Chapter Text
Now he's gone and done it. He's messed up, as he was so inevitably going to, and now they're both stranded out in the middle of nowhere, in the dark and cold and without so much as a candle to keep themselves warm. Some rescuer he is, a knight in shining armour tripping over his own sword because he can't open the visor of his own fucking helmet. Of course he couldn't handle something as important as this, Combeferre shouldn't have trusted him with it. What did either of them think would happen –
"It's fine, we're not that far from civilisation," Enjolras says, flatly, and Grantaire wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
"Cold must've killed the battery," he says, meekly, making a Herculean effort to pull himself together. "I'll try and call Courf."
The reception out here is as atrocious as he'd feared; he has to get out of the car and pace the side of the road to get any signal at all, stamping his feet and wishing he'd thought to bring a pair of gloves. After an agonising wait to connect and a worrying number of rings, Courfeyrac picks up at last. Grantaire wants to kiss him when he hears his voice on the other end, feeling the relief of a man adrift at sea sighting a friendly ship in the distance. Finally, a proper adult to deal with this mess – even if Courfeyrac is still a little tipsy.
He has to cover his other ear with his hand to understand him, and even then he misses at least one word in every sentence.
"That's unfortunate," Courfeyrac says when Grantaire explains their predicament. He does so with as few details as possible; he doesn't mention that Enjolras never intended to catch his train at all. "Send me – location if you can."
Grantaire keeps the call connected while he fiddles with the GPS on his phone until he manages to wrangle together a set of approximate coordinates. When he has them he texts them to Courfeyrac. It's a while before he hears Courfeyrac's phone ping on the other end of the line, and he's quiet for a moment as he studies them.
"If they're accurate – should be a cabin not far from the road – aunt and uncle own – about. I'll send – map – get lost just go north – hill with the trees on top."
"How much of this land does your family own?" Grantaire asks, uncertain which way north is. He can figure it out. He lived in the country once – he hasn't gone entirely soft yet.
"They used to – all of it – about – hundred years ago." Even with the terrible call quality Grantaire can hear the stiffness in his tone; the venerable de Courfeyracs of past centuries are a subject he's never liked talking about. "– Not the point right now – in a lockbox by the front door, I'll send – code."
"Thank you, you're a lifesaver." Grantaire hopes his gratitude rings true.
"Don't – just don't let Enjolras do – stupider than he already has."
"I'll take care of things," he says, trying to ignore the feeling that he's making another promise he won't be able to keep.
"Good. Call me if – trouble. Signal's – cabin has a satellite phone for emergencies."
When Grantaire returns to the car he finds Enjolras slumped in his seat, arms folded across his chest and his hood up. He turns his head as Grantaire opens the door and clambers inside, grateful for a respite from the cold.
"Remind me to tell Courfeyrac how much I adore him when we get back," he says, giddy with the promise of a warm hearth and a way out of this horrible situation. "Thank fuck for his rich ancestors. There's a cabin we can crash in for the night, if we can find it."
Enjolras raises his chin, which makes the hood slip lower on his forehead, pushing a lock of hair into his eyes. "Is it far?"
Grantaire squints at the map of the estate, finding the marked, numbered cabin and following the route south until he recognises the snaking curve of the main road, the one that leads ultimately to the main house that they've just taken in reverse. The cabin is set in from the road, serviced only by a narrow track. The distance looks short on the map, but the scale could be deceptive. If their location is correct, due north is somewhere to their right. "It doesn't look far."
"Good," Enjolras says. He leans forward, opening the glove compartment in front of him and taking out a torch. "Let's go."
Grantaire is loath to leave the car behind, but it won't keep them warm all night. He locks it behind them, hands the keys back to Enjolras and hopes for the best. Enjolras places them in his pocket, then they're plunged into absolute darkness as the headlights go out. Grantaire reaches for him reflexively; he grasps thin air until his hand finds Enjolras's shoulder, and he holds on. Enjolras switches the torch on a few seconds after that, and Grantaire releases him, feeling needy and foolish.
The walk is uphill, the gentle incline made more difficult by the depth of the untouched snow. They take careful note of the shape of the trees behind the car before they lose sight of it, in case they end up lost and have to retrace their steps.
