Marseillaise” over and over. Finally, Grantaire drags himself from Enjolras’ heavy arms and the warmth of his bed to dig the phone out of Enjolras’ pajama pants, discarded on their way into the bedroom. He cannot help but sigh when he sees that Marius is the one who is calling, but he answers the phone anyways, for no other reason than to make the noise stop so that he can go back to Enjolras.
“Yes, hello, Marius, what is it?” Grantaire says as soon as he picks up, running his free hand through his dark, tangled curls. Marius pauses for a moment.
“...’Taire?” Marius asks finally, his voice hesitant. Grantaire rolls his eyes.
“Well, it’s not Marie Antoinette.” Grantaire raises his eyes toward the ceiling so he will not be distracted by Enjolras. “What do you need?”
“Enjolras wasn’t answering his phone. We were getting worried.” Marius’ voice is still hesitant and more than a little confused. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine and dandy. He’s asleep right now, though, so he’ll have to call you back.” Grantaire’s eyes fall back down to Enjolras as he speaks. He wonders why he ever tried to look away - Enjolras is the vision of perfection, the perfect depiction of a Greek God in his bed, the lovely Apollo painted against his sheets. His golden curls are bright, and his skin is beautiful and flushed with rose petal pink. The sheets are bunched about his waist and hips, and leave everything to be desired. The black of the sheets are a stark contrast to his skin, and Grantaire has to swallow and close his eyes in order to focus on whatever it is Marius is saying.
“-and ‘Ponine is going absolutely mental with worry, she thought he was dead in a ditch somewhere. I told her that was absurd, if anyone was going to die in a ditch it was you.” Marius laughs, and Grantaire raises his eyebrows.
“I hope she hit you for that one.” Grantaire says, scratching the back of his head. Marius chuckles again.
“She did. Quite hard. You have more than a few friends here, you know.” Marius’ voice takes on some different, more serious tone, and Grantaire guesses that Enjolras must have informed him or Courfeyrac of the situation that morning.
“I know.” Grantaire answers quietly before opening his eyes again and looking towards the bed, where Enjolras is now awake, one arm bent behind his head and the other spread across his chest. He raises an eyebrow at Grantaire when they make eye contact, and Grantaire cannot help but smile. “Listen, I have to go-”
“Oh, no, no, I understand. Tell him I said hello, and we have everything under control here.” Marius says, his words rushed and tripping over themselves. Grantaire shakes his head.
“Don’t go spreading rumors now.” Grantaire warns. He can almost hear Marius’ enormous smile through the phone.
“They’re not rumors if they’re true, my friend. I’ll talk to you both later.” Marius’ voice sounds like there is a wink involved, and Grantaire lets it all slide, because Enjolras is shifting in bed, becoming fidgety again with energy, and Grantaire needs to be back in that bed.
“Yes, fine, talk to you later.” Grantaire hangs the phone up and drops it back into the pile of fabric that is Enjolras’ red pajama pants. He wonders vaguely where the shirt is as he makes his way back into the bed, climbing all over Enjolras in the process. “Marius was worried about you.”
“Mm.” Enjolras agrees, not seeming to even hear what Grantaire was saying. “You smell like whiskey.”
“Tends to happen.” Grantaire shifts to find a comfortable position and ends up half on the bed itself, and half on Enjolras. His head is tucked under Enjolras’ chin, his arms wrapped around his bare chest, one leg thrown over Enjolras’ two. “‘Ponine thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“I’m sure she has since come to the conclusion that I am not.” Enjolras says, his voice buzzing his energy and electricity. His hands trace patterns into Grantaire’s skin, and the dark-haired man revels in how his partner never seems to be able to stop moving.
“Marius has assured me that she is well aware of the fact that both of us are still alive.” Grantaire promises, a laugh in his voice.
“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asks suddenly. Grantaire closes his eyes and presses his face towards Enjolras’ chest.
“Oh, I feel... Inspired.” Grantaire sighs, inhaling the scent of skin and satisfaction. “Maybe I will paint you later, Apollo.”
“Please do. I would love to see how you see me.” Enjolras’ hands are everywhere, his words vibrating, and Grantaire laughs.
“Why don’t we do it now, then? If you can sit still long enough, that is.” Grantaire suggests, and Enjolras all but forces him up.
“Yes, let’s. I can sit still.” Enjolras and Grantaire sit up together, and Enjolras raises his right hand. “I swear on-”
“Your life, your family, and your love of country, yes, I know.” Grantaire interrupts, the promise familiar. He kisses Enjolras again, disgruntled when the blonde wrinkles his nose and pulls away.
“Go brush your teeth. You still reek of whiskey, you drunkard.” Enjolras runs a rough hand through Grantaire’s hand and kisses him once more before pushing him away. Grantaire climbs out of bed while Enjolras stretches his hands over his head. “You do that and get the paint, I’ll reheat the bacon, and we’ll meet in the kitchen.”
“I love you so much.” Grantaire sighs, leaning over the bed briefly to kiss Enjolras fiercely, his hand gripping the blonde’s jaw tightly. Enjolras grins, and Grantaire is sure he has never seen him smile so much in his whole life as he has in the past twenty minutes.
“The feeling is mutual. Now, go.” Enjolras pushes Grantaire away, and the lush goes somewhat unwillingly to his bathroom before he pauses.
“Where did you stash the paint?” he calls.
“The bathtub!” Enjolras shouts back from wherever he so quickly disappeared to, and Grantaire laughs.
“I will tell all of the others what you are truly like! They will never respect you again!" Grantaire calls to Enjolras around his toothbrush. Enjolras’ muffled laugh is not heard by Grantaire’s ears.
“You will do no such thing, or I will have your head, sir!” Enjolras’ reply comes, and Grantaire throws his head back and laughs, his troubles forgotten and his memories replaced. He will not find his bottle of vodka later, nor his hidden flask of old wine. He will, however, always find Enjolras.