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Grantaire isn’t really sure what he’s doing there. He knows that this is a bad environment, a stressful environment, and that he’s so fresh out of treatment that he shouldn’t be putting himself here in the first place - it’s far too tempting and he’s setting himself up for failure. Part of him wonders if he’s agreed to come because he knows this, and that part of him wants him to mess up. Things were so easy when he didn’t have control, when things were happening and he was just reacting and he didn’t have to consider things. But things slip, and when you’re only reacting, only thinking one step at a time, never seeing further, it gets easier and easier to trip until you don’t realise you have until the floor is flying at you and there is nothing you can do to stop it.
Grantaire knows what hitting the bottom feels like. He knows that it isn’t worth it, no matter what.
So why did he come?
He felt like he was missing out, is the short of it. The parties didn’t stop happening because he wasn’t there – social lives had moved on, covered over the place that he used to occupy so perfectly like he had never been there to begin with, and the thought of that twisted to the core of his being. It was like he had never even existed, how easily things turned without him, and what did it mean? What did it matter, that he was there at all, when things could go on exactly the same and no one would think about him or miss him at all?
And he had hated that. He had come to reinstate, to show people he was still there, that he was the life and soul of the party, that things were better with him. To show that everything was more fun when he was there, to show them what a fun person he was that they would never consider moving on without him there again.
He didn’t know how he was going to do that.
Usually, he got drunk, and it fixed his constant anxiety about looking dumb in front of people. It quieted that never-ending stream of thoughts that he was fucking up everything so entirely that he wouldn’t have friends in the morning and the thoughts that if he could just try harder, maybe friends and relationships wouldn’t be such a hardship and maybe people would like him more and he wouldn’t fright so much and he wouldn’t need to drink to get people to find him funny or interesting. And when that was all quieted down and tucked away and he couldn’t properly feel his arms and his words slurred, he could do the things that made people laugh, and he would dance so stupidly and he would talk about things that he would always have been too frightened to say and he would talk to everyone and hug them and no one ever seemed angry until he thought about it in the cold hard sober light of the next morning, and then he would be sick and he would shiver and he would feel his skin crawling and he would reach for the bottle again to quieten that so he could feel nothing but the numbness of impulsivity, of only thinking of things as they were happening and it was so, so easy again.
But he can’t do that anymore.
It wasn’t fun, in the end. It was to begin with. But the more he drank, the high didn’t stay, and instead of quieting down the thoughts, things got louder, and the things that got louder got meaner. He would try to include himself into conversations, and the words would stick to his tongue, and he would see the look on people’s faces. Even through the thick curtain he was covering things with, that old monster’s face would peak through, and he would see it and it was too terrible for words. He would try to hide it again but it would keep coming back, pulling back the curtain with its terrible claws. Grantaire couldn’t hide from it. It always came back, growing and growing until he could see nothing else.
He doesn’t remember the time after hitting the bottom. He only remembers the moment he hit it, that sickening crack, and then nothing.
But he knows he can’t go back there.
So there he is, at Courfeyrac’s party, lemonade in the glass he’s holding instead of the usual gin. He is sober now. Sober for three months, although that’s not something he can tell anybody. No one thinks being sober is an achievement at nineteen years old. No one knows - or at least, if they do know about it, they’ve avoided bringing it up.
He thought that perhaps drinking was the worst of it, that it was the Bad Thing at the core of his soul and that by cutting it out things would be better, but that wasn’t the case. It would always catch him by surprise – the way his mood would slide down, how he would lose his voice in the middle of his sentence and couldn’t call it back. It’s almost as bad as the drunkenness, the way the energy leaches from him and he can’t seem to hear, and eventually the noise comes again, the voice coming back twice as hard and loud and mean. It’s the same fucking routine every single time, and he is still unable to spot it when it comes into play. It’s only after, as he’s sitting against the wall, his head feeling like it’s filled with syrup, when the world around him is distorted and shimmering as though through a mirage, that he realises it’s happened again.
And by then, there is nothing to do but feel it. And he feels it deeply, as it aches through his body, and all he can do is hope that something will happen to alleviate it. But until then, he is powerless, letting everything flow through him like a stream, like he can feel the emotions and the thoughts and the voice coursing through him, wearing him down like the sides of a river.