Enjolras trudges beside him, casting the beam of the torch on the ground ahead. Grantaire looks at his own feet at first, but as they begin to leave the road behind he looks up to the sky, stopping in his tracks to get his bearings. Enjolras stops a few paces ahead of him, and turns; the beam of the torch flashes in Grantaire's direction before Enjolras lowers it once more. The sky is still overcast, but the moon is bright and nearly full, and when the clouds shift overhead they allow the brightest stars to shine through. He thinks he recognises the north star, the bright point at the tip of the little bear's tail. It's bitterly cold, out here on the hillside with no shelter from the wind, but it's beautiful too; in better circumstances he might even be able to appreciate it. His only hope now is that he's leading them in the right direction – if he fucks up again...
By the time they spot the cabin, a low squat shape in the darkness, Grantaire is infinitely relieved, and shivering, each step more effort than the last. His feet are wet where the snow has got into his boots, as are the legs of his trousers, melting snow soaking the fabric of his jeans up to his knees. Beside him Enjolras has been silent since they left the car, and is moving sluggishly, the torch beam dipping low each time he stumbles. Grantaire adds hypothermia to the catalogue of his fears.
The last hundred metres are the longest of his life, but they reach the front door. From a distance he hadn't been able to tell what the cabin was built from, but up close he sees coarse, rough cut stone in mismatching shades of grey. It's the sort of place heterosexual couples who've seen too many American movies would find unspeakably romantic. To him it's a fairytale cabin in the wilderness, one that might represent salvation or ruin; there's still their unfinished conversation to face.
Enjolras shines the beam of torch against the wall until they find the lockbox, and Grantaire fumbles with his phone in his frozen hands until he finds the code. The lock is a mechanical one, opened by turning four tiny numbered wheels. It's a struggle, but he manages to turn them into place, and is rewarded by a soft click as it opens. Enjolras shivers beside him as he unlocks the door.
Inside it's cold, lifeless, but he gropes in the near darkness until he finds a switch, and the lights bloom into being, blinding at first after the moonlit walk. It's the warm yellow light of old halogen bulbs, and one of them flickers ominously until it reaches its full brightness.
Enjolras enters behind him, turning off his torch now that it's no longer required, and looks around. Grantaire becomes aware that he's shaking, with cold and also a little bit with anger. He doesn't even know where to direct it anymore.
The cabin is sparsely furnished, less antiquated than the château but still pretty retro by modern standards. It looks as though it hasn't been used for a while; everything's a little dusty, and there are cobwebs in the corners, but it's clean enough; it might even be cosy once he's got the fire going. There are only two rooms: a bedroom, living room and tiny kitchenette in one, and a separate bathroom.
There's an electric heater tucked away behind the kitchen counter; Grantaire moves it closer to the fireplace and plugs it in. He's relieved when the red light comes on, taking it for a sign that it still works properly. Enjolras stands by the closed door, staring listlessly about the room as though he doesn't know what to do with himself anymore.
"Get under the covers," Grantaire says, more sharply than he means to, returning to the kitchen and opening the drawers and cupboards in search of matches to light the fire.
He can't look at him yet; it hurts too much to see him so hopeless, for Enjolras's sake but also, selfishly, for his own. What hope is there for him if his idol has fallen?
There's silence behind him for a moment before Enjolras does as he's told; Grantaire hears the sound of his footsteps lessen once he's taken off his shoes, followed by the rustle of fabric as he removes a layer of clothing and climbs into bed.
Matches found, Grantaire goes to the fireplace and kneels before the grate; there's a pile of cut logs beside it, a box of kindling and some old newspapers to use as tinder. He arranges them with care, and attempts to light the fire with hands that tremble.
It doesn't bear thinking about, but he's going to have to say something. He's barely capable of looking after himself, let alone helping someone else go through whatever Enjolras is going through.
He fires off a quick text message to Courfeyrac to say they're arrived, safe and relatively sound. Enjolras has laid out his trousers and coat on the chair by the fire to dry. Grantaire is going to have to do the same with his own; perhaps they shouldn't have left Enjolras's bag in the car, but it's too late now. His phone buzzes; Courfeyrac wishes them a good night's sleep and promises rescue in the morning.
Grantaire removes his hat, and scrubs his fingers through his hair, steeling himself. He looks towards the solitary bed at last, and finds Enjolras sitting against the headboard with the blankets pulled up to his chin, curled in on himself and looking shell shocked.
