Chapter Text
He had been living in Berlin for 5 years now.
He was currently working on a piece in his studio, which he rented in the city with his own money, made from the commissions he sent across the world that people paid him for. His life seemed like a dream at times, like he couldn’t believe he actually was one of the lucky ones. He wasn’t painting portraits of rich people’s dogs anymore, making just over minimum wage drawing for children’s books or caricatures for the newspaper. No, he had his own style, his own materials that he liked using, that people recognised him for. He had an online queue for commissions, a manager, exhibitions in small galleries across Europe. Somehow, he had made a name for himself.
He was sticking little white papers onto his canvas when he got the text, but he didn’t see it until hours later, when he left the studio. He had a routine; he turned on no disturb as soon as he started working, painted until he got hungry, got food from the salad bar next door and continued working until inspiration stopped coming to him. It had taken him three years to develop a routine, and one more until he realised that routines were supposed to serve him and not the other way around.
This is to say, years ago Grantaire would have jumped at the buzz of the notification, ran to his phone, pulled at the skin around his nails, and called his friends to find a perfect non-obsessive totally cool reply. Now, it was 9pm, and his non-gloved hand started freezing in the cold outside air as he stared at the contact name in his phone.
It’s not like his friends hadn’t visited since he left.
Joly and Bossuet came every 6 months, their biyearly visit was a sacred tradition at this point, they even had their own bed sheets at his place. They had carved themselves a spot amongst his new friends, had stayed up many nights talking him out of bad decisions, knew the names of all his boxing coaches, and sometimes it almost felt like he never left. Jehan was not far behind, on top of their usual visits, their writing job had put them in Berlin many times and Grantaire’s walls were full of poems and stories they had written for him. Bahorel and Feuilly came with the other three to celebrate his recent 28th birthday, and had made a tradition out of coming for his exhibitions and pretending to be rich men interested in buying pieces. They said it put pressure on real buyers and increased the value of his work. When he stopped needing their help, they just started ironing their dress shirts increasingly worse, and said this made art connoisseurs appreciate the universality of his paintings. Courfeyrac had also come for his 28th birthday, and his 26th, and was the first ever visit he received when he came for his 24th. In true Courfeyrac way, he had made half his new friend group and a couple partners fall in love with him in the process.
Even Combeferre, though he refused to stay at Grantaire’s place, had come exactly three times. The first was because of a research conference happening around his area - they got coffee together and barely spoke, he didn’t know what to make of his watchful gaze, Combeferre paid, and Grantaire left more confused than he came in. The second time, he said he was curious about the work he was exhibiting at a local gallery, though Grantaire still swears he caught him smiling and looking at his pieces for way too long to not be fond. He returned less than a year ago, they got coffee with his friends and walked around the city, went to the Pergamon, laughed at tourists taking pictures in the East Side Gallery, and it felt like the strange friendship they had shared all those years ago. He got a notification later that he’d bought one of his newest works, a deep blue 3D canvas that Grantaire thought went perfectly with Combeferre’s vintage living room design.
There was a glaring missing visit. For years it formed a hole in his chest, one that he tried to fill with hook-ups and parties and relationships with people that always looked at him in a way that made him uncomfortable. And for years after that, he tried to fill it with therapy and taking walks in the afternoon and doing affirmations in the morning; he tried to fill it with the sounds of his friends laughing, his weekly facetimes with Joly and Bossuet, the poetry books Jehan sent him, stable relationships with beautiful, fascinating, passionate people. And the thing is, he had succeeded. Half way through the process he realised that he may never fill that hole, but that maybe that was okay, that he could let bad things happen to him and not get stuck in misery. That he didn’t have to let life happen to him just because of the boy he fell in love with at 18.
So when he saw the text at the top of his phone screen he had to steel himself on the pavement and rub at his eyes to make sure he was seeing right. He didn’t feel like the lovestruck 18 year old he was when they met, or even like the hurt and resentful 23 year old he was when he left. He just felt the cold breeze, and half-stared at his phone.
Enjolras [17:03]: Hello Grantaire, it's Enjolras. I will be in Berlin next week - do you know any good hotels around the city centre? Thank you.
It took him a couple seconds to regain his composure. He put his phone in his wallet, and turned on his heels in the opposite direction.
