Chapter Text
Five years ago, Enjolras killed himself.
Four years ago, Grantaire moved out of Paris and halfway across the country to escape everything.
For a year he’d stayed where he was, keeping his head down and avoiding his old friends at all costs. Occasionally, he’d see someone and his heart would pang painfully. If they noticed him, they would look away, the hurt obvious. And if they didn’t, Grantaire would just walk away, desperate to escape.
So he ran.
He packed up his clothes and sold his apartment within the week, and a few days later he was hiding out a few hours away, trying to keep his mind from wandering back to that night all those years ago.
But he couldn’t stay away forever.
Eventually he knew he would have to return, even if only to visit Enjolras’s grave one last time. To say goodbye for real, and not have to look back.
And even in the years he’d been away he’d not found a partner, or even been in a relationship. The one person he’d loved, the one person he’d lost, was dead and practically by his own hand.
He wasn’t sure if he’d become incapable of love or if he just wasn’t letting himself. Either way, he couldn’t do it. Perhaps Enjolras was his soulmate, perhaps there was no other person out there for him.
And he was okay with that.
But now he was back.
Now he was back and the memories where sharper than ever.
Every footstep he took back into Paris made him remember what he used to know.
He passed the city square; the place where that rally, the one he yelled at Enjolras about, the one he never got to attend was held. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had taken over for him that day. And despite it all, Grantaire hadn’t gone. He’d seen it from his apartment window, made direct eye contact with some of them. They’d noticed him but said nothing.
Halfway through a speech, a speech he realised Enjolras had written, Courfeyrac had broken down and been unable to keep talking. Grantaire did that to him.
He did that to all of them.
He passed his old apartment; it was redone now-the peeling paint no longer, well peeling, and a new door had been installed. The flowers he’d used to try grow were gone, of course they were, and in their place was a patio with a table and chairs.
It didn’t look like his apartment anymore.
And that was because it wasn’t, he reminded himself. He’d left. He didn’t have a home here.
And lastly, and most painfully, he stopped just short of The Musain.
It looked no different; still with the same mismatched chairs and tables scattered around and, fuck, the table right in the middle where Enjolras used to sit. Or stand, sometimes. He’d stood on it that night.
All he’d wanted to do was go home, clear his mind, and had Grantaire let him do it? No. No, of course he hadn’t. He’d prodded at him, provoked him. And Enjolras hadn’t even snapped back once. It was so clear now, so clear how tired he was. How tired he was of everything.
He didn’t stop by Enjolras’s grave yet.
Because when he did, he knew he would break down and not be able to return. He wouldn’t be able to see Paris again for a long time, until he was ready. And...well, he wasn’t expecting the abc to still be around. He knew there were occasional protests and rallies but they were held all over the world now. He didn’t think they still lived here.
But at the same time he still wished he could get one last glimpse of them; even through a shop window. He wouldn’t say hi, he didn’t want to cause them more pain, but he might catch their eyes. He might nod and leave, smile sadly.
Or perhaps he wouldn’t let them know he was here at all and would have to suffice for just one glance of his old friends, his old family, his old life.
He had booked a hotel from across the road. It was...expensive, that’s what it was. But it was nearest to the Musain and he just wanted to be able to see it out there on the Parisian streets for at least a night.
And upon deciding he had nowhere else to go for the day, he thought it might be best to just retire for the night.
Now, he’d had this idea in his head that it would be best to dress formally...to honour Enjolras’s memory. And ‘formally’ had consisted of a white shirt and black trousers, so it wasn’t all that of a surprise when a hotel employee mistook him as a worker and quite unceremoniously pushed a tray on wheels that held a remarkable wedding cake and pointed at the elevator.
“Valjean asked me to bring this up to the bridal suite-room 1832-but I’ve got about a hundred things to do. Can you do it?” He assumed Valjean was in charge of how things ran around here, although he really didn’t have a clue who he was. He wasn’t given much time to respond before the man looked at rather strangely.
“What are you waiting for? We don’t have all day. Go.”
Grantaire just sort of nodded, rushing off into the elevator before anyone could realise he didn’t in fact work there and be saved a whole lot of embarrassment.