There is something awful about feeling that exhaustion in a room full of people who are all enjoying themselves. These feelings which are meant to be felt privately, in a room on your own, where you can lie with your hands on your chest, feeling your breath, and you can think about how small your life is and how inconsequential.
Feeling that in a room full of people who are having a good time is worse. It felt even more alone. It felt like he was being shown the very image of what his life should have been, what being young was meant to be, if only he hadn’t been the way that he was.
Grantaire considers everything, all that he is feeling, and he realises that this might just be a Bad Day, and that it won’t always be like this.
But Bad Days feel so all-consuming that this reassurance doesn’t really mean anything.
It’s when the music around him starts to distort from a song he knows into a deep, twisting awful noise, and the words around him being spoken twist into something unrecognisable, that Grantaire decides perhaps he should go somewhere to be alone.
He knows where Courfeyrac’s room is, he knows it from the meetings all throughout high school, the hang-out sessions he was invited to, usually by the extension of being close to Joly more than anything else, and he lets himself into his room, shutting the door silently behind him, shutting out some of the noise.
He switches the light on, dimming it slightly. Courfeyrac’s room is the same as he remembers it, or rather, the same as he’s seen on his Instagram. He recognises the mirror in the corner, knows the wall behind it, the clothing rack. The rainbow flag and the trans flag on the wall proudly mounted above his bed.
The picture board is different, slightly. New pictures. Pictures of him and Combeferre as a couple – that’s new – pictures of him lying in a hospital bed, the rest of the group around him, him giving a weak peace sign. It’s with a hot stab in his chest Grantaire realises that he missed that, Courfeyrac’s top surgery.
He knew he’d missed that, but it’s seeing the evidence of it that hurts him.
And another picture. Enjolras. With sunglasses on his head, hair pulled back with curls tumbling over his shoulder, and a whistle in his mouth, his fist in the air. He looks so beautiful, so cool, but that’s not new, what’s new is that Grantaire missed Pride. Missed one of the group’s busiest events of the year, the event everyone looks forward to, the one that produces the best memories.
He’s missed everything.
And he hates it, he hates it so much, because it’s all his fault.
He felt the tears spike for a moment, and then they were gone. There wasn’t any point.
Instead he sat down with his back to the bed, and he shuts his eyes and he focuses on his breath, trying to shift all of those feels, stir them out so he could feel calm again. Could feel stable.
He should go home. He shouldn’t have come here in the first place.
He thought that maybe he could say something – to Joly, maybe, or Bossuet. He hadn’t told anybody, and he wanted to.
But they were so happy and he knew he couldn’t interrupt that, because he’d been nothing but a hassle to them, and he couldn’t do that again, he had to change, he had to be responsible.
The door opens, and everything seems to happen very slowly and very quickly all at once.
The door opens.
The sound pours in.
Enjolras is standing there.
He’s wearing a yellow shirt tucked into his jeans.
His hand is clutched to his face and he is holding his mouth and he is crying.
He is crying.
“Oh fuck me,” he shouts, his voice warbling strangely.
The door closes.
Grantaire is alone.
He blinks for a moment, evaluating the previous events.
Enjolras was crying.
Grantaire gets up, padding over to the door.
It happened so fast he’s still confused, but he hears the bathroom door slam shut. He wonders what he’s meant to do. He’s seen Enjolras cry before, usually angry tears, but always, always, Combeferre or someone else has been there, he’s never been alone to deal with this. He doesn’t know what there is to do.
He knocks on the door, leaning close to shout over the music. “Enjolras?”
“Fuck. Off.” His voice is hitching. That doesn’t sound good.
Grantaire feels his heart pull. He wants to fix it, or say something to help, but he doesn’t know how. “Should I get somebody?”
“No. Leave me alone.”
He stands there. He doesn’t know what to do, he’s never been in this position before. Well, Enjolras has snapped at him before – that’s a usual occurrence for them. Enjolras always snaps at him, and Grantaire still follows him. But he isn’t sure what to do when things have been switched, when Enjolras is the turbulent one now. “I don’t really want to leave. If you’re feeling upset, I don’t want you to be by yourself.” He doesn’t know if it’s the right thing, all he knows is when he asks to be left alone, he doesn’t really want to be. That it might feel okay but sometimes other people being there makes it slightly more bearable. “I know that you probably don’t want it to be me, so I…I’ll go find Combeferre, or…Courfeyrac might be free, but he seemed drunk so I don’t know if he’ll be alright.”