—
“You know it’s common courtesy to call people before you show up at their doorstep?”
Grantaired looked at the dark-eyed woman in front of him and pouted. “Sure, but it’s an emergency.” He said, letting himself in and jumping on the couch.
She looked at him, unimpressed.
Eponine’s apartment was on the first floor of a charming street close to Friedrichsfelde. It had wooden floors and most of the decor was inherited from the elderly woman who lived there before them. She slept on a pull out couch in the living room because she wanted to leave Gavroche the small room next to the bathroom. The kitchen had a window under which Grantaire liked to sit and doodle when the sun shone just right. Eponine didn’t like keeping the paintings he made for exhibitions, but she liked the improvised sketches he made when inspiration struck. One of them hung on top of the sofa he was lying on, a picture of the weird group of friends they had found themselves in after years of just them two. He remembered the day he drew it, looking inside into the living room from the north-facing balcony that no one used, where his friends were scolding Gavroche for stealing from the Späti next door. (‘Come on dude, it’s like the only good one in a 2 km radius.’ ‘What are we going to do if we get banned from this one Ep?’). This apartment was just as much home to him as his own.
She closed the door behind her and spoke, mockery in her voice “If you cry about losing out on another vintage leather armchair from Facebook Marketplace I swear Grantai–.” She stopped talking as he stood up and placed his phone directly in front of her, and blinked at the message sitting unopened in his lockscreen.
“What the fuck” She said, plainly. A dry sound escaped from her chest, almost like a laugh, but with no humour.
“Trust me you are not more shocked than I am.” Grantaire locked his phone away and sat back down.
“Is this the Enjolras?” She was staring at him now, stuck in place, wide eyes scanning for any emotion across his face.
“Who else has that name Ep, please be serious.” He surprised himself by sounding more annoyed than desperate, and figured Eponine sensed the same, as her shoulders seemed to relax when she rolled her eyes at him.
“What am I supposed to know about you French people and your weird names?”
Grantaire laughed and looked up at her. With the half hour it took him to get here it was almost 10pm, and she clearly was getting ready for bed. She had her dark curly hair in a bun, and was wearing the purple robe he got her for their last Secret Santa. Behind her hung pictures of their friends. Frames filled with a freckled blushing boy, a pretty blonde with a blinding smile, a small boy that grew up as the pictures went on - and him, always beside her, always surrounded by her sarcasm and her derision and her love.
“How am I supposed to reply?” The furrow on his brows disappeared as he caught sight of Eponine's scornful gaze, and was easily replaced with an amused smile.
“He hasn’t talked to you since before you left Paris, it’s pretty unfair of him to expect an answer.” She lied down opposite him and threw her legs over his. There was a small bowl with grapes on the side table, which she reached into and offered him as she spoke again. “Plus, he’s a massive dick and I bet he’s not even that hot anyway. All those pictures Joly showed me were edited.”
His brain, distracted by the grape offering, took a second to catch up to what she said. “Joly showed you pictures of him?”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me and your friends R.” She winked.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” She shrugged at him, feigning innocence, which he responded to by raising his middle finger. In response she just laughed loudly and slapped his leg.
Their friendship had gone through many phases after the night they met, drinking at a bar. They had stayed up until 8am talking over a small round table covered with glasses of rum and gin, catching each other up on all matters regarding their respective broken hearts. For months after, they explored the city from bar to bar, taking turns making sure the other got home. When Courfeyrac surprise visited for his 24th he took them to a nice restaurant, and when they dropped her off she said she’d stick with him if all his friends were the same cool type of rich. He knew then they’d be attached at the hip, and through the years he’d been proven right time and time again. Through bad nights and great days, through odd jobs, take-out Korean BBQ, art magazines that Grantaire tried to make Eponine read, through everything they had stood by and grown with each other. When Eponine came crying because Marius found a girlfriend, Grantaire called in sick to his then job and they had a long weekend watching movies, and when Eponine poked fun at him Grantaire pretended he couldn’t see right through it. Months later, when Eponine moved into her new apartment, Cosette was at her side laughing about a weird regular in her beer garden, and Grantaire was inside helping Marius set up her new table. They had seen each other's worsts and still decided they liked the other enough, and from Grantaire’s previous experiences, he knew nothing was a stronger foundation for friendship.