Grantaire takes a deep breath, and approaches, perching tentatively on the edge of the bed, facing him. "Give me your hands."
Enjolras frowns without looking at him, but obeys. His hands in Grantaire's are as cold as death. Grantaire presses his palms between his own, trying to impart a little warmth into them, but his own aren't much better.
"You should get in, too," Enjolras says, flatly. "You shouldn't have to suffer because of me. It's advisable to share body heat."
What a thought. Grantaire's imagined similar requests at least a hundred times by now, but never like this. He's as tense as a drawn bow at the prospect, but he can't argue with the logic of it.
He rises to his feet, letting Enjolras's hands fall back into his lap. Enjolras rearranges the blankets and shifts over, making room for him. He lies down with his back to Grantaire, curled into a ball on his side. Grantaire clambers in beside him, uncertain. He lies down on his back next to him, and stares at the ceiling. There's a faint warmth to the bedsheets only where Enjolras's body was touching them; the rest is cold and uninviting.
There's a draft blowing from somewhere, chilly against his throat. He turns onto his side instead, tugging the blankets higher, and watches the firelight flicker orange against Enjolras's back, caught in the gold of his hair.
What now?
The line of Enjolras's shoulders shudders as he shivers.
"You're freezing," Grantaire says. He's so anxious his heart feels as though it might explode. "Let me put my arm around you?"
Enjolras sighs, and doesn't move. "If you must."
It's about as enthusiastic a response as he's ever got to similar requests before, so he shifts himself across the mattress, closing some of the distance between them. Tentatively, he puts an arm around Enjolras's waist. He doesn't pull him closer; there's an inch or so of air between them. Enjolras's body is longer than his own, and he has to slip lower to fit himself around him. They never quite fit comfortably in any position on the rare occasions Enjolras allowed him to be soft, but Grantaire can't deny that he's missed this; he was always closest to content just holding Enjolras in the afterglow, if he permitted it. In a moment of sentimentality he presses his cheek to Enjolras's shoulder, and sighs.
"Enjolras?" he says, hesitant, unwilling to spoil the moment; but he needs to say something. He's going to have to suck it up.
"Mm?"
"This was a bad idea from the start. I shouldn't have come –"
"Don't be stupid," Enjolras says, bluntly, in tones far more familiar than his recent, listless monotone. It probably shouldn't make Grantaire feel as relieved as he does. "I shouldn't have come."
"What –" Grantaire stutters, blindsided by the statement and momentarily stupefied. "Why not?"
"It was unnecessary," Enjolras says, as though that's reason enough; Grantaire's breath catches in his throat, but he says nothing, hoping Enjolras will elaborate if he keeps his mouth shut. "I'm not needed," he says, and Grantaire experiences the dawning of a terrible understanding.
"Everyone has their own purpose to focus on now," Enjolras continues. His voice is muffled by the blankets, pulled up and half covering his face, but there's more emotion in it now. "I'm not sad about it; I'm very happy for you all, but it was foolish of me to think it would be as it was before. Foolish and egotistical – they're all making a difference in their own way, and that's what I should be focussing on. What I am focussing on."
It's painful to listen to him sounding so downhearted, but Grantaire won't cover his ears this time. His arm around Enjolras's waist has tightened its hold; they're flush against each other now.
"I suppose I thought it would help me recapture that feeling – the sense that what we were doing was working. I spend half my life arguing with lawyers and politicians and morons for the most miserly concessions. It's exhausting, fighting the same fights over and over again."
Grantaire knows that futile, frustrated feeling all too well. It's difficult to imagine Enjolras feeling the same way; it's far easier to imagine him presiding over the guillotines, with a sword or bayonet in hand. Enjolras is a man made for blood and barricades, or for the furious hope of '68, not for this jaded, individualist time.
"I used to believe I could bring the whole system crashing down if only enough people saw what I saw – if only I could make them see…" Enjolras falls silent, as still as stone in his arms.
Did all those who participated in the revolutions of old even realise how momentous those moments were at the time, or were they just ordinary people doing what they felt was right?
Grantaire's woefully unqualified to ponder such questions, or to provide comfort in a crisis of faith. His hands shake, but the strength in his own voice surprises him when he speaks. "You did make people see."