The journey up was uneventful. Nobody stopped the elevator and he didn’t have to speak to anyone he didn’t know. Which was relieving, especially when he wondered what would happen if that Valjean guy showed up and he would have a lot of explaining to do.
So he was more than relieved when he finally stepped out, heading towards the door at the end of the corridor that read 1832
He stood outside for a minute, calming the jittery feeling in the pit of his stomach. Which was strange actually, but he had this weird feeling feeling. It wasn’t dread, it wasn’t like...it wasn’t like then. It was more like anticipation.
He knocked on the door, telling himself he was being stupid. There was nothing to worry about.
“Hi, hello, I’m not sure how to-“ he looked up.
And his heart promptly jumped out of his chest.
“Grantaire?”
“Combeferre?”
And Combeferre immediately slammed the door shut in his face.
Well. He did deserve it, he supposed.
But he still had that fucking cake.
So he knocked again, this time very aware of what causing those nerves.
This time when the door opened, he looked a little more sheepish. But he still said nothing.
Combeferre looked, well, exactly the same. Almost.
His skin was smooth and miraculously unwrinkled, unlike Grantaire’s own that had been aged around the eyes in the time since he left. His eyes, if perhaps a little duller, still held that light. Again, the opposite of himself. His hair was perhaps the only thing different now; it was cut shorter, no longer bouncing around his ears and his glasses...his glasses were different too. They were red now.
Red like-
“What’re you doing here?” Combeferre said, interrupting his train of thought.
Of all the people he’d thought about looking for, meeting up with, Combeferre had been one of the last on his list. Partly because he was Enjolras’s best friend and partly because after Courfeyrac, Ferre was one of the people who had been the most angry at him.
He had never been so scared of Courfeyrac in his life, five years ago.
“I’m, uh...here’s your cake.”
“My cake?”
“Your wedding cake. I didn’t...I didn’t know you were getting, uh, who’s wedding is it?”
Combeferre fixed him with a long, hard stare. His eyes were narrowed and he was looking at Grantaire as thought he’d forgotten he existed.
“I didn’t know you worked here.”
He pretended it didn’t hurt that Combeferre shut him down like that. Although it was to be expected.
He shifted his weight between his feet uncomfortably.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
There was a pause and then Combeferre sighed, gesturing between the two of them. “Did you know we were...?”
“No.” He said quickly, “I didn’t know this was your room. Sorry.”
“Right. Okay.”
He was completely ready to leave, in fact he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do more, but he picked up on Combeferre’s previous sentence.
“Sorry, did you say ‘we’?”
“What?”
“You said...you said, ‘we were’...”
Again, Combeferre looked at him strangely. He seemed as if he was about to close the door in his face again but was stopped as somebody appeared behind him and wrapped their arms around his neck. Then they looked up, and it was once again as if his heart jumped to the pit of his stomach.
He stepped backwards, away from the person at the door.
“Grantaire?” Courfeyrac said coldly, “What are you doing? Ferre, did you invite him?”
“No. He’s...um...” he pointed to the cake. Courfeyrac ignored him.
And Grantaire really wished his curiosity didn’t get the better of him, but he couldn’t help but blurt out-
“Invite me where?”
Again, Courfeyrac ignored him but Combeferre sort of looked uncomfortable between the three of them before answering.
“The wedding.” He said. “We’re getting married.”
Oh.
So it was their wedding.
He supposed he should have realised that, or at least that it was Combeferre’s, from the second he opened the door. But in his defence, he’d not even been prepared to see one of his old friends, never mind two of them.
“I didn’t know you were together.” He said quietly. Had they been before it all happened? Or was this a more recent thing? He’d always sort of thought that Combeferre had feelings for Enjolras but...well, maybe he had. Maybe he’d just been able to move on.
“It happened a few months after...after...” Combeferre said slowly, the pain making his voice thick. He blinked a few times and looked away, apparently unable to carry on.
Grantaire nodded, knowing what he meant. It made sense, he realised, that the two best friends of Enjolras needed each other once he was gone.
He didn’t...fuck, he could feel his eyes welling up already. They hated him so much! And they should, they should but it still hurt. It still hurt to see two of the people he once would have called his best friends, his family look at him with such cold, dead eyes.