“Help me Ep!” This years-long friendship also meant he could increase his dramatism to his heart's desire, raising his arms over his head and bending his body against the sofa, and she could only raise her eyebrows and scoff at him in return. “What am I even supposed to say? It’s not like I can tell him ‘hey you ruined my life for years and now everyone that’s ever met me knows your name and also yes of course here’s an itemised list’”
She seemed to seriously consider what he said, as if he would ever have the balls to speak to Enjolras like that. He never did find him as terrifying as other people did, but he imagined he rehearsed his disappointed look every day in the mirror and with the time that had passed he wouldn’t put it past him to have discovered how to convey it via WhatsApp. “You should do that and also make sure the list only has hostels with bed bugs. I’m actually pretty sure Gavroche has that list somewhere, he should be back any time now.” Between all the problems they had come to the other with, they had learnt to read the other freakishly well. Sometimes, the smallest glint in his eye would let her know that he just needed her to turn on the tv and make popcorn - other times, she would hug him and pretend she couldn’t feel the tears falling on her shoulder. A long time ago, they would have ended the night with an empty bottle of rum and him asleep on her floor. But now, he just looked at her earnestly, and she shuffled closer to him, tapped his leg with hers and smiled softly before speaking.
“R you don’t have to reply to him if you don’t want to, and you don’t have to meet him even if you do decide to answer, okay?”
They locked eyes for a moment, before he put his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. “I know, I know… It’s just…It’s been five years of no contact, I had to half keep up with him through our friends, who also aren’t too happy to tell me about him.” A knot had formed in his throat, and he started picking at the skin around his nails before continuing. “Like, last time I saw him we were screaming at each other, and we had to almost force Bossuet at knifepoint last time he was here to tell me he was working as a lawyer.”
At this, Eponine furrowed her brows, thinking. “Actually, why didn’t Joly, Bossuet, or anyone tell you he was coming?”
His eyes regained focus at her words. It was weird that he hadn’t heard from anyone, which meant either Enjolras didn’t tell anyone he was coming but thought to tell him of all people, which was unlikely - or his friends had been keeping this from him, which was basically impossible. He groaned at the realization and rubbed his hands over his eyes again, whether for comfort or to stop any forming tears, he didn’t know.
“Why would this even affect me? It was so long ago and I’m not sickly in love with him anymore.”
“You know you can feel nothing for him and still feel for the boy he hurt, he was horrible and yes it was years ago but it still happened. It can still awaken emotions in you that your past self was neglected like that.” He knew to listen to her when she got this serious. Despite all her mockery, Eponine was way too wise a woman for her 27 years of age, and she gave level-headed advice that he had ignored way too many times. He knew that especially about this topic, she had been hardened by experience.
As if on cue, Gavroche appeared through the front door, going for subtlety and completely failing as he knocked over Grantaire’s bag in the foyer. Eponine looked at him, an apology in her eyes, before getting up and walking decidedly towards Gavroche.
“Well! Look who’s here! It’s Mr. I’ll Be Home By Nine.” She had a way of sounding and looking murderous to anyone else, but between the quieter tone she usually took with her brother and his general disregard for authority, the best she could muster was a shrug from Gavroche.
“We went for dinner after the movies.” He said matter of factly, walking into the kitchen and increasing his voice to be heard over the running sink. “Why is Grantaire here? Did he lose out on another Facebook Marketplace chair?”
Grantaire matched his tone as he answered. “No and I’d say it’s a much more important matter but I can think of very few things that matter more than idiots selling precious pieces for peanuts.” And then to Eponine, quieter, “I'm sorry, is my Marketplace habits something you guys discuss behind my back?”
She shrugged. “You did cause a big scene that one time.”
Gavroche walked back into the living room, with a bowl of cereal for himself and a glass of water for his sister. He imagined that was how the Thénardiers apologised, glasses of water and half smiles.
“What is it then?” He asked her, as if Grantaire wasn’t in the room at all.
Eponine took the offered glass and responded, clinical as ever. “Enjolras texted him, he’s coming to Berlin next week.”
Gavroche widened his eyes and finally looked at Grantaire, his cereal spoon halfway through the air as if paused in time. “The Enjolras?”
