Chapter Text
The invitation came first in the form of an email from Courfeyrac – 'An email??' Bahorel had reply-alled, 'What, are we your office colleagues now?' – and, six days later, when the formality of the original invitation had received a sound mocking, an invitation to a group chat, titled 'L'ABC Christmas Reunion', swiftly re-named: 'Courfeyrac's family have got a mansion we can crash let's go lads!' and, one curt reply from Éponine later, amended to '– let's go super-sexy humans!'
By the time Grantaire had stopped ignoring the notifications and let his curiosity overrule his anxiety, the matter had already been decided:
Courfeyrac: Hope you are all well.
My aunt and uncle are going away this Christmas, meaning they aren't taking any guests at the hôtel this year. They have offered to let us use it (proof, if any were needed, that they haven't met any of you before). Big meet-up this winter? Let me know what dates are good for you all xx
Bahorel: Eeey sounds great I'm in!
Joly: Bossuet and I too, can we bring Musichetta?
Courfeyrac: Partners are welcome, the more the merrier!
Combeferre: Sounds great, I look forward to it.
Feuilly: My wife is due around then, so I'll have to pass. Maybe next year though!
Bahorel: You could bring the baby?
Feuilly: I'm not bringing a baby to a piss-up…
Jehan: A château in the alps? Sounds enchanting!
Éponine: I'm in.
Marius: Cosette and I too! xx
Several days of planning followed, the consensus favouring spending Christmas at home, then spending l'Épiphanie together at Courfeyrac's family's château-turned-luxury-hôtel.
Grantaire noted that, aside from his own, one other reply was conspicuously absent.
His phone buzzed again; a message from Bahorel this time:
Bahorel: Oi, stop ignoring us! I can see that you've read it
R: I'm not ignoring you.
He was waiting.
Bahorel: Enjolras told Courfeyrac he'll come if he can get the time off work, if that's what you were waiting for…
Damn. He was still painfully predictable.
R: ...fine
The next reply in the group chat was his own:
R: I'm there
He's not nervous, exactly. Sure they've all got proper grown up careers now, while he's still juggling three zero-hours side gigs and an unreliable stream of freelance commissions to make ends meet. He's doing alright out of them; he has his own flat now, doesn't have to share his space with strangers anymore and usually manages to pay his rent on time.
They don't hang out in their old haunts anymore, but that doesn't mean they aren't still friends, only that life changes, and gets in the way of having a social life sometimes. It will be good to see everyone again, without the alcoholism and the stress and the crushing existential dread that made his last year of uni a Herculean struggle of his own making getting in the way.
It will be fun, he's almost certain.
-
Two months later, there's a brisk chill in the air, and the sky has been a dreary concrete hue all week. Bahorel calls him at a truly ungodly hour for a Friday while it's still barely light, saying he'll be there in half an hour. Grantaire groans in affirmation, hangs up, and shuffles from bed to bathroom to splash cold water on his face.
Forty minutes later, he's outside in the cold being aggressively hugged by Bahorel, before being effusively kissed on both cheeks by Jehan – right, left, then right again. Bossuet clasps his shoulder, while Joly tuts over how sleep-deprived he looks – he's worse than his grandmother, and Grantaire tells him so. Musichetta spares him an enigmatic smile, which he returns with mild trepidation – he's never quite been certain how to act around her, but something about the calm dignity with which she carries herself has always made him wary of striking the wrong note and making a fool of himself in the process. It's a fear he never managed to listen to where certain others are concerned, but even he is capable of learning from his mistakes – some of the time.
When they pile inelegantly back into the rented minivan Grantaire finds himself alone in the middle row, with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta pressed elbow to elbow in the back. Jehan takes the front passenger seat, beside Bahorel. Grantaire turns towards the bini, intending to say something to the effect of 'What, is my odour that offensive to you?', but Bahorel predicts the offence, and offers an explanation for it:
"They were having trouble figuring out who was going to sit next to whom, so I made them all sit back there like the children that they are."