He had turned to go down the stairs, bracing himself for the return into the thick of it, when he hears the door pop open. He turns back, and the light from the bathroom streaking out across the dark hallway. “You can come in,” Enjolras called, after a moment when Grantaire hadn’t moved.
It was with a held breath, that Grantaire pushed the door open and went in.
Enjolras was sat with his back to the bathtub, almost mimicking the way Grantaire had been sat in the bedroom, and he was wiping at his face madly. Despite all of the wiping, his face was blotched and the tears were still rolling down his cheeks.
Grantaire leaned over to tear off a wad of toilet paper to hand to him, before sitting down on the shut lid of the toilet.
“Thank you,” Enjolras mumbled, wiping his face with the paper.
Grantaire waited, not certain what he was going to say. Enjolras sighed, tugging the scrunchie out of his hair where it was already hanging loosely.
“I didn’t think that you’d be there,” he said, twisting it in his hands. Already he was sniffing, wiping away the tears, covering things over.
Grantaire recognised that move. “It’s okay,” he said.
Enjolras glanced up at him for a moment, before pulling and twisting the scrunchie in his hands again. “I feel like a bit of an idiot,” he mumbled.
“Well, I…I’m sorry that I saw that.” He was sorry he was there now. Grantaire wondered if he shouldn’t have just stayed put, because the air between the two of them was cold like it usually was. He wished he knew what to say to Enjolras. He wanted to be able to say the right thing, say something that would make Enjolras look at him with something other than dismay. He wanted to say something to make him feel better, but he didn’t want to say something to make him angry. That’s all he seemed to be able to do, and he didn’t want to do it now, when Enjolras was clearly already so upset.
“I’d thought you’d be downstairs, you’re usually with Bossuet and Joly, aren’t you?” The scrunchie was still being pulled and twisted furiously, so furiously that Grantaire was worried it was going to snap.
“I wanted some peace and quiet,” he said.
“Not drinking? I thought you usually did.”
Well, this is awkward, Grantaire thought. Enjolras wasn’t crying anymore, but he was keeping his eyes on the floor, his tone of voice was emptier than usual, his hands working quickly in a way they never usually did. He was clearly still upset, and Grantaire just wanted to see him happy again.
“I’m sober now,” he tells him, extending part of the truth, testing the waters.
“I can see that,” Enjolras murmured.
“No, I mean, I’m not drinking anymore. I’ve been sober for three months.”
Enjolras looks up then, his eyes fierce and testing. Grantaire has always found his eyes incredible, the intensity, the way he looks like he is trying to see everything about you, and is determined to find something. At first, he found it frightening, to be seen so completely, but he began to find it reassuring as well, even endearing.
He tries very hard to not find it endearing.
When Enjolras looks at him now, he can see the question on his face, the uncertainty. It’s so rare that Enjolras looks and isn’t sure what he sees, and Grantaire feels a small amount of satisfaction that he must be irritating him.
He doesn’t want to tell him.
“I think it’ll be more comfortable if we go into Courf’s room. You’ll get a numb bum if you sit on the floor.”
“I’m fine,” Enjolras says, setting his jaw stubbornly again.
“No, you’re going to be really stiff and it’s going to hurt. Come on,” Grantaire says, hoping he sounds somewhat authoritative.
He gets up, moving back to the bedroom, standing for a moment or two. He didn’t hear anything, and he wondered with a sinking heart whether he was just making things worse, but then Enjolras came back in, his hand placed on the small of his back.
“It hurt getting up, didn’t it?” Grantaire asks.
“Shut up,” Enjolras mutters, but he smiles a bit. Or rather, his scowl eases.
It’s a win.
Enjolras sits down on the bed, and Grantaire stands, unsure what to do. There’s going to be silence next, and he doesn’t know what to say. The question still hangs between them, unanswered, why are you sober? And it’s not one he wants to answer.
He sees Courfeyrac’s guitar in the corner, and he swoops towards it before the silence can descend.
“He hasn’t played this in a while, huh?” he asks, putting the strap around his neck. He plucks at the strings, hearing them out of tune and he starts to tune.