“I’m sorry.” He said eventually. He knew that they would know he wasn’t talking about interrupting their day. They would know he was talking about it all, about everything.
About shouting at Enjolras that might, spitting lies in his face. About being unable to stop him. Fuck! He should have been able to stop him and-and he didn’t. Jesus, he messed up everyone’s lives. About not apologising, not being able to for that year between Enjolras’s death and his cowardly fleeing the city. About showing up now, on Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s wedding day and bringing up painful, bad memories.
It was bad enough that Enjolras was unable to attend.
He didn’t need to remind them of it, although he was sure they wouldn’t have forgotten.
“We don’t blame you for what happened anymore, Grantaire.” Combeferre said carefully, a finger brushing his own cheek as a tear slipped down. “We’re not childish enough to think Enjolras’s entire decision to...to end things depended solely on you. We can’t blame you.”
That...wasn’t what he was expecting. And it was much more than what he deserved. It was his fault. It was.
“Don’t...you don’t have to-“
“-I’m not angry anymore,” Courfeyrac said suddenly, his posture slumping a little. “I was...when I saw you just then I was, I’ll admit it. But it’s been five years. I can’t stay angry at you. We can’t pretend like it didn’t happen but we need to move on. It’s what Enjolras would have wanted.”
Grantaire nodded, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. He appreciated it, but he didn’t believe them. He knew they were lying.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Grantaire, why don’t you...why don’t you come to the wedding tonight? Everyone will be there. I can’t remember the last time we all saw each other.” Combeferre said slowly, his eyes sliding sideways to check if what he was saying was okay with the both of them. Courfeyrac gave the smallest of nods.
“Thank you. I appreciate it, I really do, but I can’t ruin your night. The others won’t want to see me. You two; you’ve been kinder than you need, I shouldn’t even be here. I don’t...I don’t think it’s best I come.”
They didn’t protest and Grantaire knew he was right.
They’d passed the point of truly mending things and they couldn’t expect anything of it now. He was leaving soon anyway. And this time he wouldn’t return.
Because he wasn’t running away. When you have somewhere to go, you can always change your mind if it doesn’t turn out to be the right place. But if you run...nowhere is ever good enough. Nowhere ever brings you peace.
“I wish you the best of luck, I hope you’re happy together.” He said, his voice threatening to crack. “But I don’t think we’ll meet again.”
~~~~~~~~
Epilogue
The path to the graveyard was a familiar one beneath Grantaire’s feet.
It did make him think of those first few weeks when his vision would be blurred with tears almost every moment of the day but this time it was different.
He knelt down in the grass, slightly damp from the winter weather and a wind blowing around his collar. The gravestone was understandably aged, a little crooked, but not much had changed.
There were roses at the bottom, roses he assumed were out there the previous night by Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and moss had begun to creep up the edges. He’d been gone for so long now. Enjolras. God, how he missed him.
He let a single tear dribble down his cheek, landing on the ground in front of him. And then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something that he’d been unable to let go of, something he’d not seen in a long time.
It was a cockade pin, just smaller than the palm of his hand; blue at the center, white in the middle and red on the outside, carefully crafted to look almost like a flower. It was something that the revolutionaries that fought in the June Rebellion had worn, every one of them. Even if death, they had remained attached to their waistcoats and jackets and for some reason Enjolras had always loved it.
He’d worn it every day, pinned to the breast pocket of his red jacket...
He’d left his jacket by the bridge that night, and at first Grantaire hadn’t understood why. He thought it was because he loved it so much he didn’t want it to be ruined but now he understood; even in death, the cockade remained attached.
Well, his leader deserved to be reunited with it once again.
With a trembling hand he laid it in front of the gravestone and sat back on his heels, fingers lightly tracing the edge of the stone.
Enjolras; the love of his life.
Enjolras; the leader of the people’s hearts.
Enjolras; finally at rest. Thinking about it now, Grantaire didn’t think he’d grow to be old. He didn’t think he’d ever see his face aged with lines. He thought he’d be reunited with Enjolras much sooner than he thought.
And despite it all, despite the pain and guilt, Grantaire smiled.
“I love you,” he whispered into the early morning, “it’s only a matter of time.”