It's almost three years since they were last together as a group, yet it quickly feels like no time has passed at all. Thirty minutes and a coffee stop later, they're talking and teasing and laughing like old, easy friends. Grantaire doesn't recall what he was so worried about; he's seen most of them individually or in pairs since they left uni, and it wasn't awkward then, why would it be now?
It's been two years since he last saw Enjolras, and that's the real challenge, the true test of his courage that awaits.
He's spent the intervening weeks trying to convince himself seeing Enjolras again will be fine, with limited success. There's a chance it will be. It might even be pleasant, and not at all terrifying. The lies he's been telling himself over and over again like a child with a favourite bedtime story were only ever that, pretty fairy tales to give him something to hope for, to distract himself from the abstract threat of the dark.
Four hours later they're somewhere near Bourg-en-Bresse, and running out of topics of conversation, now that the subject of what they've each been up to since they last met has been depleted. Joly had entertained them for the second hour of the trip with an assortment of wild tales from his clinical rotations; Bossuet and Bahorel had spent much of the third recounting their respective, successful escapes from law school. Neither had taken the bar in the end, but both had fallen on their feet eventually, though on Bossuet's part not without Joly's generous surrendering of his couch.
Eventually they reach the alps, and begin to climb. Their ascent is steady at first, and barely perceptible; the roads are wide, and they've yet to sight any snow. When they climb high enough to begin seeing little patches of frost in the grassy fields that line their route, Bahorel breaks out the Christmas music. It's horrifically cheesy, but they're all willing to succumb to a little festive cheer, until he's about to press play for the fourth time, and is overruled by multiple threats of jumping out of the vehicle while it's still moving to escape it.
Finally, they leave the main arteries behind, and their ascent becomes a series of ever-narrowing country roads. The radio sputters in and out of life, as they near their final destination. The patches of snow become thicker, and cleaner, until at last everything to either side of them appears buried beneath a thick coat of near-pristine white.
"Isn't this charming?" Jehan says, pressed so close to the window the tip of his nose is almost touching it. "I haven't seen this much snow in years."
"It's very festive," Musichetta chimes in her quiet, melodic voice, the first thing she's said for some miles. She's had a mysterious ability to capture the attention of those around her as long as Grantaire's known her, despite being softly-spoken; it's a subtle kind of magnetism that she can turn on or off at will, the calm sea to Joly's choppy waters.
Grantaire twists to regard the pair, sees her turn to Joly and give him a peck on the cheek. Grantaire's about to pretend to be sickened, when she tilts her head in the opposite direction and does the same to Bossuet. Grantaire raises an eyebrow, and fights off a grin. Joly gives him a guileless look, and squeezes Musichetta's hand, then they're both jolted forward – Grantaire's seat belt squeezes him in place as the van lurches to a sudden, violent halt.
Behind him, Joly squeaks in alarm, clutching both Musichetta's hand and the door handle so tight his knuckles have turned as white as his features.
"Whoa, hold up, was no one going to tell me about this?" Bahorel demands, turning to address his question to the group at large with a roving, accusatory glare and a look of pitiable betrayal.
"Putain de merde don't scare me like that! There are over three thousand fatalities a year on the road," Joly huffs, wide eyed and looking as though his whole life has just flashed before him. Were it not for the fact they haven't seen another car in the last twenty miles Grantaire would complain of irresponsible driving himself.
Bossuet casts Joly a sympathetic glance, and reaches behind Musichetta to squeeze his shoulder. "We thought you knew, when you put us back here."
"I knew," Jehan says, unhelpfully, earning his own look of incredulity.
Bahorel, gaping like a fish, turns his interrogation to Grantaire next: "And you?"
Grantaire considers lying, just to goad him further, but he relents when he turns to see Musichetta stroking Joly's hair in a manner that's endearing enough to chip away a tiny flake of his cynicism; it's such a sweet show of concern that even his frigid heart threatens to melt at the sight of it. "I had no idea."
"Well, I'm glad I'm not the only one." Bahorel turns his eyes back to the road, and starts the engine again. "We'll speak of this betrayal later," he says, in mock seriousness, then his tone softens; "I am very happy for all three of you."
Grantaire is, too. As they put more kilometres behind them he wonders what else has changed without his knowledge.