“I think he just started to play it because he met a guitar player who was cute,” Enjolras replies. Grantaire smiles.
“That’s Courfeyrac, isn’t it? Always after a boy.”
“He’s got ’ferre now, he’s growing up,” Enjolras says, suddenly scowling again, twisting his hands in the blanket.
That got a reaction, Grantaire thinks absently.
He starts to strum on the guitar, starting to feel more comfortable. This is something he can do, something he’s good at, something that’s easy.
He starts to play something.
Enjolras looks at him, pursing his lips in the way he does when he wants to look annoyed, but he isn’t really. Grantaire knows it – the expression he looks for. It’s one he’s missed, the one that he loves.
“Oh? Is this not what you want to hear?”
Enjolras smiles despite himself. “It’s lame.”
“Is it? Do you not want to hear Wonderwall? Are you not appreciating my talent?” he goads.
Enjolras reaches out to take the guitar from him, but Grantaire jumps out of the way. “You’ve said it’s easy for you – I know this isn’t you trying.”
He remembers that. “Wanna sing it?”
“No, I don’t.”
“But you know the lyrics, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Go on, then.”
“No.”
“Go on.”
“No, it’s a –”
“Today is gunna be the day That they’re gunna throw it back to you.”
“Grantaire, seriously why are you-”
He strums the guitar harder, cutting Enjolras off. “By now you should’ve somehow Realised what you gotta do.”
“Stop doing that.”
“I don’t believe that anybody Feels the way I do, about you now.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“You’re singing it wrong on purpose, I know you are.”
“I’m not, those are the lyrics.”
“You’re singing it too fast; you’re speeding it up, you know you are.”
“How does it go then?”
“I’m not going to sing it.”
Grantaire stops strumming. “Singing is good, sometimes. Helps get things out.”
Enjolras stops smiling, and Grantaire feels his stomach drop. What if he’s messed up? What if Enjolras is mad now, for real, and he’s ruined everything and he’s made things worse?
He swallows the anxiety, and he picks something else, something faster, more complex. “You know this one?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. Only the chorus though.”
“Just sing it. When we get there. Just sing it.”
“I don’t think I’m any good-”
“Doesn’t matter. Not the point. Just sing it loud.” Grantaire takes a breath, focussing on the chords. “Almost Heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River, Life is old there, older than the trees, Younger than the mountains, blowing like the breeze.”
“Country roads, take me home,” Enjolras’s voice joins in, quiet, and self-conscious. Grantaire beams at him, raising his own voice louder, encouraging him. “To the place I belong.” Enjolras smiles back despite himself, raising his voice to match.
“West Virginia, Mountain mama, Take me home, Country roads.”
Grantaire keeps playing, looking down. “Feels nice to sing, doesn’t it?”
“Your voice is nice,” Enjolras says.
Grantaire continues with the next verse, ignoring the compliment, getting through it because he wants to get back to the chorus to hear Enjolras sing again.
They get through the whole song, raising their voices each chorus, until the last words where they’re practically shouting it at each other.
Grantaire gets to the end of the song, and he feels the panic creep in again because he doesn’t know what to say next, what to do next, he can’t think of another song.
“That song is lame,” Enjolras says, filling the silence. Grantaire is so relieved he can’t help but let out a tense breath.
“It’s a fun song. And it’s a good song to shout. Sometimes when I’m upset, I’ll just put it on and I’ll scream the lyrics to it and it’ll make me feel better. It’s cathartic. I thought it might help get some stuff out.” He puts the guitar back in the corner, and he feels exposed and stupid standing there again.
Enjolras is watching him, the intensity gone. Grantaire didn’t know it could go out. Enjolras crosses his legs, and moves to tie his hair back up. “Why did you stop drinking?”
“Well, I wasn’t a fun drunk, was I?” Grantaire asks.
They both know what he’s referring to.
The going away party, before everybody left to go to university, when Grantaire got upset and he ranted and he cried and brought the whole party to a standstill.
Enjolras doesn’t say anything, and the half-truth stands in the air for so long Grantaire can’t stand it.
“I had to quit uni.”
He hadn’t meant to say that.
“What?”
Enjolras obviously hadn’t expected to hear that, either. And his eyes are back on him, the searchlights so intense so bright and Grantaire can feel himself floundering.