That causes Enjolras to stir; he struggles, fighting Grantaire's hold. Grantaire's heart sinks as he lets him go, but Enjolras comes back to him, face to face this time. "Who?"
"Me," he says, and is startled by his own honesty; by the truth he hadn't realised he bore, refracted in a moment of bright, crystalline clarity.
Enjolras scoffs, derision writ large on his features in the heavy shadows cast by the fire. His derision isn't unearned; Grantaire had one job –
"I let you down, I know. I don't mean then. I didn't realise it until after…"
He'd been paralytically drunk at the time of the protest, while his outnumbered friends had been met with the heavy-handed might of the riot police. He sobered up the next morning to over a hundred unread messages, each more concerning than the last, as his friends had traded updates back and forth. It all culminated in the gut wrenching news that Enjolras had been arrested on the false claim that he'd assaulted a police officer, and was currently detained beyond their reach.
He'd received only one message from Enjolras all night: 'Where are you?'
"I didn't think before I spoke back then – I never do, you know that."
"I noticed."
Grantaire vividly remembers the fight, and wishes he didn't. It's been playing on repeat in his most anxious moments ever since, a reminder of the level of shittery he's capable of, and why Enjolras was right to put an end to whatever it was that they shared.
Enjolras was waiting for him mere metres from the site of his arrest, at one of the tables inside the Corinthe, its shattered front window boarded up behind him. Grantaire had spent half that morning losing the contents of his stomach after another night of drinking, and the rest wanting to die of shame. The queasy feeling returned with the look Enjolras gave him when he spotted Grantaire heading towards him.
He remembers telling Enjolras, with grim, ironic self-confidence, that he wasn't going to change anything. That all their efforts were futile. The fury with which Enjolras met his words had been of the cold, incisive variety; he rebuffed Grantaire's defeatism, told him that he was incapable of any thought or belief beyond his own concerns; that he was no use to the cause if he wasn't even capable of something as simple as spreading the word to those that had already agreed to join them. Worse still, the one point Grantaire couldn't find a counterargument too, that he had no right to tell Enjolras what to do, or to disapprove of his actions. Grantaire sealed his own fate by telling him he was an idiot to put himself in danger.
To Enjolras, the danger would always be worth it; better to do anything at all, than to shrug and accept the world as it was, as Grantaire would have with smug, superior certainty… God, why was he such a dick back then?
"I was scared for you." Grantaire had been terrified, in truth; petrified that Enjolras would antagonise the wrong person, that something would go wrong, and he would lose him. "Then we fought, and then I didn't see you anymore, but at least I knew you were ok, and that you'd make a difference without me. Except you're not ok, are you?"
"That's not your concern." He doesn't sound angry this time, merely weary.
"It is, because I love you," Grantaire says, with feeling, only realising after he's said it that it's the first time he's ever said it out loud. It's weird to think he's never told him before, and weird how easy it was…
Enjolras frowns as he often does when he's working through some internal struggle, then sighs, and goes slack in his arms.
It's as though a weight has been lifted off Grantaire's chest at last, admitting what he never would have been brave enough to admit back then, and being taken seriously in his honesty. "You don't have to accept it, and I don't expect anything from you, but you don't get to dictate what I can and can't feel."
"I didn't know you felt that way," Enjolras says, quietly, avoiding eye contact. "I didn't think you cared – I thought it was just about the sex, for you."
It's another painful truth to hear – though perhaps he couldn't have called it love back then. Love is for equals, and they were never that. Obsession maybe? Admiration, veneration, devotion…
"You would have run a mile if you knew."
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"Well then –" Grantaire swallows. There are too many thoughts racing through his mind right now for him to pick one out and bring it into focus. It's not worth thinking about what might have been. Best to change the subject; he suspects Enjolras would agree with that sentiment.
He's not the kind of person Enjolras would want help from, but if he can convince him to at least accept help from the others… They so clearly still care about him, even if their goals in life have shifted in focus; even if they don't need Enjolras to be a leader to them anymore.
"They're still your friends; let them help you."
Enjolras sighs, and doesn't answer.
The air around them has warmed a little; they're both curled beneath the bed covers, and it could be a soft, peaceful moment in better circumstances. Enjolras removed his sweater when he got into bed; he's in a thin cotton t shirt now, his hair is tousled against the pillow, and the way he tilts his head as he looks at Grantaire exposes a long pale neck that Grantaire wants to set his teeth into.
