Chapter Text
There is an abandoned house in the outskirts of Paris, concealed underneath the trees of the forest in which its roots lie. These roots are perhaps as old as those of the very same trees, for the house in ancient and resilient. The walls are still strong after their unknown but surely many years, as well as the floors, the ceiling, its very structure.
Antiqueness and abandonment are reflected in the details only. The ivy that grows behind and through the stones which make up her walls, the wild flowers that invade her small garden, the murkiness of her windows. It’s a reluctant abandon that sees careful maintenance once in a while.
The house is for sale. It’s been so for at least five years. Grantaire found it at the time when he’d first found himself homeless, and to him it was Heaven. Since then he’s come back several time, and always finds it the same way he left it. More importantly, though, it is always unoccupied.
When he first got back to the camping site, after a night spent at a five star hotel with Enjolras, nursing his wounds, both he and Enjolras walked in on a heated discussion involving all the remaining friends. They argued about where they should stay once they arrived in Paris, since staying at their own houses or anywhere near it was out of the question.
As it turned out, Les Amis were Parisian. For some reason, it fit them.
Courfeyrac, in particular, was most distressed. His body was against the back door of Jehan’s van, as if he was its security guard making sure no one got in before they settled the matter. He spoke as if his whole road trip was in peril. Unsurprisingly, his distressed was all due to Enjolras, “because he’s going to find a way to go to his apartment and he’s going to go to the Musain and get his hands on a newspaper. He’ll hear something he doesn’t like – because there’s always something –, leave, and before we know it we’ll all be going after him!”
Grantaire, dreading the outcome Courfeyrac pictured, waltzed in with his solution. Everyone accepted it instantly. The prospect of a beautiful house in the middle of nowhere thrilled Courfeyrac, who abandoned his frown for his trademark smile. Overjoyed as he was that Grantaire had solved all of his problems, he seemed about to kiss the guitarist. He never did, however. Instead, he chose to celebrate with Jehan, wrapping the boy in his arms. “Combeferre, do not take your eyes off our marble leader once we’re there, or he will escape and start a revolution without us!” he said once he pulled his lips away from Jehan’s.
Now that they have arrived, Grantaire is alone in one of the top floor bedrooms. There is a black iron bed against the wall adjacent to the tall window, with a comfortable mattress and sheets. They might be dusty from the time spent with no body to embrace; yet dust in no way hinders comfort. Still, he choses the floor instead, because it’s not that kind of comfort that he seeks. He lies there on his back, looking at the ceiling but contemplating nothing. His eyes are opened out of mere habit. He sees only the inside of his own mind, that dark place that will forever haunt him. For company, he has a bottle of wine in his hand, taken from the remnants of the wine cellar that belong to this very ancient house – or perhaps one he left behind on his previous stay, he isn’t sure.
It’s nighttime, although whether it’s the early evening or almost dawn he doesn’t know. Unsurprisingly, he is very, very drunk. But in his head he retains the knowledge that he must stay there. He’s waiting for Jehan.
It’s only in the morning that Jehan arrives. Grantaire has not moved an inch every since he fell on the floor for the first time. He still has his legs slightly opened apart; one hand haphazardly tucked behind his head while the other holds the now empty bottle beside his waist.
“Grantaire!” The boy exclaims in a high-pitched voice that is entirely hostile to Grantaire’s hangover head. As the door is on the wall adjacent to the window but opposite to the bed, Grantaire is blinded by the sun and cannot fully see Jehan, only a black figure that walks the way he does and talks with his voice. “Did something happen? Did you pass out?” In a lower voice, surely intended for only his own ears, the poet adds: “Why did no one come to check on you?”
Propping himself on his elbows, Grantaire tries a comforting smile. “Don’t worry about me. I was just getting something to drink and got a little carried away in my desire to forget life. It happens occasionally, but I endure.”
Pity stares back at him when he glances into Jehan’s eyes. Morning has made him too sober to take it, so he regards the white blur of sunlight instead. It makes his eyes water, but it isn’t unpleasant.
“But why would you want to forget life? Aren’t you having fun with us?”
Jehan is seated in a lotus position beside Grantaire now, twirling a strand of his hair in one of his fingers while he bites his lip. The boy is genuinely saddened by the predicament in which he’s found Grantaire, the corners of his eyes drooped in wrinkles.