He didn’t know if this was just the normal response to realizing the man he had ranted about for years was real, or if Enjolras really was a very common name in the southern part of Bavaria the siblings were from. “How many Enjolras do you even know?”
“I don’t know French people have weird names.” Well that answered that then.
“That’s what I said!” Exclaimed Eponine, high fiving her brother with a grin on both their faces.
“You are both so annoying.” Grantaire groaned.
Eponine looked back at him, and despite the humour still present in her eyes, he could tell there was a question in them. Before Gavroche could continue asking about Enjolras’ text, she responded “Sorry, insights into Grantaire’s personal life are reserved for adults and for teenagers that arrive home on time, I don’t make the rules.”
Gavroche scoffed at her, and with his best sarcastic tone brought his hand to his forehead in a salute and said “Whatever, Chief.” As he turned around and back into his room, he said “Bye Grantaire, have fun with Mr. Liberty Leading the People.”
He waited for him to disappear behind his bedroom door before saying “He has very impressive references for a 15-year old you know? I will take credit for that.” Eponine stared back at his words and raised her eyebrows.
“Whatever makes you sleep at night hun.” She put down her glass and sat back down, clapping his leg. “Back to business, what are you going to do about him?”
He thought for a second, more for her than himself. He knew he had already made up his mind. “I need to get home and call Joly and Bossuet, there has to be something I’m not getting if they didn’t know he was coming.”
That seemed to be the correct answer, as she half smiled with a proud look in her eyes. Still, she asked. “You know you can stay the night right? I’m not working tomorrow, we can have a girls night.” He knew her enough to know that the offer to continue their old ritual was part of her Grantaire Emotion Assessment. There was a time where he would have attempted to fail or rather, pass, with no regard to what his needs actually were. Now, he just looked at his hands and responded sincerely.
“I know, it’s just… I need to talk to them first.” He still could never say no to her though, so he added “I’d love to meet with Marius and Cos tomorrow though?”
She smiled and leaned back on the couch, adjusting her robe as she did so. “Cosette is working, but we can meet at her bar tomorrow night. I’ll text the group chat.”
“Let’s do that.” He knew she hated whenever he voiced any gratitude for her unwavering friendship and support, but one of the very few things he loved more than Eponine was to make Eponine uncomfortable, so he added. “Thanks Ep, for everything.” There was still candour in his words, despite the layer of irony in them.
“Don’t get soapy on me dude.” And because she was an expert at reading his mind “I love you too or whatever.”
He laughed as he stood up and leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek. He could feel her smile as he did, and he couldn’t help but smile in return. At the door, he reached for his bag, and put on his coat and beat up sneakers. “See you tomorrow princess, I’ll text when I get home.”
He could feel her eye-roll as she followed to hold the door open for him. “You do that R.” She waited a beat before continuing, softer, “and remember you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“I know.” He looked back after walking out onto the staircase, “Thank you again.” He waved back as she said her goodbyes, and walked down the floor that took him onto the cold street.
-
Only four metro stops separated his and Eponine’s apartment, but the 15 minutes it took him to walk into his Friedrichstain apartment felt longer than it ever had.
He had always had an ability to land the best flats in every city he lived in, but he was still very lucky to find his current one. It was a third floor walkup close to Boxhagener Platz, with a big living room covered almost entirely in framed pictures, paintings, and posters. He had a brown leather couch over which he had sellotaped many of the material memories his friends had made him throughout the years. Dried dried flowers from Cosette, napkins with Jehan’s tableside poetry, pages of notes ripped from Marius’ notebook, sticky notes in Eponine’s handwriting with differing ways of saying ‘coming back in the afternoon don’t burn the house down’ written on them. There were also memories from his time in Paris, pictures of Joly and Bossuet, a ticket to one of Bahorel’s boxing matches, an old tic-tac-toe game he had played with Feuilly on a coffee shop receipt. He even had a doodle of Combeferre, glasses on and looking deep in thought as he read a book.
He was proud of his apartment. This time, he had been able to make it a home, and not just a studio that he sometimes also slept in. With Marius’ help, he had also learnt how to cook properly and managed to keep a fridge full of groceries.