"Promise me you'll let them try?" Grantaire says, hopefully, pulling the covers away from his chest. Enjolras says nothing, but he does shift closer, which is an answer, of a sort.
Grantaire sighs, and puts both arms around Enjolras to hold him tighter. He's woefully ill-equipped for this kind of conversation – for any conversation that doesn't revolve around self-deprecation or making light of things.
Enjolras yields to Grantaire's efforts to pull him as close as he can, heavy and unresisting as though all the fight has gone out of him. His hand settles against the small of Grantaire's back; his fingers curl into the fabric of Grantaire's shirt, and even with a layer between them his hands still feel as cold as ice.
"You're still freezing," Grantaire says, into the silk floss of Enjolras's hair. He wraps a leg around him for good measure, aiming for as much contact as possible and, when that is permitted, begins rubbing Enjolras's arm and shoulder with his unpinned hand to aid in warming him. Any bare skin he finds is cool to the touch.
They're quiet for a moment; Grantaire is fighting the urge to say something profoundly unhelpful, to berate him for not getting help sooner, to fret about what might have happened if he'd gone out alone. Instead, he chooses to focus on the feel of Enjolras against him, and the simple comfort of being close to him again, solid and reassuringly present. He feels the rise and fall of Enjolras's breathing when he switches his attention to rubbing Enjolras's back instead; breathes in the clean scent of his hair, the fresh, botanical scent of his laundry powder and, beneath all others, something muskier and human that's entirely him.
Enjolras makes a small, half-vocal sound that could be contentment or surrender, as Grantaire rubs small concentric circles into the centre of his back, and it's like a body blow in how breathless it makes Grantaire feel.
Cautiously, wonderingly, he brings his hand higher to thread his fingers through the silken strands of Enjolras's hair. It's just as soft as he remembers, despite the severity of its shortness at the sides, and he's glad to find there's enough length in the strands that haven't been curtailed to card his fingers through it. It should be a crime, to cut even a single beautiful curl from that gilded head. He begrudges the sacrifices that must be made at the altar of professionalism, so that mankind might play at being more than a bunch of miserable, pretentious apes.
He's missed this. Except, he never had this. If Enjolras had allowed Grantaire to hold him before, it had been in brief, bartered for moments after a particularly exhausting fuck, or on the rare days that found Enjolras strangely, obligingly benevolent. This mutual contentment just to be in each other's company is new; Enjolras allowing himself to be comforted is new.
He can't see Enjolras's face from this angle, but he shivers as Enjolras's hand slides beneath his shirt – like the icy touch of death, he wants to jest. They're pressed together from chest to thighs now; Grantaire would lie like this forever if he could, should any belligerent deity feel like striking him down where he stood he'd die happy in this moment. It's with a pang of guilt that he acknowledges how lucky he feels, given the circumstances that brought them to this moment.
"Enjolras?" he murmurs into his hair. Enjolras makes a soft sound that's muffled against Grantaire's shoulder in response. "Can I kiss you?" he asks, shyly, hopefully hopeless.
Enjolras withdraws a little to face him. "If you like."
It's absurd just how inadequate a word 'like' is for how much Grantaire has yearned for it, how many times he's thought about it since they last shared a bed together.
"I do like," he says. It's not his most eloquent moment, but he can't help himself.
Enjolras's face is still perfectly inscrutable; Grantaire can scarcely believe he isn't dreaming this. His hand is still tangled in Enjolras's hair; he means to be gentle, to handle him with care, so he closes the distance between them himself, and, tentatively, cautiously, presses his lips to Enjolras's.
He withdraws in an instant, giddy with imagined trespass. It's a dry and perfunctory kiss, reminiscent of their first, when Grantaire had been too terrified of offending his sensibilities to try anything more advanced. He's equally terrified now, breathless and searching Enjolras's features for any emotion at all.
Enjolras's eyes fix on Grantaire's mouth, and his pink tongue appears at the part of his lips, wetting them with his tongue, and at the sight of it Grantaire's control finally snaps. He pulls Enjolras in again, and kisses him properly this time. It's shallow and sweet at first, but if Grantaire's trying to kiss some of his own vitality into him Enjolras is a vessel into which he'd pour his very soul if he could. Enjolras's lips part beneath his, and Grantaire groans with suppressed delight as the kiss progresses into something deeper and filthier when he feels Enjolras's tongue curl against his own.