He’s never said it before, out loud. Never had to explain it.
He pulls his hair back, “You see this?” he asks, pointing to the scar.
Enjolras nods wordlessly.
“I got that from passing out in my bathroom and hitting my head on the sink after being sick. I had to go to hospital.”
“Oh.”
“That was the…the catalyst. But I wasn’t turning up to lectures, or seeing anyone. It was the cleaning lady who found me, because no one else was going to check. And the university made me go home.”
“When was this?”
“January.”
“January?”
Grantaire focuses on the cuffs of his sweatshirt, picking at them. “I couldn’t say anything. And I got home and I tried to make things better, but they didn’t…and in the end, I went somewhere, to get sober.”
“When was that?”
“April.”
“April,” Enjolras repeats weakly.
“And I got out a few weeks ago.” It was a long time before Grantaire got the courage to look up.
Enjolras was staring past him at the wall, and Grantaire felt a pull that he shouldn’t have said anything, that now he couldn’t even look him in the eye.
“We – I – should have said something earlier. I knew that you had a problem.”
“No. Don’t do that. It’s my fault, it’s my responsibility.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Grantaire shrugs. “I knew people would come and visit, and I didn’t want that. I wasn’t at my – withdrawal was really hard, and I wasn’t exactly brilliant before then. I didn’t want people to see that.” And it turns out no one wanted to see that either, he thought. “No one asked, anyway.”
Enjolras snaps back to look at him. “We thought you were – we thought you had better friends. When you didn’t reply, or you didn’t come to meetings. We thought you were doing really well.”
Grantaire fights the impulse to laugh at that, because he knows it isn’t funny.
“It wasn’t really the place for me, at university. I don’t think I’m ready for it yet.”
“I don’t think so either,” Enjolras says.
That stops Grantaire.
“What?”
The room is starting to feel like an echo chamber.
Enjolras’s hand starts to tap on the blankets again, and he’s quiet for so long that Grantaire comes to sit on the other side of the bed, not wanting to get too close just in case.
“I hate it. And I thought I wouldn’t, but it’s so different and I can’t get used to it. I tried. For the whole year, I tried, but it’s so different and it’s bad. The only reason my grades aren’t bad is because I study when I don’t know what else to do.”
“And you didn’t talk to anyone?” He knows he’s only echoing. He wishes he had something better to say.
“I can’t. When Combeferre is out at university having a good time because he doesn’t have to look after me, and when Courfeyrac is with people who really understand theatre in a way that I never could, and everyone was having a great time at university and I was the only one who wasn’t. I couldn’t ruin that for them, or bring them down and – don’t look at me like that. It isn’t the same thing. You were – you were really ill.”
“You were having a shitty time.”
“You were ill,” he says again. “It isn’t the same. I wish you’d said something – we could have – everyone wants what’s best for you, you know that.”
Grantaire shrugs, looking down at the blanket between them. It’s pink with yellow flowers on it, and Enjolras is gripping it for dear life.
“I didn’t want to be a burden. I know I was difficult to deal with before, and I still need to make amends, because I know I wound you up.”
“I wasn’t angry, I was worried.”
Grantaire looks up, not sure what to say.
“I just wanted you to make better choices for yourself because I was worried that you were going to – that something was going to happen. And I didn’t want that to happen because I care about you and I didn’t want you to be hurt.”
“I bet you’re furious that I ended up cracking my skull on the corner of a sink, then.”
“I’m glad you’re okay now. And I’m really sad that you went through that.”
Silence.
“Is that why you’re sad? Feeling like you’re being left behind?” Grantaire asks, feeling like taking the risk.
“Everyone’s so happy, I want that for them, but I’m scared of them being happy without me. Does that make me sound terrible?”
“If it does, it makes me terrible too. We can be terrible together.”
Enjolras looks up at him, and he releases his death hold grip on the blanket. “I wanted you to be doing well, because you deserve it so much. You’ve always been brilliant, so good at everything, and I was worried when you started to really bury it because there is so much in you that’s special.”
“Do you feel like I’m wasting it, not going to uni?”
Enjolras smiles, shaking his head. “I’ve seen more of the person I adore in the last twenty minutes, so if being out of education is what’s doing that, then no.”
Grantaire cocks his head, and he can feel himself getting nervous so he tries to cover it in the only way he knows how. “Adore? Does someone have a crush?” he asks.