After leaving his things by the entrance, he walked into his kitchen and grabbed an apple from his fruit bowl. Courfeyrac had drawn a ‘What?!?!’ as a bubble text over a dog with a surprised face on it when he first saw the bowl on his 26th birthday party. It now faced outwards and stared at him as he bit into his apple and walked out towards his couch.
He laid down and pulled out his phone. He quickly texted Eponine to let her know he was home and found Bossuet’s contact. The anxiety over finding out whatever there was to find out was almost overtaken by his excitement at talking to his friends. Joly’s busy hospital schedule and his work on his current exhibition meant their last weekly catch up was shorter than usual, and if he knew anything about his friends, it was that their lives were eventful enough to fill a whole three hours of call about just five of his ordinary days.
He only had to wait two tones before he heard Bossuet’s voice. “R! Hi!” He could hear rustling on his side before he had a chance to answer. “Wait, did we change our call time again? We’ve been so busy with Chetta moving in I’m so so-” He cut him off with a fond laugh before he could continue rambling.
“No Bossuet, it’s fine, I just wanted to check up on you guys.” He still had not had the chance to meet Musichetta, as she had been busy the last two times the guys came over, but he could feel the happiness radiating from both his friends whenever they talked about her and that was enough to make him love her. “Is Joly around? I need to tell you something.”
“Aw! Nice, that’s so nice dude for real. Yes he’s building the new table, last time I stepped on a screw so he’s taking over”. He quietly laughed as he heard more rumbling from the other line, and a ‘Joly!’ followed faintly by walking.
“Grantaire?” This time in Joly’s voice.
“Hi guys, how are you?” He answered, lounging back and taking full advantage of his long sofa.
“Hi R! We’re good, it’s so nice to speak to you.” Despite texting almost every day, Joly still sounded earnest in his excitement over speaking to him. The realization filled him with affection, and erased whatever amount of anxiety was still left in him. “We’re good, I took off the hospital today and we’re helping Chetta rebuild the furniture she brought over. She has the cutest sofa table R. You're going to love it when you see it.”
His friends still spoke like this, like he could crash at their flat the next day and tell them about his day while they made his favorite pasta. It’s not like he hadn’t visited since he left, he definitely had. He went for Joly’s graduation, for one of Bahorel’s matches, he went for Feuilly’s 27th birthday and had been in the city a couple times for no reason except seeing them again. Still, he had missed far too many special occasions, which he was deeply ashamed of. The funny thing was, the reason why he had avoided being in Paris for so many of their big moments was also the only person that would hold it against him. That’s why they had matched so well, he was the only person that agreed with all the reasons why he hated himself.
The silence from the phone brought him back to the present. They were expecting his answer. “It’s so nice to speak to you too, guys. Send me a picture of the table, I bet it’s so much better than whatever Bossuet convinced you to steal from the street last time.”
He heard an offended scoff and a phone being passed. “It matched with our rug!”
“It had blood marks on it, Bossuet.” Joly’s laugh engulfed the line and he smiled as he put the phone on his chest, switching the speaker on.
They began an easy conversation, with Grantaire telling them about finishing his last painting for the exhibition and the commission he had started working on. It was a light blue canvas that resembled the ocean from above, using white paper to simulate the breaking waves. His client, a middle-aged man from Munich, wanted him to paint him with his husband lying on the water, smiling at the onlooker. He had loved talking to the man, and Joly and Bossuet both awed at the concept behind the painting.
“I can’t believe our friend is a famous painter, I feel like a nepo baby.” Joly exclaimed with glee.
“Well the second I can get anyone into any fancy restaurants or events trust me you will be my first call.” He responded, matching his joy. He needed a second before he remembered “Actually I promised Jehan and Cosette first, but you will be my plus three.”
Joly seemed to be equally happy with this, “I will take any and all privileges you bring my way.” He couldn’t see him, but he knew he had put his hand over his heart as he said this, and that he was only half joking. He heard Bossuet kissing Joly over the line and smiled even wider.
“Ew, get a room you two.”
“You’re just jealous we have someone to kiss over our cool sofa table, and you only have the cool sofa table.” He knew his friend was joking, but he couldn’t help but let out an empty laugh at how scarily close to the reason for his call he was. He had almost half forgotten.
