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From E: Please, Grantaire. Ignoring me is childish. Let’s just talk about this. I know I shouldn't have done that but we can't just hide from it.
From E: Why do you always do this? You run away from everything instead of facing it like an adult. Answer the phone.
From E: I’m sorry, that was cruel of me. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I know you probably hate me right now but we need to talk. This is all my fault, I know. Please, I just want to talk about it, I want to apologise and make it up to you, please stop ignoring me.
From E: I’m coming over to your place. I love you, I need to apologise, we need to talk about this.
To Enjolras: Don’t. I don't want you here.
From E: Too late, almost there.
Grantaire sighed and threw his phone down onto the couch next to him, taking a gulp from the bottle of wine in his hand. As much as he loved Enjolras, he didn’t want to see him with the situation being what it was. He didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to talk about what had happened. He wanted to drink until his fingers were numb and it was impossible to keep his eyes open. The rational part of his mind told him that getting wasted wouldn’t help anything, considering the fact that it was his drinking that got him into this mess, but his mind was too frantic to stay sober.
Running a finger over the hot flesh surrounding his eye, Grantaire bit his lip and closed his eyes. Pressing down ever so slightly, he winced against the pain; without looking he already knew that a bruise was forming, the throbbing pain he felt made that an obvious fact. It wouldn’t be the first black eye he’d ever been given, and it certainly wasn’t the most painful, but it was definitely the most significant.
It wasn’t even Enjolras’ fault, not really. Grantaire had turned up drunk, two hours late and in a foul mood; he’d been geared up for an argument from the second he walked through the door, and so had Enjolras, but still, Grantaire had never thought that he could push the golden boy so much that he’d actually lash out and hit him. Grantaire wasn’t even mad about the fact that Enjolras had punched him so hard it had knocked him off of his feet and into the coffee table; not really, he was more shocked than anything else. Hurt that Enjolras had actually finally had enough of him to lash out. Grantaire couldn’t even remember what they’d been arguing about; his drinking, his poor time management, his cynicism. He wasn’t sure; he just knew that it was something concerning him.
Grantaire smiled bitterly and took another gulp from the bottle. It was only a matter of time, he supposed. The cynic finished the bottle off, and then grabbed another from the floor by his feet. If Enjolras was coming over, they were likely to argue, and he didn’t quite feel he had enough wine in him to handle another argument with the living god.
“Grantaire let me in,” The voice came before anything else, but a short, sharp knock followed. For a second Grantaire considered remaining on the couch, bottle balanced carefully on his stomach, and just pretending that he wasn’t home; he didn’t want to argue anymore tonight, he was too tired, too drunk, his mind too hazy. He held his breath, hoping that if he stopped breathing, he could pretend that he really wasn’t there. Enjolras knew him better than that though, and called through the door, “I know you’re home. Pretending you aren’t won’t solve anything.”
The drunk groaned and pushed himself up off of the couch, bottle still clasped tightly in his hand. He stumbled a little as he got up, swaying in place for a moment as he tried to steady his wobbly legs. He zig-zagged down the small corridor to the front door, drinking as he went and keeping the other hand pressed against the wall at all times, just in case the world took a sudden tilt and he needed to grab onto something so that he could remain on his feet. He reached the door, took a couple of gulps from the green bottle in his hand until it was empty, and then placed it on the small table beside the door that was usually reserved for spare change and keys.
He yanked the door out of his way, revealing a rather distraught looking Enjolras. Grantaire wanted to take him into his arms immediately, but the alcohol in his system told him that he was supposed to be mad. He put a hand on his hip, and cocked his head to the side, “yes?”
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” Enjolras burst out, his vision focused on the puffy, purple skin around Grantaire’s bright blue, half lidded eye. The cynic shrugged, remaining silent. The blond reached up to smooth the new bruise, but a sharp look for Grantaire halted his movements, and the hand flopped back down to slap against his side. “Can I come in?”
“If you wish.” Grantaire stepped out of the way to allow the other man entrance, stumbling slightly as he did, and if Enjolras noticed… well, he didn’t say anything. Enjolras made his way to the lounge, and Grantaire made his way to the kitchen to grab another bottle of whatever he had. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, despite Joly’s numerous warnings to never mix grape and grain. He sauntered back into the lounge with it firmly in hand, mostly just because he knew that the drink would annoy Enjolras.