Enjolras bites his lip and looks away.
Oh. No.
The temperature plunges when the seconds go by and Enjolras doesn’t say anything, and Grantaire begins to feel panic, because he didn’t mean to make things awkward, and he’s probably made an accusation so terrible Enjolras can’t even grace him with a response. He’s ruining things the way he usually does.
Enjolras glances at him. “Is that not good?”
“Is what not – wait, what?”
Grantaire moves back.
Enjolras moves back.
The two of them look at each other.
“I’m sorry I didn’t-”
“If it’s not okay then I-”
They both stop.
“What did you say?” Grantaire asks, when he can bear the silence no longer.
“I was saying that if it’s not okay or if it’s strange for you then we don’t have to talk about it anymore.”
“No, before then.”
Enjolras blinks at him. “You asked if I had a crush, and I – I do. On you.”
Grantaire braces himself against Courfeyrac’s bookshelf, almost knocking over a collection of CDs in the process.
“I’m sorry that it’s –”
“It’s not – it’s not not okay,” Grantaire says eventually. “It’s okay. It’s very welcomed, in fact, because you – I’ve thought you were amazing since you ran into me in gym class like seven years ago and knocked me the fuck out if I’m being completely honest so this is, twelve year old me is in shock, well, nineteen year old me is as well, it’s just…is this a joke?” he asks, suddenly stopping cold in his tracks.
“No, it isn’t,” Enjolras says, suddenly standing very straight.
“Oh. Alright.” He doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s alright?”
“Yeah, it’s… are you sure? You haven’t been drinking have you?”
“I’m not joking, I do really like you, I’ve just – I would have said something earlier but when you were drinking you weren’t – I didn’t know if I did, still.”
That stings. Grantaire knows it’s the truth, that he wasn’t the nicest, the easiest, but it still stings.
“But you did?”
“But I did.”
“Okay.” He puts a hand to his chest; he can feel his heart thumping through his ribs. It feels almost like a panic attack and he’s not sure if he likes it entirely.
“Are you alright?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can I come closer?”
“If you want to.”
Enjolras comes a few steps closer, and then he stops. “I really don’t know what I’m doing, I’ve never done this before.”
“Done what?”
“Told someone that I like them?”
“I’ve – I’ve done it as a mistake when I was drunk so, not really, either.”
Enjolras stands at a distance, and he yanks the scrunchie out of his hair, twisting it in his hands of that, and it’s the sight of it that spurs Grantaire on.
“Okay, alright, alright,” he murmurs, putting his hands on Enjolras’s shoulders, and kissing him.
It’s the first time he’s kissed someone sober.
It’s the first time he’s kissed anyone he really liked.
It’s the first time that Enjolras has kissed anybody either.
This was not what Grantaire thought was going to happen, when he came here.
Enjolras kisses him back, and it’s soft. Grantaire wants something more, but he’s frightened of it, frightened of pushing harder, frightened of asking for more when he’s already been given so much.
He keeps kissing him, trying to relax into it, but he’s so scared he’s going to mess it up, that Enjolras won’t like it, that he’ll make him change his mind.
Enjolras puts his hand on the side of Grantaire’s face, and he lets those thoughts go for a moment.
He pulls away.
“Is that okay?” he asks. He hates to ask, he hates to keep repeating himself, but he doesn’t want to screw things up, he doesn’t want that.
“It was more than okay.”
“Do you still feel sad?”
“Do you?”
Grantaire thinks about it. “A little bit. But it’s different.”
Enjolras smiles, and Grantaire can’t help but smile back.
They hear music, louder now, bursting through the door, and both turn to look.
“Courfeyrac is doing karaoke I think,” Enjolras says.
“Fergalicious is his song, yeah.”
On cue, they can hear him howling just above the music.
“Want to go and watch?” Enjolras asks, offering his hand out.
“Will we talk about this again?” Grantaire asks. He can’t walk out of this room and pretend this never happened.
“We can stay and talk about it now, if you prefer.”
Grantaire thought about it. “I miss our friends, I’ve missed so much.”
“We’ll see them, and they’ll want to hear how you’ve been.”
Grantaire takes his hand. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, how he will feel later, but right now it feels okay. Better than okay. He feels good.