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Grantaire breathes unsteadily, tugging at the collar of his t-shirt like it’s too tight. He presses his forehead hard into the worn leather of his couch, cursing himself for starting, for stopping, and for everything in between. When he raises his head again, there are drops of perspiration where his skin had met the fabric. He swipes his fingertips through the mark on the leather and then drags them through his sopping hair, before looking down at himself. Long rectangular water stains draw down the center of his shirt.
God, he’s sweating through everything.
He groans, barely moving from the couch, lifting his head to catch the time on the stove – 11:32.
Still Wednesday. That’s barely pathetic, he tries to tell himself, lying in a puddle of his own fever, unable to lift onto his feet, waiting for Eponine to come by and help him re-find his fucking will to live.
At 11:36, he hears the sound of his doormat being kicked aside, his spare key rattling across the floor. (‘Under the mat is such an obvious place,’ Musichetta had frowned at him. ‘Or is it so obvious, it’s not obvious?’ he had countered.) Sebastien shoots from his place on the ground beside Grantaire, his claws scratching the old hardwood as he sprints towards the door.
With a great breath inward, Grantaire lifts his head, ready to greet the saucy brunette. Instead, his eyes land on an awkward blonde, with Sebastien sniffing around his ankles, and a head of messy curls that for Grantaire so clearly indicates he’s been up doing homework and dragging his hands through it all night. For a split second, his body forgoes suffering for surprise; he jumps to his feet from the couch. Groaning with immediate regret, he leans with a hip back against the couch, his vision dancing in and out of blackness.
‘Where’s Eponine?’ he means to ask, but all that comes out is an inquisitive, “’Ponine?”
“Gavroche is late on an assignment for school. But she said you needed somebody,” Enjolras says carefully. He eyes the weak Grantaire, his heaving chest. “Is it okay if I help you?” he asks.
Grantaire swallows. His hand tics nervously at the edge of his t-shirt. He wants to take it off, and not in the way that he’d always wanted to take it off around Enjolras.
You know what? He wants to say, I’m feeling so much better and I can handle this and you can go home and not see me mix my own sweat and vomit. But he knows what comes next – the hallucinations – and those are something that he never wants to be alone with again.
“Nobody else was answering?” Grantaire asks, lamely, like an apology that it has ended up being him.
“Oh, yeah, she said she’d tried,” Enjolras says, chewing on the inside of his lip. Then he looks down at his phone, his eyes darting across the screen as he toys with it.
Grantaire’s hand tightens around the couch; he can’t believe that dickhead’s method of helping is ignoring him.
“Instructions,” he explains sheepishly, and Grantaire feels a little guilty for his previous thought. Enjolras sticks his tongue in his cheek and Grantaire, thank God, is too dizzy to react to it. Enjolras looks up at him, his eyes sweeping over his person, before finally he takes an actual helpful step towards Grantaire, “Why don’t you get in the shower and I’ll fix up the bed? Will the shower be an issue?”
Grantaire sighs under his breath, as Enjolras waits patiently – and clueless – for the man’s answer. “Really, Apollo, walking is an issue.”
Enjolras flinches, but doesn’t mention the nickname. “Oh.”
“But if you help me get in the tub, I can tough it on the floor.” I’m not hitting on you, Grantaire means to say, so he turns and starts to wobble towards the bathroom, pretending the floor doesn’t really look like it’s coming up to meet him. Barely a second passes before Enjolras has ducked underneath Grantaire’s arm, helping him forward with a strong arm around his waist, Sebastien trailing closely behind them.
Grantaire’s knees threaten to buckle. He shoves himself upwards, a hand clamping tight over Enjolras’ at his waist.
Enjolras clears his throat, “Where’s your cat?”
“Somewhere in the building, probably,” Grantaire grunts, “She’s not much for cuddling lately.”
Enjolras flips the light switch up and the bulbs flicker on. Sebastien runs past the two into the cramped bathroom, shoving himself between the toilet and the towel rack. Enjolras maneuvers Grantaire towards the tub, pretending they aren’t so close to each other and Grantaire’s sweat isn’t wetting Enjolras’ own t-shirt.
“Alright,” Enjolras grunts, pulling the shower curtain back as Grantaire shifts his weight, stepping into the tub one heavy foot at a time.
It isn’t until Grantaire is actually standing in the tub, finally letting go of Enjolras, that they realize he is still clothed down to the socks.
“Missed a step,” Grantaire tries to laugh it off, but it comes out in a pathetic sort of wheeze. He leans against the tiles, his lids heavy. But at least the freezing tiles feel good against his temple. “What do we do now?”