He's lost in the kiss for a moment, until he becomes aware that Enjolras's hands have found their way to his hair; Enjolras is tugging gently, and the subtle pain amid the pleasure of his lips on Grantaire's is a demand – it's what he does when he wants Grantaire to stop teasing, and start touching him with more intent.
Grantaire is more than willing to oblige. He's not sure if it's relief or fear that's driving him, but he runs his hands down the length of Enjolras's body, over warm skin and smooth sides; searches until he finds the elastic waistband of his underwear; thrills when he feels hot, hard flesh through it. Enjolras's hands are groping blindly; he's pushing Grantaire onto his back, and Grantaire isn't going willingly.
It's a messy and mutual fumbling that ends with Enjolras on his back beneath him, underwear halfway down his thighs. Grantaire casts his own boxers unceremoniously aside, and wraps a hand around Enjolras's cock. Enjolras finds his, and pulls him closer to gasp against his shoulder.
It's quick after that; he still remembers how Enjolras likes to be touched, and he's always been easy for Enjolras.
There's something anguished and mutually despairing about the frantic nature of it all; Enjolras comes with his face still hidden, panting somewhere close to Grantaire's ear. Grantaire comes with his face buried in Enjolras's hair, his hands gripping Enjolras's hips with the desperation of a drowning man holding onto a life float.
Afterwards, Grantaire releases him at last; it's a wrench to let go of him, but the aftermath of his release makes the gravity of the situation come swooping back in like a perilous flood current. They lie side by side, bodies still touching, in silence, until Grantaire braves the cold to fetch a washcloth and clean them both up.
Enjolras is already on the verge of sleep when he returns. It's as though his orgasm has drained him of the last of his will, but he utters something quietly appreciative when Grantaire pushes the damp cloth into his hand, and rubs it over his stomach and inner thighs with listless movements.
After that, he sleeps. The cabin is still cold, and dark once Grantaire banks the fire and turns out the lights; but it's warm beneath the sheets now, and Enjolras curls against his side when he settles back into the bed. Grantaire wraps an arm around him, kisses him goodnight sweetly and solemnly, and tries to ignore the panicked, suffocating feeling that rises in his chest at the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
He barely sleeps a wink himself; he's too busy watching over Enjolras, even though he knows objectively that there's nowhere for him to go now. He's still irrationally afraid that he'll slip away from him again if he closes his eyes.
In the morning he jerks into full wakefulness to find Enjolras looking at him with his hair falling across his forehead and a soft, unguarded expression; he's failed in his Enjolras-watch, but at least Enjolras is still here.
It's awkward, but not as awkward as things might have been, all things considered. Mornings were something they almost never shared before, but Enjolras seems comfortable enough in his presence. He doesn't push him away when he strokes his hair again, and stares into those worried blue eyes, seeking assurance that there's still hope behind them.
-
Trekking through the snow together back to the car, they're greeted by a fresh, brisk morning. It's snowed again sometime in the night, covering their footprints from the previous walk, but in daylight Grantaire can see the road ahead in the distance, and it's downhill this time. The sky is bright and clear, and everything feels a little lighter, a little less hopeless, now that they've talked about it and made it through to the dawn on the other side.
Nothing's fixed yet, but it's a start.
Courfeyrac and Combeferre are waiting for them when they're within sight of the car, and Grantaire's never been happier to see either of them. They make a tense pair, Combeferre leaning stiff-backed against the side of Courfeyrac's car, Courfeyrac pacing before him.
"You're both idiots," Courfeyrac says, with mixed affection and irritation, as Combeferre opens the bonnet of Enjolras's car and starts connecting a portable power bank in order to jump start it.
"That's not fair," Enjolras says, stoically. "This was my fault entirely."
"He's been fretting like a mother hen since he sobered up," Combeferre says, then turns his attention to Grantaire, specifically. "I told him you had the situation under control, but it didn't help soothe his nerves."
"Understandable," Grantaire says, still hovering at Enjolras's side.