The château, as it comes into view, is spectacularly beautiful, though only Jehan is earnest enough to voice his wonderment at the sight of it, spilling a brief snatch of poetry recited with ceremonial seriousness. Nestled in a valley with two snow topped peaks in the distance, the narrow stone building rises out of the landscape like a fairy-tale remnant of the past. It's smaller than Grantaire expected, with only four sets of narrow windows on its face, and three stories, with a single spire in one corner giving it a fourth in the form of a single, round attic room. Even from the end of the driveway they can tell the lights are on inside. As they draw closer he sees Courfeyrac's car parked near the doorway. There's a wreath on the front door of the house, and a tasteful quantity of fairy lights adorning the manicured trees and hedgerows.
Grantaire's getting nervous again, but he can't help but feel excited, and warmed by the company of his friends. Perhaps the festive spirit is finally getting to him.
-
"You never told us your family owned a fucking castle!" Éponine's voice carries from the doorway, announcing her presence before any of them turn to see who the next arrivals are. She's already halfway across the room by the time anyone has reacted, barrelling towards Courfeyrac and Grantaire with a wide, genuine smile lighting up her features. It's the kind of smile she used to suppress when they first met, not wanting anyone to realise she had dimples and ruin her carefully cultivated, protective air of inhospitality. It makes her look her actual age of twenty-three, instead of the world-weary, mature adult she pretends to be.
She's shadowed by Marius, his lanky form currently propping up the doorway, one large suitcase in either hand, and Cosette, at Marius's side, looking radiant and elegant in a robin's-egg blue coat.
"Of course not; you'd all have disowned me for being an over privileged wanker if you knew." Courfeyrac's eyes positively twinkle with mirth, as he spreads his arms wide and allows Éponine to wrap both arms around him in an aggressive hug.
"Au contraire my friend; we would have made you pay for all the rounds at the bar," Bahorel counters, sagely.
"You did that anyway," Courfeyrac smirks, and the playful expression makes him look at least five years younger; coupled with the expensive looking shirt and designer shoes, he looks rather like a boy playing dress up in his father's clothes. He gives Éponine a peck on the cheek as she releases him, before Éponine turns her brilliant smile on Grantaire. The hug she gives him feels like it might crush his ribs. He makes a strangled noise of exaggerated complaint, but he's warmly happy to see her looking so cheerful.
"You look well," he says as she releases him, and means it. She does look like she's been taking better care of herself – her cheeks aren't as hollow as they used to be, she's no longer wearing copious amounts of kohl to hide the dark rings around her eyes, and she felt solid in his arms. Not the malnourished waif who'd first turned up at their meetings on Marius's tail, as feral as a kitten and burdened with cares beyond her years. He is profoundly glad that life seems to have treated her better since, from what he can tell by the surface at least.
"Shut up," she says, and punches him on the arm. "So do you." The look she gives him is a little more knowing than he's comfortable with.
He is acutely aware of the persistent, treacherous background process running in his brain – the wary, anxious presence inside his head that's constantly on guard, looking for signs that he is no longer welcome in such brilliant company, but so far even his traitorous mind hasn't been able to fabricate any; if his friends have outgrown finding his antics amusing, they're yet to show it. Perhaps the trip really will be good for him.
The person he's most afraid to see, and the reason he agreed to come at all, is one of the last to arrive.
The sky is already darkening when the sleek, practical hybrid pulls up on the driveway. It's so quiet that none of them hear it coming; its presence is announced by the flash of headlights at the window. Courfeyrac pulls back the curtain just in time to see the silver bonnet turn dull as the headlights go out, but there's no one else the car could belong to.
The light of the house spills out into the grey of the evening; the two figures in the doorway are both tall and smartly dressed, but only one of them makes Grantaire's heart do something swooping and fluttery inside his chest.
"You bought an asshole's car," Bahorel informs Enjolras as he greets him at the door, passing grave judgement. Éponine, beside him, gives a solemn nod. Combeferre hands Enjolras the keys, the faintest hint of a mirth in the corners of his eyes, half-hidden behind his spectacles.