“You can hand me your clothes,” Enjolras suggests quietly.
“Uh.”
“Here.”
Enjolras pulls the curtain, only until he can’t see Grantaire anymore, only a step away from grabbing him if gravity and his head finally decided to crumble him. Grantaire stares at the silhouette of Enjolras against the vinyl, a delirious hand coming up to trace the outline of Enjolras’ arm with his index finger.
He shakes his head and snaps to, peeling off his soaked shirt with a wince. He bunches the fabric in his hand, thinking he should just toss it into the corner like he normally does, but Enjolras’ hand appears suddenly. He slumps his shoulders and hands him the shirt.
The pants are a bigger struggle. He has to slide down into the ceramic and shimmy them off. He tries not to think about how Enjolras turns away when he can see his face from behind the curtain.
“Thanks,” he croaks, when Enjolras steps up to take his bottoms as well.
Enjolras gives him a thin-lipped smile, “I’ll set the bed and get you something else to wear.”
Grantaire nods and leans forward, turning the water on as Enjolras traipses towards his bedroom. Grantaire is glad that he can attribute his reddened cheeks to the withdrawal.
As the water runs down his body, he starts to calm. Every time this happens, he’s surprised at how much the shower helps. It might be temporary, but he’s used to temporary. He lets the water hit him, lets it rinse off the salt from the sweat. He might be able to fall asleep in this tub, if only he wasn’t so scared what would happen, and if only he wasn’t so aware of who was out in this apartment.
He moves the vinyl curtains aside with one hand, looking past the open door of his bathroom. The sounds of a faucet buzz faintly from down the hall. He raises his head, quirking an eyebrow.
“Are you washing my dishes?” Grantaire calls weakly.
“No,” Enjolras says from the kitchen, “You need water and you have no cups. I’m washing your cups.”
Enjolras comes wandering back into the bathroom, averting his gaze not-subtly enough for Grantaire to notice. He bites back a scoff at the sight – really, if you’re that disgusted – but shuts off the water and reaches for a towel anyways. He dries off and takes the boxers from Enjolras’ hands. They’re the Starry Night print ones he had gotten as a present from Combeferre – nice choice.
“Shirt? Sweatpants?” Enjolras raises them in his hand.
He can already feel the temperature fluctuating around him. It’s a tricky thing to predict, but he’s pretty sure if he were to put on anything more than the boxers, he would spontaneously combust.
“No,” he shakes his head, and reaches for Enjolras’ shoulder. He feels the man tense under the unexpected touch, but all he needs is to step out of the shower, and he pulls his hand away again. “Mind?”
“Sorry.”
Enjolras moves behind the door, facing out into the hall, as Grantaire lowers himself to sit on the edge of the tub. The headache flares up again and he lets out a low groan, pressing his temple back against the tiles. Enjolras crosses his arms, sputtering out a quick, “You okay?”
“Mm,” Grantaire waves a hand, before finally bending down to pull the boxers on.
Definitely not how he first wanted to be naked around Enjolras.
The dizziness and pain varies. Grantaire hates how easy it is to realize what’s happening and then to suddenly be unable to even speak.
But Enjolras takes the lack of movement as a sign anyways, turning to look at Grantaire. He stares for just a while, his expression unreadable, until Grantaire reaches out an arm, like a child waiting to be picked up. Amusement seeps into Enjolras’ brow. He steps forward and laces his arm around Grantaire’s waist again, hoisting the man to his feet. His fingertips press into Grantaire’s skin as he maneuvers them towards his bedroom, with Sebastien padding quickly behind.
Enjolras has set the bed perfectly for him. On one side, he’s laid down the thinnest blanket he could find in the apartment, in case the cold wins over. Down the middle and on the opposite side, towels are laid out for him to sleep on. Impressively, he found the three of them that aren’t currently on the floor of Grantaire’s bathroom, fluffy and green, all embroidered with an ‘R,’ surrounded by wreaths of wildflowers – Jehan’s handiwork.
“I can’t believe you haven’t used these,” Enjolras says, as he helps Grantaire lower himself onto the bed.
“They’re works of art,” he croaks, but doesn’t put up a fight, “Not for sweat.”
“They are tonight,” Enjolras grimaces as Grantaire’s heavy feet come up to meet the mattress.
Enjolras hands him one of the glasses of water. He chugs it all down in one go and hands it right back to him with a quiet nod. He tugs one of the towels open and throws it over his already dampening torso.
“Alright?” Enjolras asks, his hand coming up to smooth the towel out as he sinks into Grantaire’s armchair, angled towards the bed.
"Mm.”
