Chapter Text
Enjolras wakes up early as usual on Christmas morning. He stumbles out into the living room to turn on the coffee machine and finds Grantaire sitting under the Christmas tree, among the presents.
“Good morning, little frog.”
“Hi,” Grantaire says quietly, and it’s not good when Grantaire speaks in this tiny, shy voice. It usually means he’s scared, because he got it into his head that good boys are quiet and when Grantaire starts to worry about being good it means he’s afraid.
“You okay? Want some hot chocolate?”
“’m allowed to? It’s only the morning.”
“It’s Christmas,” Enjolras says.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Enjolras pours his coffee and sits on the ground, facing Grantaire. “What’s wrong, tadpole?”
“It looks like on the TV. There’s s’many presents.”
“Is—is that a bad thing?” Enjolras asks tentatively, hoping Combeferre and Courfeyrac will arrive soon. There was really no question about who little Grantaire would live with, as he tends to become hysterical if Enjolras is more than fifteen feet away from him, but sometimes Enjolras isn’t sure how to handle these emotional crises.
Apparently, that was the wrong question, because Grantaire bursts into tears.
“Grantaire? Hey, tadpole, talk to me. We can put them away if they make you upset. I want you to have a good Christmas.”
Enjolras opens his arms and Grantaire crawls into his lap, fisting his little hands in Enjolras’ shirt as he cries.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m b-bad.”
“You aren’t bad. What makes you think that?”
“Shouldn’ be upset.”
“What are you upset about?”
“I—I—I see all the presents and I know—it makes me sad that—that none of ‘em are for me.”
“Why do you think none of them are for you?”
“Only good boys get presents. I never ever got anything before. Christmas makes Mommy sad so she drinks and then Papa said las’ year that it was my fault she was sad an’ I would get a whuppin’ because that’s all I deserved,” Grantaire mumbles into Enjolras’ neck. “You won’ hit me, though, right?”
Grantaire asks this question a lot. He still isn’t sure, even after three months with them. “I promise, Grantaire, no one is going to hit you.”
“Even if I cry and ruin Christmas again?”
“You won’t ruin Christmas, and it’s okay to cry. But we’re gonna have a great Christmas. You want to help me with the hot chocolate?”
“Yeah,” Grantaire says quietly.
Enjolras picks Grantaire up, carrying him into the kitchen where he makes a giant pot of hot chocolate. Grantaire helps by sitting on the counter and periodically trying to steal chocolate shavings as Enjolras chops chocolate to pour into the milk. “Do you want to talk about what’s wrong?” he asks again, gently.
“Jus’, I know it’s greedy to ask for presents. ‘Ferry said it was okay an’ he helped me make a list for Santa, but I won’ get anything. Santa only brings good boys and girls presents, an’ he never brought me anything before.”
Enjolras sighs. “Grantaire, listen. I think- I think Santa tried to bring you your presents, but he might have gotten lost, or your Papa might not have let you have them even though Santa did bring them. Because I know he brought you some this year.”
Grantaire’s eyes go very wide. “He did?”
“That’s right. He did. I talked to him last night, actually, when he was here dropping them off.”
“You saw Santa?”
“And he asked me if a very special little boy named Grantaire lived here, because he had just found out that Grantaire hadn’t been getting his presents for his first three Christmases, and he needed to make sure that Grantaire got everything he wished for this year.”
“Wow,” Grantaire breathes. “Was he just like in the movies? Was he wearin’ his fancy red suit?”
“He was. And I told him I would wish you a Merry Christmas just from him.” Enjolras pours them each a cup of hot chocolate, leaving the rest on the stove for the other Amis. “Good, little frog?”
“Yummy.”
“Combeferre will make pancakes when he gets here, and we’ll open presents.”
“Okay.”
“I bet no one would mind if you wanted to go ahead and open one of the ones Santa brought you,” Enjolras says, hoping to cheer Grantaire up a little.
“Really?”
“Really. C’mon.”
Enjolras takes Grantaire’s hand, and the little boy tentatively approaches the pile of presents. He seems afraid to touch them.
“Can you pick out one with your name on it?”
Grantaire points. “R!” he says, gesturing to a small package that is addressed “To R, from Santa.”