"It's better for the environment," Enjolras states. There's no defensiveness in his voice, merely logic, and he glances around the room at the assembled friends before him with no outward display of feeling.
"You didn't have to buy the most boring model you could find," Bahorel teases, and turns his affable attention to Combeferre.
Courfeyrac kisses the pair of them on both cheeks; Combeferre extends his hand in mockery of a formal greeting, before grasping Courfeyrac's offered palm tightly and pulling him into a one armed embrace. Enjolras makes no such offering, but does allow Bahorel to wrap one thick arm around his neck and mess up his hair with the other with a half-hearted sigh and a rather put-upon smile.
Grantaire watches the display of friendly affection before him with a shameful amount of envy, doing battle with his rising trepidation.
The first detail he manages to parse about Enjolras's appearance, beyond the initial gut punch of seeing him again, is that his hair is shorter than he used to wear it. The Botticelli-portrait curls have been clipped close and professional at the sides, dimming his natural halo, but the top has been left a little longer, and the curls that do remain still spring back into life and fall across his forehead by the time Bahorel is done with him. Grantaire wishes he could be so bold as to touch them; he wants to bury his face in them. Enjolras's face has thinned a little since he last saw it; his sharp cheekbones and stubborn chin have only grown more pronounced with the passage of time. His skin is a flawless amber in the artificial light; his lips are pale and a little chapped from the cold winter air, but the shape of his mouth is as soft and lovely as ever.
The full force of Enjolras's beauty is still devastating to behold, and Grantaire's heart takes a brief trip to his throat that prevents him from pronouncing so much as an aloof 'Salut' in acknowledgement to the pair of them. There are already so many greetings to exchange that it's easy to fade into the background; the position of brooding spectre at the edge of his friends' vibrant conversation is familiar to him, and he has the whole long weekend ahead to find his voice again.
In the flurry of words, handshakes and hugs that follows, Enjolras doesn't initiate any of the greetings himself. He does glance briefly in Grantaire's direction, as Combeferre answers Courfeyrac's questions about their journey here.
His eyes are the same startlingly clear blue that Grantaire remembers; they remind him of the distant, shadowed mountains rising behind them. There's no emotion in the look Enjolras gives him at all beyond recognition, yet it still pierces Grantaire through like a lepidopterist's pin through the body of a specimen; a knife thrust through two years of separation that brings the entire complex whirl of feelings he's been suppressing for the last two months to the fore: terror, anxiety, fear, awe, lust, and, worst of all, the warm feeling of contentment that just being in the same room as Enjolras always used to inspire in him.
There's no doubt about it: he's still got it bad; but he's a better person now, a grown up with a job and a life outside his small circle of friends that doesn't depend on him being perpetually drunk to function. He can handle this.
He's about to smile at Enjolras in acknowledgement when Enjolras gets waylaid by Joly and Bossuet's effusive welcome. Grantaire watches their interaction, hoping for a suitable opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, but Enjolras doesn't look at him again.
With Enjolras and Combeferre's arrival, their party is complete. The only former core member of the ABC that's missing is Feuilly, and that for a joyful reason; his wife recently gave birth to twins.
"Feuilly sends his love," Courfeyrac says, when they're all inside and warm with a drink in their hands.
"And about five thousand baby photos," Bossuet says, a wry aside that's loud enough for them all to hear.
"Fifty," Bahorel corrects, in a rare show of restraint.
"That's still ten times more than is necessary; they're three weeks old! They both look like prunes. Adorable prunes, but prunes nonetheless."
"I've narrowed it down to the best five," Courfeyrac, ever the diplomatic peace keeper, soothes.
"Thank you," Bossuet says, with feeling, and raises his glass to toast to friendship and the end of an eventful year.
-
Despite its antique exterior, the château is surprisingly well-equipped inside. It has every modern convenience they could ask for, but the sitting rooms and the bedrooms have maintained a harmonious balance between functional design and keeping their old-fashioned character. Only the kitchen and the bathrooms are incongruously modern.