The bad part of having great friends is that great friends notice changes in your mood, even when they are thousands of kilometers away. “Everything ok, R?” He heard Joly ask. And then, Bossuet “Wait, you said you had something to tell us, is that what it is?” He felt his mouth dry for a second, which seemed to be long enough for them to take it as a yes.
A voice came from the phone “Really? I’m sorry, I didn’t know, is it Floréal?”
There was humour in Joly’s understandable rationale that his heart matters must be related to her, and not their mutual acquaintance about whom they had heard adorned improvised poetry for years. He and Floréal had dated for just under eight months, and had broken up amicably four months ago. It took him a little over two weeks and a couple of crying rants with Cosette and Eponine to really get over it. She was gorgeous, long straight black hair and thick eyelashes framing her beautiful eyes. More than that, she was passionate, charismatic, kind - she could make anyone in a room fall in love with her. And he had, and somehow she had shared the sentiment, and they had a beautiful relationship that necessarily ended when they realised they were too similar to maintain the same fire they had at the beginning. He had seen her a couple times since, and she gave him two kisses each time and looked as glad to see him as he was her.
And yet, “No, it’s not about her.”
There was a beat of silence after his answer, when he realised he had spoken too rushedly to be inconspicuous.
“Is there someone else? What happened?” The kindness emanating in his friend's tone didn’t make him uncomfortable, but rather broke down some kind of final wall he had built up inside of him without realising. He didn’t want to cause any issues in Les Amis, and he was frightened this would cause a stir. But Joly and Bossuet were worried, and he knew the others would be too, and if they really didn’t know anything then maybe there was something wrong that they needed to know; and he needed their advice.
“Enjolras texted me.”
The silence that followed was far longer than the last. He felt he needed to fill it somehow.
“He’s coming to Berlin next week. Did you know?” He unwillingly let out a nervous laugh. His friends still didn’t speak. He wished he had video called them, at least then he could try to read their expression. This silence was impossible to discern.
After what seemed like ages, Bossuet spoke.
“What?”
And then Joly.
“Do you think he…” The sound trailed off after this, like someone had put their hand over the microphone. He could still hear them mumbling to each other, but was only able to pick up every other word. Of all the possible outcomes he had conjured up in his head in the last 30 seconds, none involved this, and somehow it was still the most terrifying. What was going on with him?
“Guys, could we maybe involve me again in this conversation?” He was not surprised to hear his voice trembling. He felt like he was trembling.
The silence continued for a few more seconds, before he could hear Bossuet clearing his voice, as if having come to a resolution. “R, we need to tell you something.”
He was clearly out of practice with his anxious thinking skills, because nothing could have prepared him for what Joly said after.
“We haven’t really talked to Enjolras in a while.”
The Amis had many rules, but they (and by they he meant Enjolras and to a lesser extent, Combeferre) disliked being told they did. He remembered a late night at the Musain, alcohol rushing through his veins and words, angering their fearless leader about the obvious rule that none of the Amis should interact with certain people or hold certain views. Enjolras had argued through gritted teeth that that is simply how good people should behave, and asked if he regularly interacted with fascists. Raising his glass of rum as a toast, he laughed, and said “Ah but Apollo, the existence of a should necessitates a rule. Whether I agree or disagree doesn’t matter, you need to read up on your Wittgenstein.” What he didn’t realise then was that yes, the Amis did have many rules - but most of them came from the active practice of friendship.
They didn’t go to Courfeyrac’s ridiculous karaoke nights because they wanted to, but because he asked them. They didn’t call Joly whenever there was news of flu outbreaks because they were told, but because they knew he would be having a hard time. They didn’t bring Feuilly lunch at work and texted to make sure Combeferre hadn’t forgotten to eat when he was at the library because Enjolras forced them, but because they cared about them. And they definitely didn’t want to carry Grantaire home drunk or high, bloody from whatever fight he had gotten himself into. They did it because he was their friend. Whether or not you called that ‘rules’ didn’t matter at all. It was just the things people did for each other.
Hearing that Joly and Bossuet hadn’t talked to Enjolras ‘in a while’ wasn’t just strange - it went against the very thing that had turned them into each other’s families all that time ago.
“What? How long?” He couldn’t help the shock that showed in his voice. He hoped in vain that it wouldn’t be too bad. That maybe he was reading too much into the conversation and that Enjolras was simply on vacation, or wherever people like him went to relax.