“That’s very good!” Grantaire is only four, but he’s very bright, and can recognize the letter that identifies his name. “You want to open that one?”
“I can?”
“You can.”
Grantaire picks it up, but then hesitates again. “This is for me?” he asks one more time.
“It is. Santa brought it for you.”
Grantaire very slowly undoes the paper, revealing a box of 128 different crayons. He stares at them for a long time, and then throws his arms around Enjolras’ neck.
“You okay?”
“It’s what I wished for for Christmas,” Grantaire says. “My wish came true.”
He sounds disbelieving, like he can hardly imagine such a thing, and it’s heartbreaking that a child so young has so little hope for happiness but Enjolras is incredibly grateful that he has the chance to give little R that hope, that maybe he can make Grantaire’s life better.
“Come on, little frog. Let’s get the icing off your hands and go to bed, okay?”
Grantaire sleepily nods his little head. “Mmkay.”
Enjolras smiles and scoops him up so he can reach the sink and wash his sticky fingers clean. They’ve been making Christmas cookies to take to Bossuet and Joly’s tomorrow, for the Amis’ annual post-Christmas party. Grantaire’s done a good job with frosting them, but it’s almost ten and he’s eaten so much of the frosting with his fingers that he’s got a sugar headache that will make him cranky if he doesn’t get in bed more or less immediately. When Grantaire is at least kind of clean, Enjolras carries him to bed.
“’Jolras?”
“Yeah?”
“C’n I ask you a question?”
“Of course. Questions are always okay.” Enjolras sits on the edge of Grantaire’s little bed, prepared for a bit of a conversation.
“Did Santa bring you what you wanted for Christmas?”
Enjolras hesitates, then decides to answer honestly. “I… I asked for something I’m not sure even Santa could bring me.”
“What’s that?”
“I asked for G- for Art Man to come back, but I think… I think part of the reason he went away is because… I wasn’t always as nice to him as I should have been. Sometimes I would get frustrated with him because he was sad a lot, and that wasn’t right for me to do. And I wished that I could tell him that, that I could get the chance to tell him that I—“ Enjolras shakes his head. “Anyway. He’ll come back when it’s time.”
“Is it bad to be sad? Or… or scared? Because Santa never brought me any presents before, when I lived with my Papa, and I thought it was ‘cause I was a bad boy who was scared and cried too much and—“
The guilt Enjolras feels is indescribable. Because this child is not the same Grantaire he knows, but somewhere in adult Grantaire is this boy—and a boy who was never taken away from his abusive father, who lived with him being taught to feel fear and shame until he eventually ran away into an adulthood of alcoholism and poverty—and when Enjolras had the chance to reassure him, to help him deal with the devestating weight of the feelings he could no longer express so simply, he gave Grantaire only scorn in response to the tentative attempts Grantaire made for his help. “No, Grantaire, it’s not bad. Not at all. It’s… it’s very good, to be able to talk about the feelings you have. We always want you to feel like you can tell us if something is upsetting you.”
“An’ you won’t be mad?”
“I promise, little frog, I will never be angry with you for sharing your feelings. Even if you break the rules, even if you get in trouble, I will never be mad at you and I’ll never hurt you.”
“An’ you won’ hit me ever ever ever, like you promised,” Grantaire pronounces.
“That’s right.”
“Er’body brought me presents. Santa brought me crayons and Joly and Bossuet and Mama ‘Chetta brought me my new froggy hat and Ferry brought me the picture books, three of ‘em, and Jehan brought me the fairytale story book an’ stuff for dress up, and Mari’s and ‘Sette brought me a new stuffed bear and Courf brought me the ‘Laddin movie and you helped me make cookies and you brought me new col’ring books an’ ev’thing. It was the best Christmas ever. I never got any presents before.”
“I’m glad you liked them.”
“I was real surprised all that was for me. I thought only good boys got presents.”
“You are a good boy.”
"Really?"
"Really. You're the best tadpole in the universe, R. I promise."
Grantaire nods, because if there is one thing that is always true about Grantaire, it is that he trusts Enjolras more than anything else.
“Come get me if you need anything, okay little frog?”
“Okay. I love you so much, ‘Jolras.”