Grantaire takes a room on the upper floor, between Bahorel's and Jehan's. The master bedroom in the tower - 'the honeymoon suite,' as Courfeyrac had called it – is the subject of some debate, but is eventually given to Marius and Cosette.
"It's not our honeymoon, though," Marius says, blushing furiously at being the centre of attention.
"But you're the only married couple here, and I've enough familiarity with the noises you make at night from when we used to live together to know I don't want to be beside you," Courfeyrac jests, with insistence.
Marius goes redder still. Cosette squeezes his arm, and offers in explanation, "He talks in his sleep sometimes."
"And snores like a leaf blower."
Grantaire is grateful to have a little bit of time to steel himself for dinner as they settle into their rooms. He spends it considering what he'll say if he manages to get Enjolras alone. 'Sorry, I'll go,' probably; but it could be good to clear the air, to reset things between them if the opportunity presents itself.
-
Despite the warmth of their earlier greetings, it does feel strange to sit all together as a group once more. There's no way to be certain if he's the only one so attuned to it, but he finds the catching-up feels formal and forced, where once it would have been easy. It also does little to quell his suspicion that he's done the least with his life thus far – though, that's hardly likely to surprise anyone who knew him back then.
He is acutely aware that everyone in the room is an adult now. He's not sad about it, exactly; he is happy for them, but that happiness is soured by the uncertainty of his own purpose among them. He's no longer the carefree, careless good-time drunk talking shit in the corner, providing occasional merriment and frequent shade, in contrast to which his friends could shine ever brighter. What does he have to contribute now?
He searches, and finds no answer.
Courfeyrac was always going to succeed at whatever he put his mind to; he has always been one of life's natural winners, intelligent, confident and compassionate and still – somehow – not a dick about it. Of course he has a cushy job with a well-funded philanthropic organisation.
"I'm a Partnership Manager," he says when pressed on the matter. "That's corporate speak for 'convincing rich people to give us heaps of cash'."
"Hold onto your wallets this weekend," Bahorel advises.
Through what Grantaire can only assume is some kind of clerical error, Bahorel has finally graduated. He's training to be a drama teacher now, and writing plays in his spare time. Grantaire tries to imagine him in charge of thirty-odd children, and almost cackles out loud at the thought of the sheer chaos he must reign over.
"Are you still seeing Mme. So-and-so?" Joly asks. Bahorel's mistress had been an open secret throughout their final year of uni; Grantaire met her himself once. It was a loose association that seemed to suit them both; the only impression he remembers of her is her bright, brilliant smile and a bawdy sense of humour that rivalled Bahorel's own.
"I never kiss and tell."
"Liar."
Cosette's training to be a teacher too, though she ultimately intends to work with younger children. Marius has his translation work to keep him busy while he saves up enough money to finish his Law degree. Cosette's father is a mysterious figure, but Grantaire has gathered over the years he's known them both that the old man is rich as fuck – Courfeyrac's clients rich. He's certain his fortune will tide them both over until they settle into their own careers.
Marius and Cosette's wedding was the last time he saw half the people in this room; he doesn't remember much of the afterparty, but he does recall Marius going red in the face and clamming up every time they were in the same room as each other for several weeks afterwards. He could use this weekend as an opportunity to find out why, but it's probably best to let bygones be bygones. Cosette has always treated him kindly; she's the kind of sweet soul he would despise on principle if she wasn't so damn nice.
Éponine is still studying, and working in a bar to fund it. "I want to go into counselling or psychotherapy," she explains. Grantaire privately thinks that she'd make a terrifying therapist, but the way her eyes flare with conviction when she speaks is almost enough to change his mind.
Jehan does a little teaching on the side, too; he's been living in Edinburgh to pursue a PhD in Medieval Literature. "You must come and visit! I won't try and claim the city is as beautiful as Paris, but it's close."
Joly is, of course, well on his way to becoming a fully qualified doctor. He's flagging in his chair beside Bossuet, yawning ever more frequently. Bossuet's own profession is a bit of an enigma; he's the only one of their number that's as bad at holding down a stable job as Grantaire is. Musichetta is in Marketing and PR, which must surely be well paid enough to make up for any financial shortfalls the three of them accrue.