It was Bossuet’s turn to answer. “A month or so.” What crushed him was not the amount of time, but how defeated he sounded when he said it.
“Why?” When he looked down to pick at his nails, he saw the time on his watch. Funny how ten minutes ago they were talking about pretty ocean paintings.
“Last Amis meeting he went to he got into a pretty bad fight with Combeferre. He stormed off, Ferre looked crushed.” He thought Joly would have been anxious at this, but more than that he just sounded sad. He knew then that this was something that had been weighing on his friends shoulders for a long time. “He told us to leave Enj alone for a while.” A pang of pain hit his chest at the nickname. “So we haven’t talked to him since. Maybe Ferre knew he was going, but he’s just not bringing him up at all. This is the first we hear about him.”
The anxiety that had been brewing in his stomach at the beginning of the call came back in full force. He wondered if this is how his friends felt, a month ago. He wondered why none of them had told him. He wondered if it was fair to be angry at this.
Joly continued. “The thing is, he… he hasn’t been himself, not in a while.” He coughed, and his voice sounded more sure when he spoke again. “It started a few months ago. He started speaking quieter in meetings, he was just less passionate overall. I know you joked about him being like a robot, but you couldn’t have seen him like this. It was freaky, everything he did seemed just… mechanical.” Grantaire could hear him fighting the tears.
He could only imagine how grateful Joly felt when Bossuet picked up the story. “We thought we should say something, but you know how he gets and how he doesn’t like talking about his… well, his feelings.” He tried not to laugh at his friend's hesitation. Besides Combeferre and Courfeyrac, no one in the world knew how bad Enjolras was at talking about his feelings. He always blamed himself for his friends thinking this way of Enjolras, yes he was reserved, but whenever they heard of their emotional conversations it was through Grantaire’s biased words. And for all his love for the blond boy, he always enjoyed riling him up and then licking his own wounds publicly.
But he wouldn’t tell his friends this. After all, it had been five years since he left. Maybe they had seen a side of their leader he never got the chance to see. So instead, he continued listening to Bossuet. “He started cancelling meetings, and rarely came to get togethers. A month before the fight, Ferre and Courf started taking over his role in meetings.” He fell silent, and a beat later, added “We don’t know much else.”
The previous question started pounding in his head. Why didn’t you tell me? He knew he wasn’t being fair, not really. He had no reason to be told anything that was going on in Enjolras’ life. Again, it had been years since he left, he had no idea what new things they had learnt about each other without him present. He also knew the Amis had been hard on him when he left for Berlin. He knew it took a long time for them to feel like their friendship was like how it had been. He knew he had put everyone in an awkward position, and he knew that even if his friends didn’t want to have to pick a side, they still felt like they had to hold Enjolras to some standards for acting how he did (he wondered if Enjolras had seen it that way). Maybe after all they went through, they had even stronger bonds than before he left. And certainly, they were more involved in his life than he was.
So no, he had no right to feel angry that they didn’t tell him anything. He knew he still felt that way, though. Instead of voicing it, he wondered where that emotion was coming from. In some small box at the back of his head, locked inside a dark room with spiderwebs, a thought mumbled that he was feeling protective. Not for the marmoreal man that had a talent for casual cruelty, but for the passionate, ambitious, and determined boy he also was.
He still needed to ask, if only to get a fuller story. “I just talked to Courf last week, why didn’t he tell me?”
He heard them both sigh. Joly spoke. “I don’t think Courf and Enjolras are talking much either these days.” They often joked at how aptly named Joly was, it took something truly awful to cause him to lose the joy that defined him. And even then, the most you would get was anxious jitters. It was strange to hear the sad tone in his voice. What the fuck happened.
“What the fuck happened?”
At least this earned him a laugh from Bossuet, though it came out more like a scoff, but he’d take anything at this point. “Fuck if we know. We should tell the others R, they’re also worried.”
He knew they were right. He knew he had no right to subject the others to more worry when he could be helping them. He realised then why they hadn’t told him - they knew he would also worry, and he had no way to help. He would have been hopeless.