Sebastien leaps onto the bed, pressing his nose into Grantaire’s hands as he raises them tiredly. The dog pushes his head against Grantaire’s arm and whines.
“Hey, buddy,” Enjolras loops a gentle finger around the mutt’s collar, “Let’s give R some room, okay? Why don’t you come sit here with me?”
The dog seems to understand Enjolras, pulling back from his owner with a gruff snort. He settles at Enjolras’ feet, planting his butt dutifully by the armchair as he looks on with perked ears.
“Good boy,” Enjolras says under his breath. His hand comes hesitantly up to pet between Sebastien’s ears.
Even through the sweating and his erratic vision, Grantaire still manages to catch most of the scene. His hand creeps out from beneath the towel, reaching out towards the two. Sebastien leans his snout forward, licking Grantaire’s fingers, pushing his nose into his palm.
Sebastien’s distraction settles Grantaire’s tensed shoulders. A small smile curves up the side of Enjolras’ lips.
Sleep, or some evil masquerading as it, already drags at his bones. But he has one more thing to say. He snaps his heavy lids open, looking towards the concerned Enjolras with darting eyes.
“Sorry… for the…” he trails off before he gets to say ‘shit that’s probably about to happen next.’
“That’s okay,” Enjolras says anyways, and it practically kills Grantaire in the seconds he’s trying to figure out just what he thinks he’s referring to.
But he realizes something else, too. His hand has slipped from Sebastien’s face. It rests on Enjolras’ knee.
Neither of them makes any effort to move it.
–
Grantaire takes a sudden gasp of air, lifting his heavy head as high as he is able. The towel slips from his shoulder and he turns into the pillow, trying to shake himself of the dream that’s searing into his brain. The room wavers, the sounds are both too quiet and too loud, and there is nothing natural about trying to breathe.
“Grantaire?” Enjolras’ voice is full of alarm, tinged with sleep. He moves forward, sitting on Grantaire’s night stand. “I’m here,” he says.
“It’s so hard,” Grantaire chokes out, suddenly hyperventilating, suddenly thrusting his hands against his forehead. The aggressive movements agitate Sebastien, waking from his spot at Enjolras’ feet. He plants two paws on the bed, whining at his owner, but not coming any closer.
“I know,” Enjolras grasps Grantaire’s hands firmly, pulling them away, and Grantaire lets his head fall limply before him. “I know,” he repeats, “But I know you can do it.”
“No, you” – heave – “were” – heave – “right,” and then, “Icantdoit.”
To be fair to Enjolras, he didn’t know Grantaire could hear. He was stressed from all the studying and exams, and so when Courfeyrac mentioned Grantaire’s intentions to quit, there was an immediate snort. ‘He is incapable,’ he’d said.
To be fair to Grantaire, Enjolras was being an asshole. But still, Grantaire hated proving him right, especially in this regard.
Enjolras seems to know what he’s talking about, because he twists his lip and snaps, “I was right about nothing.”
Nothing has quite calmed a fit like that sentence leaving Enjolras’ mouth. Grantaire heaves for a few seconds longer, closing his eyes and breathing. In and out. In and out.
He cracks one eye tiredly, squinting at the man holding his hands, “Can I get that in writing?”
Enjolras snorts and Grantaire can almost detect a sort of fondness in the quiet sound, “I suppose the increase in sass is a good sign.” He squeezes Grantaire’s hands, so softly it’s barely detectable, and releases them. Sebastien calms too, when he sees Grantaire’s hands drift back down towards the covers and Enjolras return to the chair. Sebastien backs away, settling on the floor again as Enjolras brings a thumb up to his mouth to trace his own lips.
There’s no way Grantaire can watch that, so he looks away, just in time for Enjolras to mutter, from behind his hand, “I believe in you.”
He jerks his head back towards Enjolras. Enjolras’ eyes move from his lap to Grantaire’s face. There’s something almost timid in the way that he does it but Grantaire can’t accept that thought for longer than a second. He draws in his parted lips and swallows.
Grantaire manages to mumble, “That’s because you’re the patron saint of lost causes.”
“Don’t be an asshole right now,” Enjolras says, in a tone unlike any of the times he’s said the same words to Grantaire before. “I mean it.”
The low light reflects in Enjolras’ eyes. Grantaire stares at them a second longer, and then turns way, with the meekest nod. “I’m trying,” he says.
They stay like that for a moment, neither speaking. The only sounds in the room are Sebastien’s claws against the hardwood as he adjusts and readjusts to the floor again.
Enjolras reaches forward and grabs a face towel from the nightstand. “May I?” he asks, and Grantaire shrugs. His eyes drop away as Enjolras leans forward, dabbing the sweat from Grantaire’s face.