Combeferre is doing something impenetrably complicated with mushrooms that he summarises for the plebs and liberal arts majors among them as 'discovery research'. Grantaire decides he's probably too dumb to understand it even if he tried, but Joly perks up at the opportunity to discuss the potential practical applications for his findings.
The notion of Enjolras pursuing a normal career has always sat strangely with Grantaire – he was always excellent at whatever he put his mind to, but none of his passions were conducive to a stable income. It's intriguing to know he's found a path that doesn't compromise on his beliefs. Policy Change Advocacy doesn't pay spectacularly, but it's certainly a worthy pursuit. His family has plenty of accrued wealth anyway.
Grantaire watches him as his friends' conversation continues around them. Enjolras is seated on the couch between Combeferre and a side table bearing the weight of a particularly ugly antique clock, cradling a mug of coffee in his palms. A part of him wants desperately to get Enjolras alone, but if he's waiting for an opening none presents itself.
Enjolras makes appropriate small talk when it's required of him, exchanges the requisite pleasantries, but Grantaire can't help but notice that he looks tired. He keeps pulling his phone out of his pocket as though anxious that he's missing something, or keeping close track of the time. Both behaviours are extremely unlike him. After a while Grantaire watches as he switches it off and sets it face down on the table beside him. He makes a better attempt at conversing after that, though he's still more distant and stiff than Grantaire expects of him.
He's still watching when Courfeyrac, ever the attentive host, approaches the back of the sofa, and places a hand on Enjolras's shoulder. "Are you alright?" he says, quietly and subtly enough that he's ignored by the rest of the group.
"Fine," Enjolras says, craning his neck to look him in the eye. "Just tired; I've been swamped with work for weeks now. Perhaps I'll get an early night."
"If you wish. We'll try and keep it down." Grantaire isn't satisfied with Enjolras's answer, and from the look Courfeyrac gives Enjolras he can tell he isn't, either, but he lets him go.
Grantaire is feeling pretty much shattered himself. He feels drained, as though a month's worth of anxiety has finally caught up with him and left him mentally exhausted. The reality has been a let down compared to the build up, but in a positive way thus far.
"And you, R – are you feeling ok?" Courfeyrac turns his interrogating, well-meaning attention on him. "You've been uncharacteristically quiet all night." It feels uncomfortably close having his mind read, and it's with a sinking feeling that Grantaire realises he may have been rumbled already.
"Fine," he says, shrugging and taking a sip of his own drink – black coffee, not the wine and champagne that's still being passed around.
He excuses himself not long after that, claiming the intent to turn in for the night and reassessing his tactics for surviving the rest of the trip, relationships and self-esteem intact.
-
He doesn't sleep, though. He brushes his teeth in the shared bathroom at the opposite end of the corridor, strips to his boxers and gets under the covers in his own bedroom, then spends the next hour on his phone trying to feed his brain enough distractions to quiet his thoughts, enough that he might manage to drift off this side of two AM.
He's not bitter that everyone else has moved on without him – it is right and natural that they should. His bitterness is entirely self-directed. The simple fact is that he doesn't fit any more; he has nothing of value to offer a group of people with such bright futures ahead of them, and he'll only bring the collective mood down if he lets his tongue get the better of him.
He's dimly aware of sounds on the stairs – of movement and faint voices coming from different directions as the others gradually make their way to their rooms. He shouldn't have come – if not for his own sake then for theirs.
Two hours later he's still awake, and his attempts to take his mind off things aren't working at all. He feels frustrated, and – as if that isn't pathetic enough – vaguely and directionlessly horny. He resigns himself to lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about how hot Enjolras still is – wondering if it's worth trying to make amends, or if he should just have a lonely wank like the sad sack he is. This was a bad idea from the start – his thoughts keep circling back to the way Enjolras had looked at him as though he was little more than a stranger, drawn by force of habit to scratch at the raw, open wound. He can't contain himself around him forever, can't go on pretending he's not still hopelessly infatuated…
His shame spiral is disrupted by a harsh buzzing sound, as his phone vibrates against the bedside table. He reaches for it, and nearly drops it in mortification when he sees the name attached to the notification. It's been so long since he last messaged him that he'd forgotten about the silly, fond nickname he'd given him in his contacts. It reads:
Apollo: Hey.