“Yes. Please do that.” He thought of it for a second, and then added. “Can you just… You can tell Combeferre he texted me, but can you not tell the others? Just say you know where he is.” He hoped this wouldn't be too much to ask, that they would give him this. “Please.”
He could feel Joly’s small smile when he answered. “Of course.”
“I think that might be even better. I can totally see Bahorel coming over to make sure he doesn’t kill you.” Bossuet’s words broke some of the tension that had built up. They all laughed in unison, actually laughed. It wasn’t even that good a joke, but no joke is better than a welcome one.
After they were done, Joly asked “Do you know when he’s arriving?”
“It’s Friday today, I’m assuming Monday or Tuesday.” Grantaire said, pulling up the calendar on his phone. “Knowing him, he’ll probably send me the full itinerary when I answer, and ask me for theory books to read on the plane ride.” He knew he was mocking him now, but he hoped the others could see there was no malice in it.
Joly’s fond laugh answered that question. Still, his own words reminded him of something else. “I don’t know if I wanna see him yet, or if I will even reply.”
They seemed to ponder for a second. “That’s totally fair. Just let us know what you decide to do. We will tell Combeferre you called us.” He was unbelievably grateful for each and every one of his friends, but if Combeferre managed to get the blond to explain just a bit of what had been possessing his thoughts for the last, apparently, two months, he would kiss him on the mouth. And pay for his dinner. Maybe just the second one?
With all their talking, they hadn’t noticed how late it had gotten. They said their goodbyes and Grantaire apologised for overtaking their evening and for stopping their furniture-making plans. He was still smiling when he hung up, laughing at Joly’s parting statement that Chetta was way better at IKEA than any of them were anyway.
He only let himself check his phone again after getting ready for bed. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and put on his nice pajamas. He climbed onto his bed and was suddenly very grateful to Morning Grantaire for changing the sheets that morning, their fresh scent almost managing to relax him.
His lock screen showed three messages.
Gav [23:05]: keep your head up king!! don’t let anyone ruin the weather up there!!!!
Princess Ep [22:30]: Coolio sleep well
Enjolras [17:03]: Hello Grantaire, it's Enjolras. I will be in Berlin next week - do you know any good hotels around the city centre? Thank you.
He made a mental note to reply to Gavroche in the morning and opened the dreaded chat.
He hated that his profile picture still took his breath away. It was the same it had been for almost a decade now. He was sitting on a cafe chair, a notebook on the small table in front of him. He had a grey sweater on, and the old washed jeans that he had to be forced to throw away years after. His blond hair looked wild, it was clear that his hands had gone through it one too many times - it was finals week, so his deep blue eyes had the tiniest tint of red under them. Any other person could have only wished to look average, but he was smiling widely at Courfeyrac behind the camera, and he looked like the most beautiful man Grantaire had ever seen.
The first time he saw him, he could literally feel the ground being knocked from under him. The first time he heard him speak, his pulse was rushing and he felt so warm he felt like he would explode. But still, that was need, not love. After months of angering him just to get any look, even a furious one, he saw Enjolras give Jehan a book on female romantic poets. The way he looked when they hugged him in thanks, with his eyes shining just like they did in his profile photo and a soft smile on his face… That was the moment he realised that under all the toxic obsession, he’d fallen genuinely in love with him.
It was only then that he made sense of the worry that had been building inside of him for the last two hours. The confusion at the combination of feelings and logic that was tumbling in his brain.
He thought of the boy that tried to learn how to bake for Courfeyrac’s birthday, and who ordered pastries from Courf’s favorite hometown bakery when he realised he was hopeless. He thought of the boy who would have entire conversations with Combeferre in just a few shared looks. He thought of the boy that spent hours studying labour law to help Feuilly create a union in his work, despite being in the middle of his internship.
He thought of the day he was walking home from his waitering job and found that same boy stumbling next to the Seine, so drunk he could barely stand. He thought of how Enjolras clung to him, and of the tears he had to wipe off his face. He thought of the hug they shared without saying a word, and of how he brought him home and put him to bed and still neither of them spoke. He thought of how Enjolras seeked him out the next day, and of the glint in his eyes that he latched onto to allow himself to kiss him back.
He knew he needed to do this.
Grantaire [23:51]: yes, this is my google maps they’re marked there.
Grantaire [00:01]: is anyone picking you up at the airport?