"No, it wasn't," Courfeyrac says, seriously. "You did the right thing; calling me, making sure he didn't go out alone. Thank you." He grabs Grantaire by the shoulders and kisses him on both cheeks before he's able to argue the point.
When Enjolras's car comes back to life again, Grantaire offers to drive it back to the château. He releases Enjolras into their care, in the hope that the journey will give the proper, functioning adults a chance to talk some sense into him. He tells himself it's for the best as he watches Enjolras lower himself into the passenger seat of Courfeyrac's electric crossover. He's in good hands, but Grantaire already feels bereft of his presence, even though he's only one car behind.
There's a warm reception waiting for them when they return, untainted by the melancholy of the previous evening; it's clear the others are in the dark as to the true extent of the disaster that almost occurred. Grantaire deduced from Courfeyrac's demeanour out in the valley that Combeferre had told him his concerns, but otherwise they've guarded Enjolras's secrets for him.
Bahorel forces biscuits and hot drinks on them; Joly frets, and gently interrogates them both until he's satisfied that neither of them are suffering any after effects of prolonged exposure to the cold. Enjolras lets slip that he's still feeling a little chilly, and is promptly installed on the couch beside the fire with a blanket over his lap and Joly at his side, taking careful note of his temperature.
Combeferre takes advantage of the distraction to call Grantaire aside. His demeanour is still serious, but some of the tension is gone from his shoulders. His gaze is level, and the slight smile and subtle creasing of the corner of his eyes suggests relief, and possibly approval.
"I thought you'd wish to know, Courfeyrac and I made Enjolras promise he would sit down with us tomorrow and let us help him come up with a plan to work on his mental health. I don't think Courfeyrac intends to let him leave until he honours it, but for my part I'm satisfied that he took our concerns seriously."
It's as though the hands that have been pulling him under all weekend have finally let him go; Grantaire feels a flood of affection for every single one of his friends.
"Thank you," he says, sincerely, effusively. "Thank you for talking some sense into him."
"Thank you for being there for him. I won't suggest the problem is anywhere near solved; we both know these things take time. But I'm glad you were with him."
"So am I," Grantaire says, significantly – for more reasons than one. He's still haunted by visions of what could have happened; but it was good to speak openly with Enjolras for once, even though he's now less certain than ever where they stand. He's still glad he said what he said.
He returns just in time to overhear Joly telling Enjolras that his job isn't more important than his well being:
"– I'm sure your colleagues would understand if you need to take some time off to decompress." Joly pulls out his phone, and begins typing rather frantically. "I'm sending you a list of guided meditation apps, and some crystals to place around your room. Perhaps a quartz bracelet –"
"I'm not wearing a bracelet to work," Enjolras says, abruptly, but not unkindly. "It's already a nuisance having to prove myself before new contacts will take me seriously. Everyone assumes I'm an intern because they don't believe I'm old enough to have finished studying. I'll consider the meditation apps."
Grantaire smiles fondly; Enjolras is still very fresh-faced, deceptively bright eyed and seemingly untouched by the hardships of life. People underestimate him at their peril.
The others keep a respectful distance at first – not avoiding them exactly, but not crowding them either. They approach in ones and twos, the others busying themselves with food preparations or simply giving Enjolras space. Perhaps they've intuited enough to believe Enjolras might be in a delicate mood; Grantaire's simply grateful for their presence.
The moment with the most potential for awkwardness occurs when they sit down for lunch together. Marius, from his position in the opposite chair to Enjolras's, leans across it during a lull in the conversation, and the whole table hears him say, "I'm glad you're still with us – don't worry about the work thing, I'm sure your colleagues can continue your good work without you. There was no dishonour in Napoleon's exile before the Hundred Days –"
Cosette, beside him, places a gentle hand on his arm, quelling him into silence. There's a moment that might be broken by the drop of a pin, as glances are exchanged across the table, a silent fencing in which no one steps forward to be the one responsible for furthering Marius's political education. Enjolras cracks a small, genuine smile, and says:
"Thank you. I'm glad to be here."
As much as Grantaire's reluctant to let Enjolras out of his sight, he doesn't want to pressure him or add to his burdens. He would very much like to cling to him as he had the previous night, but he's wary of overstepping. They've fucked before without pledging eternal devotion to one another; there's no reason to assume last night was anything more than a moment of vulnerability on Enjolras's part, a need for comfort that Grantaire just happened to be there to provide.