Are you awake?
Holy shit. Any notion of getting off to the image of Enjolras's sharp, fire-lit features and the distant memory of Enjolras's hand on his cock are banished by the knowledge that Enjolras is really here, and that he's thinking of Grantaire – whether through some vestigial attunement to Grantaire's less than salubrious thoughts, or through mere coincidence, he's almost afraid to know. Play it cool.
He stares at the words, white text against a dark background, trying to interpret their tone, which is fruitless. 'Hey' is casual for Enjolras though, so he goes with his gut, and immediately regrets doing so.
R: Is this a booty call?
A pause. Grantaire's painfully aware that he's fucked up already.
Apollo: Never mind.
R: Sorry, bad joke
Old habits, etc.
I can be serious…
What did you want?
Another pause, then Enjolras is typing, followed by a delay, as though he's having second thoughts about sending whatever it is that he's written, then Grantaire's phone vibrates in his hands again, and Enjolras's words hit him like a brick to the face.
Apollo: Meet me downstairs?
R: …Now?
Apollo: That's the idea.
He hesitates. Before him, the precipice yawns.
R: On my way
He resists the temptation to go downstairs in only his boxers, just to see Enjolras's jaw firm in disapproval. He pulls on a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, attempts to coax his hair into something that looks artfully dishevelled as opposed to just a state, shoves his phone in his back pocket and sets forth to meet his unknown fate. He takes care to close his door behind him as quietly as he's able to while he's positively vibrating with mingled fear and anticipation.
It's almost pitch black in the hallway, despite the open curtains; there isn't a single streetlamp for miles in every direction, and the moon is obscured by thick cloud. He uses his phone as a torch to make his way downstairs. Aside from the muffled sounds of conversation and the low hum of music coming from Jehan's room – he thinks he hears Bahorel, and perhaps Éponine; he's certain he smells weed – the rest of the house is eerily silent. The corridors stretch into endless, inky darkness and every floorboard seems to groan or squeak to a different pitch.
The light is on in the kitchen when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, a harsh yellow glow pooling beneath mahogany; perhaps that's where Enjolras meant for them to meet? He opens the door and blinks against the sudden brightness, until Enjolras's silhouette solidifies out of the light, and he's staring all over again.
Enjolras is sitting at the breakfast bar, dressed in the same clothes he arrived in, cradling a mug of something steaming in his hands, and looking like an angel escaped from a renaissance fresco – if angels wore turtleneck sweaters.
"Hi," he says, when Grantaire says nothing at all.
"Hi." Grantaire fidgets in the doorway, suddenly intimidated. Perhaps he should have attempted to discern Enjolras's motives before rushing to obey his summons; the composition of the scene is a pastiche of one he'd rather forget, except this time Enjolras doesn't look angry, merely expectant.
"I made cocoa," Enjolras breaks the silence a second time, and gestures towards the stove. "There's more, if you want some."
"You made me cocoa…" Grantaire says; he hears how stupid he sounds as the words leave his mouth. Enjolras made himself cocoa, idiot.
"For both of us," Enjolras agrees, diplomatically, then: "I couldn't sleep, and I wondered if we might talk?"
There's the catch, the ulterior motive behind Enjolras's sudden kindness. Grantaire has been half dreading and half dreaming of this moment for weeks. He makes a conscious effort to appear casual as he makes his way over to the stove, selects a mug from the branches of the abstract wooden tree and pours the rest of the pan's contents into it. It's still scalding hot, and his hands have chosen this moment to shake on him. He feels Enjolras's eyes as the unflinching, judging gaze of a censorious icon looming over him as he completes his task, then turns, moving to take the stool opposite him.
Enjolras straightens in his own seat as Grantaire sits; he folds his arms and rests them on the table between them, cocoa now gripped loosely in the fingertips of one elegant hand. Grantaire experiences a sudden onset of sense-memory upon seeing them up close; Enjolras's fine-boned fingers entwined with his own, or pressing into his forearms, into his thighs – god, he's pathetic.
