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Enjolras had spent longer than usual at the Musain, and so he hurried home down the dark streets, cognizant of the fact that Grantaire was most likely awake and waiting for him, the way he usually was on days like this. Though Enjolras was spending as much time as he could dedicated to the cause, there always seemed to be more work to be done, and though he was loath to admit it, having Grantaire living with him and forcing him to eat and sleep was probably one of the few things keeping him going (since Combeferre maintained that man could not live on revolutionary fervor).
As such, he was looking forward to whatever Grantaire had cooked for himself earlier in the evening, half of which would be set aside for Enjolras whenever he finally came home. Then they would share in a bit of wine (just a glass for Enjolras to pair with the meal, while Grantaire would finish the rest of the bottle). In the span of just a few short weeks, their living arrangement had become far more domestic than Enjolras had ever imagined, but he also could not find it in himself to complain.
That night, however, as he took the steps two at a time to his suite of rooms, he was surprised when he opened the door to find that Grantaire was not lounging on the settee, glass of wine in hand. No candle burned cheerfully on the table, and no food awaited him and the growl in his stomach.
“Grantaire?” Enjolras called, tugging off his jacket and draping it over the chair. “Grantaire?” With no answer, Enjolras crossed to Grantaire’s bedchamber door, which he rapped on with one hand while loosening his cravat with the other. “Grantaire?”
A low groan answered him from the other side of the door, and for a second, it seemed like Enjolras’s heart had stopped beating. He burst through the door, expecting the worst, and instead finding Grantaire wrapped in a blanket and curled up on his bed. “Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, concern evident in his voice as he crossed over to the bed. “What is wrong?”
Grantaire rolled over, his face pale and sweat gleaming on his forehead, visible even in the candle that flickered wildly on the bedside table. “Ah, Enjolras,” he rasped, shivering as if there was a draft. “I did not realize you had returned.”
“Are you ill?” Enjolras asked, feeling equal parts stupid and overwhelm as he looked down at Grantaire. “Shall I send for Joly?”
Even in his state, Grantaire managed to roll his eyes good-naturedly, though it was immediately followed by a racking cough. “It is merely the ague settling into my chest,” Grantaire told him, his voice hoarse. “A few days hence it shall pass and I shall be as I was.” His forehead wrinkled slightly and he sat up. “I realize now I forgot supper for both myself and for you.”
Enjolras touched Grantaire’s shoulder, surprisingly gentle as he pushed Grantaire back against the bed. “You should realize that you need rest,” Enjolras said sternly, though he was still concerned for Grantaire’s health. Though Grantaire claimed it was the just the ague that he suffered from, Enjolras knew all too well that cholera swept still through the city, that many had died already, and he could not help the feeling in the pit of his stomach that something could be very wrong with Grantaire.
He forced what he hoped was a calm smile onto his face. “I shall go and fetch a cool cloth for your forehead,” he told Grantaire, though his mind was elsewhere. And indeed, as soon as he stepped into the other room, the smile slipped from his face, replaced by worry and not a little bit of panic. He headed down to the street, where he knew a few gamins tended to loiter, and whistled loudly, drawing one of the urchins over to him. “Will you run an errand for me?” he asked the gamin, quickly rattling off Joly’s address and tossing him a coin. “Tell him that I require him here. And that it is urgent.”
“Shall he pay me in kind?” the urchin asked innocently, and when Enjolras rolled his eyes and tossed him a second coin, the gamin grinned and fired a salute in his direction. “I’ll get him here, sir.’
With the gamin going to fetch Joly, Enjolras returned to his rooms, fetching the cool cloth as he had promised and bringing it in to Grantaire, who had fallen into a fitful sleep. Enjolras felt his own brow furrow as he draped the cloth over Grantaire’s, his fingers feather-light against Grantaire’s skin.
The possibility of losing his friends or himself in martyrdom for the Republic was one Enjolras had resigned himself to years ago, but the thought of losing a friend — or whatever Grantaire was to him, something indefinable that went far beyond the parameters of ‘friend’ — to pestilence was one that Enjolras had not considered, and as he stroked Grantaire’s curls gently, he felt a weight settle on his chest and tears prick in his eyes.
He forced himself to turn away, blinking against the sudden, unexpected tears, and instead slipped back outside to pace the hallway, his expression downcast. Time seemed to tick by slower than anything he had ever encountered, and he kept glancing at the door, hoping Joly would appear and ease his mind.
Finally, when he had all but given up hope and was wildly tempted to pick Grantaire up and carry him to Joly’s, a quiet knock sounded, and Enjolras all but ran to the door to let a disheveled and half-asleep Joly inside. “This is not a time of night fit for man or beast,” Joly told him, his voice rough from sleep. “What emergency rouses me from the warmth of my bed?”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras said shortly, leading him back to Grantaire’s bedchamber. “He has taken ill, and he claims it is not cholera, but…”
He trailed off and Joly nodded, his expression a mirror of Enjolras’s own, sharp and serious with concern. “I shall examine him,” Joly said quietly. “Wait out here, and I shall let you know after I am done.”
Enjolras nodded as well, though he was beginning to feel panicked again as he watched the door close behind Joly. As was Enjolras’s way, his mind was going at full tilt, developing contingencies and plans if Grantaire truly was ill. The cause must come first, and that would not change, but an hour spent here or there tending to Grantaire could be possible. And if he was willing to take an hour away, certainly others of their friends would be as well, which should be enough to have someone looking after Grantaire for as long as necessary.