He waits until they return to the fireside, and he finds the seat next to Enjolras is free. He gestures his request for permission to sit beside him.
Enjolras meets his gaze for the first time in what feels like hours, and nods subtly. Grantaire takes it, careful not to sit too close and press up against him, but as the conversation around them progresses he feels Enjolras's hand on his knee, keeping him there. The familiarity inherent in the gesture makes Grantaire's heart ache. He's not presumptuous enough to put his arm around him in return, but he does let one arm rest atop the back of the couch, and when Enjolras leans back against it he's unable to resist stroking his thumb against the nape of Enjolras's neck; the skin there is soft, and his hair no longer long enough to cover it.
It's a pleasant evening, and a fairly sober one, more reminiscent of the afternoons they used to spend in their favourite dingy little cafés after they'd already been friends for what felt like forever, talking and joking for hours once their wildest party years were behind them. It's heading towards dinner time when Courfeyrac's phone buzzes. Moments later he returns with his laptop open, and sets it down on the coffee table to reveal two very tired, familiar faces.
"How is everyone?" Feuilly says, softly, clutching one of the twins to his chest.
"We're surviving," Bossuet says, and glances pointedly in the direction of Jehan and Éponine. "Some of us are rather hungover."
Jehan is wearing a silk dressing gown over his regular clothing, and a pair of paisley carpet slippers; a smoking pipe wouldn't look out of place as an addition, but he's been clutching a mug of coffee every time Grantaire's seen him all day. Éponine hadn't appeared until lunch was served, but appears to have rallied since.
"You're just jealous you're not as young as you once were," she says, archly, then smiles as the baby in Feuilly's arms gurgles.
Beside Feuilly is his wife, Natalia, looking lovely if a little frazzled from lack of sleep. In her arms is a second, identical baby.
"This is Elise, and that's Kasia," Feuilly says, gesturing. The assembled friends lean closer, and coo accordingly. They both do look exactly the same, dark-haired with giant, chestnut-brown eyes and little round faces. Grantaire watches with mingled disgust and respect as Elise blows a truly impressive snot bubble. It's equal parts gross and adorable.
It's all a little too wholesome for Grantaire's sensibilities, and in time he feels the need to take a breath, to be alone with his thoughts, if only for a moment. He waits until Enjolras is wholly absorbed in conversation with Feuilly via the video call before he slips out into the hallway.
Enjolras's belongings are still beside the front door, beneath the oak rack that's all but obscured by their coats. Grantaire has been subconsciously checking to see if his bag is still there every time he passes; he won't feel fully at ease until he's certain Enjolras isn't going to take flight again.
He means to have a cigarette to calm his nerves at last; he puts his own coat on and rifles through the pockets of Bahorel's, until he finds a packet of loose tobacco and a case of hand rolled cigarettes. He pockets them, and opens the front door.
The cold evening air makes him shiver as soon as it hits him. It's dusk outside, and the sky is vivid with shades of pink and orange beneath an endless expanse of rich, deep blue. It's a clearer night than the previous one, and when he looks up he sees countless stars unhidden by cloud overhead and the bright circle of an almost full moon. The driveway ahead of him is still covered with snow as far as the eye can see, lilac and grey in the fading light.
It's a beautiful, serene sight, and he forgets his original intentions as he takes it in, breathing the clean mountain air. He becomes aware that there's someone behind him only when they step into his peripheral vision; yellow hair, and a tall, lean form.
He turns to face him; as spectacular as the infinite is, there's nothing in the heavens or on earth that Grantaire would rather look at than Enjolras.
"I came to get my things," Enjolras says, in answer to Grantaire's querying look. He looks better now than he did the previous night, pink cheeked from sitting by the fire, and the circles under his eyes have diminished slightly.
"You could put them in my room, if you wanted to," Grantaire says, casually, eliding the question he is desperate to ask.
Enjolras frowns, considers. Grantaire waits with anxious hope and bated breath for him to answer.
"I'd like that. I'd like to try."
Enjolras smiles, and all the breath goes out of Grantaire in one single, delirious peal of laughter, overwhelmed with relief, happiness and hope. He reaches for Enjolras, places a hand on his hip and tangles his fingers in his hair; Enjolras bends to meet him. He pulls him in, and kisses him again.