Enjolras, as predicted, observed the bottle with narrowed eyes, his face turning hard as he looked up at Grantaire, “don’t you think you’d had enough?”
“Of you.” Grantaire retorted in a harsh tone, sitting down in the chair while the blond occupied the couch.
“I didn’t come here to argue with you,” Enjolras sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, his green eyes never leaving the mark on Grantaire’s face. The drunkard leaned back in his seat, waiting for Enjolras to say something because he sure as hell wasn’t going to make the first move when he didn’t even want to talk. Enjolras leaned forward slightly, placing his hand on Grantaire’s knee, “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. You know me, you know I’d never do anything like this, especially not to you.”
“Yet you did.” Grantaire pointed out, making no effort to speak in a warm tone. Enjolras looked as if he had been slapped, removing his hand from Grantaire’s knee and straightening up professionally.
“Yes, I did.” Enjolras slumped against the back of the couch, looking utterly defeated. “I’m incredibly ashamed of that fact. I didn’t think, Grantaire. You were yelling and I was yelling and things were said and I just snapped. There’s no excuse for what I did but I promise, it will never happen again. I’m so sorry, just tell me how to make it up to you and I will.”
“What if you can’t?” Grantaire slurred, raising one eyebrow and shrugging. In all honesty, he didn’t even want Enjolras to make it up to him, his mouth was just running away with itself and his brain was too asleep to stop it. Apologies were enough, but Grantaire was drunk and stubborn and rationality had escaped him. “Maybe you crossed a line you can’t retreat back across this time. Just because I love you doesn't mean I am willing to forgive you for everything.”
“What are you saying?” The blond whispered, hurt creeping onto his features as Grantaire continued to stare at him with a straight face. “Are you… Grantaire, you can’t be saying you want to break up. I made a mistake and I’m sorry for it! You have to believe me, if I could take back what I did then I would.”
“I don’t know what I want, Enjolras.” Grantaire sighed, his head lolling forward probably a little more than it should due to the alcohol he had consumed. “I don’t want to fight all the time, I don’t want you to be angry at me for drinking, I don’t want to worry about pushing you too far. I just… y’know, I’m just tired. Tired of arguing all the time.”
Enjolras stared at him with pleading eyes, a look that was completely out of character for the student revolutionary, and that's when Grantaire began to feel a slither of remorse over his words. “You think I like all of that Grantaire? I hate arguing with you, but there are things I’m tired of too. I’m tired of you going out drinking all the time and not even calling to tell me you’re alright; do you understand how worried I get when you disappear for two hours and don’t even answer your phone? I’m tired of that, Grantaire. I’m tired of arguing and I’m sick of you drinking all the time without even considering how it makes me feel. I love you, so, so much, but the way you’re so determined to destroy yourself destroys me too.”
Grantaire looked down at his hands, which were bunched together in his lap; he had never thought of it that way. He had always assumed that Enjolras didn’t care about what he did in their time apart. And no, Grantaire didn’t want this relationship to end, but now he worried that Enjolras did, “So… what? You want to break up?”
“No!” He cried, pushing himself out of his seat to kneel on the floor in front of the cynic, forcing their eyes to meet by placing his hands on the other man’s cheeks. If there was a slight glisten of moisture on the blond man's cheeks, then neither decided to point out that fact. “Listen to me. We’re not perfect, we never have been. I work too much and you drink too much, but that's just us. We were never going to be like Jehan and Courfeyrac. I get angry and it makes you angry in return, but I love you, more than I’ve ever loved anything before. I want to be with you for the rest of my life, and I will honestly never be able to forgive myself if this one mistake has cost me you. Please say it hasn't.”
Enjolras gently smoothed the pad of his thumb across the bruise beneath his lover’s eye, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that told him Grantaire probably wouldn’t be able to see out of that eye tomorrow. He leaned forward, tentatively at first, and carefully, but lovingly, kissed the skin that he had bruised only hours before. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Grantaire’s, “I promise you nothing like this will ever happen again. If only you could know how truly loathsome I find myself for harming you. Will you forgive me? Please say that you will, I don't know what I'd do if you cast me away.”
The soft kiss Grantaire pressed to Enjolras’ lips was enough of an answer.