"Should I draw a line in chalk between us?" Grantaire asks, mirroring Enjolras's semi-formal posture and trying to push the images aside.
"What?" Enjolras asks, offering Grantaire his first frown since their reunion. Grantaire has always found them oddly flattering on him; they have the effect of softening his austere, remote beauty into something a little less inhuman.
"To mark out the divide that each side mustn't cross, if this is a peace negotiation… never mind." Enjolras's frown deepens – in confusion, not displeasure – and Grantaire gives up on attempting to be clever and decides to attempt communication. "What did you want to talk about?"
Enjolras's features smooth, but he doesn't speak right away, only stares into his cup with a distant, thoughtful expression. His bottom lip is drawn between his teeth as it often is whenever he's thinking before he speaks. Grantaire lifts his own cup and purses his lips, blowing some of the steam away, while he waits for Enjolras to make the next move.
"I suppose I wanted to apologise," Enjolras says at last, still watching the wisps of vapour swirl out of the mug in his hand, avoiding Grantaire's eyes. "I've never liked how we left things. I was harsher than I should have been; I'm sorry for it."
Grantaire's eyes go wide as he speaks. When Enjolras pauses he looks up to meet Grantaire's gaze. Grantaire's gawking, and that won't do. He hurries to fill the silence:
"There's no need, really, I earned it, you were right to be…" He takes a tentative sip to force himself to pause before he sticks his foot in his mouth again, and regrets it immediately; the cocoa is still far too hot. It burns his tongue, but he hides it well enough that Enjolras doesn't appear to notice him flinch.
"I wasn't –" Enjolras says, with more force behind it, and pauses again; two minutes alone together and they're already on the brink of arguing. Old habits indeed. "It wasn't any of my business."
That statement cuts harder than it should. Sure, Grantaire's drinking and his drug abuse were problems of his own making, but it wasn't fair that Enjolras's beloved project should suffer for it, for Grantaire to clamour to be included only to let him down – let them all down, because he was too insensible to do the one job he'd been trusted with. He deserved every harsh word that passed Enjolras's lips, and more. Worse still, he'd missed having someone on his case – missed being able to delude himself into thinking Enjolras cared enough to catechise him for his failings.
"I want you to know I'm sober now," he says, solemnly – choosing to accept the offered olive branch without exhuming his own past failings.
"I'm pleased for you." Enjolras meets his gaze again at last; there are dark circles beneath his eyes, and the faintest hint of red veins spider-webbing their whites. He looks as exhausted as Grantaire feels.
An unpleasant contracted feeling begins in the pit of Grantaire's stomach, clawing its way up to his throat and leaving his mouth dry. He takes another slow, careful sip of the cocoa. It's not very good – Enjolras has used raw cocoa powder, and not enough sugar. It was the thought that counted, however, and what a thought it was –
"How long?" Enjolras says, in a tone too conversational for the length of the silence they had let pass between them.
"About a year," Grantaire croaks, his tongue refusing to cooperate, reeling from the bitter taste in his mouth, both metaphorical and literal… "I have one drink every now and then, but I've learned my limits. I don't touch anything else anymore."
"That's good." Enjolras is still looking at him strangely, impenetrably.
"How've you been?" A woefully inadequate question compared to the multitude Grantaire wishes to ask him, but… baby steps.
"Fine. Good." It's not a very convincing answer, but Grantaire's grateful they've managed to muddle their way towards a civil conversation. "How about you?"
"Fine, yeah. Great."
Enjolras hums in response, and sips his own cocoa. If the bitterness of it bothers him, he shows no outward sign of it. They sit in silence after that; it's awkward, but not anywhere near as awkward as Grantaire feared.
They shake hands as they part, though it's more a pressing of the palms than anything with more gusto; Grantaire wants to wrap both arms around him, bury his face against his neck and never let him go again.
He's not sure what he expected, but it went well, all things considered. They didn't shout at each other. He didn't go to his knees and slobber all over Enjolras's disgustingly sensible shoes or beg for permission to suck his dick either, so… success?