Grantaire waves a dismissive hand in the air.
“It’s just something I do. Never mind that. How is Courfeyrac?” He asks.
The inquiry manages a remarkable transformation in Jehan’s features. The sadness is gone entirely, to be replaced by a jubilant grin and brightness of the eyes. And then a blush settles in his cheeks and he looks away, chuckling softly.
“He’s quite amazingly all right. He’s with Enjolras. He said—“ Jehan stops abruptly, holds his lips agape for a moment after the words stop tumbling out, and when he closes them, they make a soft ‘plop’ noise.
Grantaire, for his part, cannot help but perk up at the mention of Enjolras’s name. They have barely exchanged more than a couple of sentences between each other since they woke up at the hotel two days ago. In fact, they were so few that Grantaire remembers every sentence precisely the way it was said. ‘Get ready, we need to get back to the camping site’ Enjolras said when he waltzed into the balcony and interrupted Grantaire’s playing. To this, Grantaire, still in his morning bliss, replied with an excited ‘I can play again!’, which Enjolras reacted to with a mere nod of his head.
This nod was all Grantaire needed to snap out of that morning trance of sorts, wherein he had not a care in the world and the dark parts of him did not have a place to stand. Enjolras, with that marble nod, brought him back to reality, where the words “Grantaire…Stop…Please” were uttered into an endless well, destined to echo and echo forever.
Grantaire’s solution? Avoiding Enjolras like the plague. It might seem childish, but nevertheless, Enjolras seemed to be on the same page as he on this one. They afforded each other quiet politeness whenever they were forced to be in the same place, and then went on with their lives. Enjolras read his book, played cards with his friends, talked and laughed occasionally. Grantaire played his guitar - albeit considerably less enthusiastically so – and signed up for a competition in Montreuil.
On the outside, they were equally indifferent to one another. On the inside, however, Grantaire was light years away from ever matching Enjolras. He thought about his Apollo every waking second, and dreamt of him when taken by unconsciousness. The magnificent taste of Enjolras’s lips and the hint of his tongue are still cruelly clear in every fibber of Grantaire’s being. Just like those words that had torn them apart.
Grantaire.
Stop.
Please.
“He said what?” Grantaire quirks an eyebrow, hoping that doing so will suffice to loosen Jehan’s mouth.
“That there has been an increase in the uh… sexual tension in the group, which he says can only mean one thing since it should’ve decreased because, well, ours is not mostly under control.”
Grantaire loses the strength in his arms and lets his head fall back down on the floor. “Do you guys own some kind of sexual tension radar or something?”
Jehan gives him a sly smile.
It’s all just me, Grantaire thinks to himself. Yet he is curious about what was Courfeyrac’s conclusion, so he refrains from telling this to Jehan.
“What does it mean then?” He asks instead.
“That Courfeyrac has a nine to ten chance of having a black eye right now,” Grantaire frowns. “To Courfeyrac, it means Enjolras is in need of some ‘Courf Counseling’.”
The information takes a moment to sink in. Once it does, Grantaire bursts out laughing. The laughter increases gradually, as Jehan joins him, until it comes to a point where neither of them can feel their stomachs any longer and they just lie next to each other in shared numbness.
It doesn’t even cross Grantaire mind to ask why Courfeyrac feels Enjolras is responsible of the increase in the sexual tension. After all, Éponine had made it pretty clear that no one had ever witnessed Enjolras having any feelings of the sexual kind.
“So what did you want to ask of me?” Jehan asks after a while.
“Would you mind helping me write the lyrics to the song I am composing for the contest?”
Jehan is flattered by the request. He smiles from cheek to cheek and envelopes Grantaire in an embrace that is both awkward and uncomfortable, since they are lying down on their backs on the floor, side by side, in easy companionship.
"Of course I will!" He exclaims into the hug. "Can I hear you play the melody, please?"
A parent never strays very far from their children. Grantaire's guitar is his child, and as such, he has only to stretch out his arm to pull the instrument from under the bed. As if in an act of sympathy, his hangover retreats, permitting him to concede to Jehan's wish with ease and do something that will undoubtedly lift up his current low spirits.