“I love you too, ‘Aire.” Enjolras kisses him on the forehead. “Sleep well. Tomorrow you can play with your new crayons, okay?”
“’kay. Night.”
“Good night.”
Enjolras is still washing dishes in the kitchen when he hears the sound of crying from Grantaire’s room. He rushes in, leaving the dishes in the sink. “Grantaire?”
He isn’t in his bed. Grantaire isn’t in his bed.
Enjolras’ mind goes blank with panic so suddenly that he almost can’t figure out how to turn on the light switch, illuminating the room and revealing the shadow of the three-year-old under the bed.
Enjolras kneels at the foot of the bed. “’Aire? Are you okay?”
Grantaire whimpers and curls in on himself.
“Tadpole, you wanna come out from under there?”
“Mm-mm,” Grantaire mumbles.
“Please?” Enjolras says softly. “Little frog, I promise, I won’t hurt you.”
“Wanna stay.”
“Okay. Is it all right if I stay here and talk to you?”
“Yeah. ‘f you wanna.”
“I do, ‘Aire. I wouldn’t want to leave you feeling upset. You want to tell me what happened?”
“No,” Grantaire says. “Wanna stay here. Don’ wan’ ‘Jolras t’be mad a’me.”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Still love me?” Grantaire says in a quiet voice.
“What? Of course I still love you.”
“Would you still love me if I was a bad boy and you got mad at me?”
“Grantaire, I will love you no matter what. I promise.”
Grantaire breaks back into pathetic sobs at that and crawls out from underneath the bed. He lets Enjolras scoop him up and into his arms, clinging to a strand of Enjolras’ hair that is dangling out of his bun. “H-had a bad dream,” he sniffles.
“You wanna talk about it?” Enjolras suggests, scooping him up so the two of them are lying in bed, little Grantaire cradled against Enjolras’ chest.
Grantaire nods. “Y’were yellin’ at me. I was big and I had forever colors on my arms just like the Art Man and y’were so mad at me, y-you said I was useless and I should go ‘way forever, that’s what you said, ‘just leave Grantaire you’re no use’ an’ I tried to tell you that I love you an’ you said I couldn’ love anybody because I was so bad—“ Grantaire is too upset to form words, sobbing in grand gasps.
“Oh, sweet little frog. Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a dream. Only a dream. I do love you, ‘Aire, I love you so much. It was nothing but a dream.” But it wasn’t just a dream. It was a memory. The night before Grantaire became Petitaire, they’d had that exact fight.
Well, Enjolras had thought of it as a fight at the time. It wasn’t until later, until he had taken responsibility for the mysteriously de-aged Grantaire, that he realized that Grantaire never actually argued back. That Grantaire would just sit there in the back of the café, occasionally going on drunken rambles that he probably couldn’t help, and mostly nursing his drink. Until he said something, made some gesture to try and help Enjolras, to try and be his friend, and Enjolras turned on him and shouted at him.
That was the only time Grantaire would ever stand up for himself—if Enjolras insulted his ability to feel, because Grantaire was confident in only one thing… his love for Enjolras.
Enjolras tries to push aside the thoughts. He may never get the chance to apologize to Grantaire. The best he can do is take care of the young Grantaire, in the hopes that he will grow into a person who will recognize his own merits, his own intelligence and wit and creativity.
“Don’ make me go,” Grantaire sobs. “I’ll be good, I promise, and I’ll give all the presents back and you can do yelling or hitting at me if I’m bad but don’ make me go—“
“Grantaire, don’t cry. Try and breathe for me, tadpole. You’re not bad. I’m not angry. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
“Sorry,” Grantaire mumbles.
“Nothing to be sorry about. You had a bad dream, you couldn’t help it. But I need you to try and remember that it wasn’t real. What’s real is that I love you and I’ll never, ever hurt you. And no one is going to take your presents away, or yell at you or hit you. I promise.” Enjolras keeps talking, a slow, near-meaningless stream of words until Grantaire finally manages to cry himself into exhaustion, falling asleep against Enjolras’ chest.
Enjolras smiles down at the small, peaceful face of the sleeping Grantaire and closes his own eyes.
For now, at least, Grantaire is safe.