The thought that they might acquire the disease from Grantaire did not honestly cross Enjolras’s mind, and had it, he would have dismissed it just as quickly. Caring for Grantaire — caring for a friend — was far more important than any risk they might take to themselves, especially as he would stubbornly carry on with the cause regardless of how ill he became, and he assumed that they all would as well.
Thankfully, he was not allowed to stew in his own thoughts for too long, as Joly soon exited the room. As soon as he had, Enjolras descended upon him, demanding, “Well? What have you discovered? Is it cholera? What can be done for it? I know we would all be willing to help take care of him if necessary, and—”
“Enjolras,” Joly sighed, clearly exhausted and exasperated, “it is not cholera. It is the ague. He will be fine with rest and perhaps some fluids beyond wine. You may need a physician to bleed the ill humors if his chills do not subside, but it is not deadly. Now kindly do not rouse from my bed at such an hour for something like this again.”
Despite Joly’s words, his tone was clearly jesting, and the hand he clapped against Enjolras’s shoulder was gentle. “Thank you, my friend,” Enjolras muttered. “I will look after him.”
“Then I imagine you will give him no choice but to get better soon,” Joly said cheerfully as he headed toward the door. “Goodnight, Enjolras.”
For a long moment, Enjolras just stared after him, trying to wrap his mind around what Joly had told him, trying to calm his racing heart, trying to almost reassure himself that Grantaire was, in fact, going to be fine, was not seriously ill. And at that realization, and at the thought of Grantaire, he turned on heel and slipped into Grantaire’s bedchamber, half-expecting him to be asleep. Instead, Grantaire was half-sitting up in bed, and looked over at Enjolras as he entered. “I told you it was the ague,” Grantaire said, sounding far too satisfied for a man shivering under the coverlet.
Enjolras rolled his eyes, instantly relaxing at the tone in Grantaire’s voice, which sounded far more like the Grantaire he was used to, and somehow was the final reassurance he needed that Grantaire truly was going to be all right. “Your opinion is oft in need of validation,” Enjolras told him loftily, perching on the edge of Grantaire’s bed. “Forgive me for wanting to assure my houseguest would not die under my supervision the way the flower Prouvaire gave me wilted to nothing.”
“I would like to think I am made of heartier stuff than a flower,” Grantaire said slowly, the ghost of a smile hovering on his lips. “Still, the image of you standing vigil at my deathbed will give me some peace of mind as I wrestle with this ague.”
Enjolras frowned, unamused. “Thank the powers that be that I do not need to,” he said, suddenly serious, more serious than Grantaire’s joke perhaps merited. “The thought of losing you…”
Grantaire stared at him and licked his lips nervously before saying quickly, “Well, Joly assures me that I shall live, so a vigil is unnecessary. As, of course, was sending for Joly in the first place.” His expression softened. “You truly should not have bothered. I am fine.”
Enjolras’s frown deepened. “You clearly are not fine, seeing as how you seem to have wrapped yourself in every available blanket and coverlet.”
With a flush either at Enjolras’s words or from his fever, Grantaire shook his head slowly. “You have much more important things to be concerned with than one such as myself,” Grantaire muttered, turning away. “I do not deserve your concern.”
“Of course you deserve my concern,” Enjolras huffed impatiently, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I will always be concerned for you when you are ill or hurting. I care for you greatly, Grantaire.”
There was a long moment of silence as Grantaire stared frozenly at Enjolras, who blushed just as brightly as Grantaire’s fever-flushed cheeks. “I mean, I care for you as I care for all our friends,” Enjolras quickly clarified, though he felt his blush deepen and he looked away from Grantaire clearing his throat. “Anyway,” he continued, his tone turning brisk, “Joly has insisted that you need rest, and I quite agree.”
He stood, Grantaire still silently watching him, and then, much to Grantaire’ surprise, started to climb into bed with him. “Whatever are you doing?” Grantaire asked, his voice an octave too high as he gaped at Enjolras.
Enjolras felt his ears burning but steadily carried on, pulling one of the blankets over him. “I shall not leave you to shiver and freeze when an easy enough solution is at hand,” Enjolras said, his jaw set stubbornly, daring Grantaire to argue with him. “I would be remiss to leave you in such straits. Come, let us take our respite.”
Though Grantaire looked as if he might argue for a moment, he instead shrugged, lying back down next to Enjolras, who huffed another sigh. “You look uncomfortable,” he said mildly, pulling Grantaire toward him and letting him rest against his side. “There is no harm in what we are doing. It is merely practical.”
Grantaire snorted. “Practical,” he murmured, though he did not resist, instead resting his head against Enjolras shoulder, a cough racking his body and stemming any further protests. After a long moment, he confessed, “This was not the way I imagined warming your bed.”
Enjolras chuckled lightly, automatically stroking Grantaire’s sweat-dampened curls with gentle fingers. “To be fair, it is not you who warms my bed but I who warms yours,” he pointed out quietly.
“Then there is still hope that I may yet come to your bed and warm it properly,” Grantaire said, managing a tight grin at Enjolras, who rolled his eyes.
“Focus on getting better first, and then we shall see.”
Grantaire nodded slowly, curling in closer to Enjolras. “That’s not a no,” he murmured, his eyes already closing as he drifted off to sleep. “That’s not a no.”
When half a week later Enjolras was taken to his own bed by the ague, Grantaire barely restrained laughter as he lay next to Enjolras, his fingers now gently combing through Enjolras’s golden curls. “This does not count, you know,” Enjolras managed through chattering teeth.
“Of course not,” Grantaire assured him, drawing him close and pressing a gentle kiss to his sweat-dotted brow. “Of course not.”