Paying close attention to Jehan's reactions, Grantaire plays the first chord. It's with surprise that Grantaire finds he feels nervous. It seems he cares about Jehan's opinion on his original piece a great deal more than he ever thought he would. As the boy listens intently, gaze intent on Grantaire's trained fingers, holding his hands together as if forcing them not to clap, Grantaire realizes why.
In little more than a week, Jehan became his friend. Not only Jehan - all of the others as well. Even Enjolras, regardless of what happened that night at the hotel. It was an incredible mistake. A friendship such as the one he feels he now shares with these young men and woman is unlike any other he has ever experienced in his life before. They are so tight-knit, such a union, that he finds it completely ludicrous that they even let him in, in the first place. He has but his sarcastic comments to contribute with.
Grantaire is like a pirate who has been looking for a treasure his whole life, and ended up stumbling upon it rather than discovering it. He comes to this realization as he reaches the final chords of his song. Jehan applauds, at last, filled with excitement.
Just as one realization has hit him, another comes in its trail: he values Enjolras's friendship - even if it is as unrequited as his love - absurdly so. He cannot imagine enduring a life without Enjolras’s frustrated words being thrown at him.
"It's beautiful, Grantaire! A sorrowful piece, and yet still so romantic. I'm flooding with ideas already! Do you know what you want the lyrics to say?"
Grantaire places his guitar gently on the floor, at his feet. Poet and guitarist have been seated since Grantaire first reached for his guitar, Grantaire in a lotus position while Jehan seats on top of his legs. The intricate position does not seem to make him the least bit uncomfortable.
"I did something really fucking stupid when I was at the hotel with Enjolras. He gave me some pain killers and they must've really fucked with my head..." He confesses to Jehan instead, running his hands through his face and his head with a slight aggressiveness in the move. Frustrated with himself. Jehan regards him curiously in return, so he feels he can open up to the boy. And that is what he does.
He narrates the events of that bittersweet night to his poet friend.
What a wonderful night it was, he thinks to himself first. What a disastrous night it was, the same voice objects.
"I know he doesn't see me as a friend. He must hate me. All I ever do is try to put out his idealistic flame with my skeptic ways and my drinking. He hates it that I drink. But he still tolerated me, and that tolerance is still infinitely better than indifference, which is how he treats me now. Don’t get me wrong, I have been avoiding him myself, but that is only because I..."
Jehan waits for him to continue, but the exasperated sigh that Grantaire lets out is like the final period of the unfinished sentence.
The poet shifts closer to Grantaire then.
"I honestly don't know why he is avoiding you, to be honest. If Enjolras has a problem with you, he will not hesitate to tell you. He can't help it, that's just how he is. He never stays quiet about it." Jehan says with conviction, yet when he finishes speaking his features suggests he is quite lost.
"So I broke Enjolras."
Jehan goes on, with a small chuckle. "Which suggests he isn't actually mad at you. But he clearly isn't happy with you either--"
"Is he ever?"
“—How exactly he feels about you at the moment, I haven’t a clue. Maybe Courf will enlighten us. Or maybe you could just ask him.” Jehan continues.
“Oh, he’s mad at me, I know it. He asked me to stop kissing him. And then he turned into a marble statue and never spoke to me again. He’s mad. He hates me.”
“That’s the thing, though,” Jehan smirks. “He asked you to stop. He didn’t rip you away from him or punch you. He asked politely. How mad could you possibly have made him?”
Grantaire is still ruminating on Jehan’s words when the poet leaves to meet Courfeyrac by the lake in the woods. He thinks maybe he should do as Jehan says and approach Enjolras. Only he knows he cannot ask him what he really wants to ask. Perhaps he could start with something light, like “who came first the chicken or the egg?”
The thought makes him laugh as he pictures it, and his laughter echoes in that empty bedroom where he lays on his own, because Enjolras would more likely than not have a long intricate and philosophical answer to that question.
The thing is, there are no limits to what Grantaire would give to hear Enjolras give him that answer. Any answer, in fact. Any word directed to him would suffice at this point, even if it were a hateful one.
He feels like there’s a hand in his heart, squeezing it relentlessly, trying to turn it to dust. Grantaire knows only one way to make it go away.
Slowly, because his body is still mostly covered in bruising, he stands up and leaves the room, heading for the wine cellar in the basement.