He almost forgot for a second that that was happening. He almost forgot for a second what had woken him, or snapped him out of the stupor. He certainly didn’t feel as though he had slept, but like he had been running a marathon all night.
At that opportune moment, Enjolras asks, “What are the dreams about?”
Grantaire looks up at Enjolras, now just a silhouette, with a halo of light surrounding his head of curls. He opens his mouth, but finds his tongue short of quips. They just don’t belong in that room, not right now.
“Sometimes they’re not even dreams,” Grantaire relents, “But they’re about nothing, usually. Giraffes. Butterflies.”
He’s not telling the whole truth. Sometimes it’s true – they make no sense. No sense, and they’re half real, like he’s still in his bedroom, but the ceiling is staining with paint, or sometimes bubbles, overflowing from the upper floors.
But sometimes… He’s standing over them like a ghost, out at their goddamn protests, hovering above them as they yell ‘do this’ or ‘don’t do that.’ And suddenly, bloodshed. Pain and screaming and one by one, they’re being taken away from him, from each other. Torn apart, made to bleed, left for dead, cold and alone. It always comes back to it, if he isn’t fortunate enough to get woken up or to claw himself out on his own. He can’t do anything to help them, even though they’re screaming for him, and the blood reaches his feet in a river of red.
He watches Enjolras’ hand fall, the small towel clutched tightly in his fist. He glances upwards and sees the look on Enjolras’ face. Oh shit – he’s been talking outloud.
Grantaire drops his eyes and freezes. He doesn’t know what to say at this point, and he’s not sure he can muster up anything very clever in his state.
Enjolras is the one to speak first, so quietly, Grantaire barely hears it. “Can I tell you something?”
He looks back up at Enjolras. He’s almost frozen too, his curls drooping over his eyes, his mouth unsure about whatever words that are coming next. But Enjolras takes the silence as a ‘yes.’
“I was the first one that Eponine called,” he says finally.
Grantaire’s eyes widen. Wait, no, what did he say? What the hell does that mean?
“I’m sure she thought it’d be a long shot, she sounded surprise enough when I agreed. But I… no, I wanted to,” Enjolras admits, “I wanted to.”
Wanted to. He never wants to anything with Grantaire, he makes that clear enough around him.
“Why?” Grantaire asks, and thanks to the confusion, it comes out much more confrontational than he means.
Enjolras looks at him with widened eyes, shrinking slightly back at the tone. “I would do this for any of my friends.”
“Not for me.”
“Especially you! But you never asked,” Enjolras protests immediately, “I thought you didn’t want me to.”
Especially you. Grantaire’s response is delayed considerably by the way those words are suddenly ringing around him, dancing through his ears, thrashing against his chest.
“Well, I didn’t,” Grantaire eventually sputters, “But not for the reasons you’re probably thinking of. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
“Like what?” Enjolras asks, his tone softening. He tucks the damp towel back onto the nightstand and laces his hands together in front of him. “Honest?”
Grantaire blinks, “Apollo, I’m sat here half-naked, swimming in my own sweat, on the verge of vomiting, muttering about hallucinations.”
But Enjolras doesn’t elaborate. He just stares sadly at Grantaire, before he exhales into the smallest curve of a smile. “Apollo,” Enjolras repeats, like it’s the punch line of the lamest joke he’s ever heard.
Grantaire surveys him carefully for a second. He makes no signs of needing to say anymore, at least not for a while. And if he had been telling the truth, well, Grantaire figures he owes him some truth, too.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“This isn’t for you.”
He’s not sure why he expects Enjolras to take some sort of offense. Maybe he’s doing it on purpose. He’s not used to seeing Enjolras so reserved, so cryptic, and especially not so focused on him. Maybe he’s trying to get a rise out of Enjolras to keep him from embarrassing himself.
But Enjolras looks up at him and says, sincere as anything, “Good.”
Grantaire stares and stares and stares. Enjolras just leans onto his elbow, his thumb tracing his lips again. Groaning, Grantaire turns back into the bed, pulling his towel over him again, like it will defend him against his own stupidity.
Fuck it, I’m delirious. He can blame it on that if he wants.
“After this,” Grantaire mumbles, half into his pillow clutched in his hand, half to the man sitting across from him, “I might ask you out.”
He keeps his eyes shut tight as they can, despite the way it’s currently making the dizziness much, much worse.
Then something shoots up his arm, some kind of thunder, because Enjolras’ fingers are tracing the back of his hand. His fingertips are following Grantaire’s veins, just reaching up to his wrist, before they draw back down to his knuckles. Grantaire’s lips part with a shiver.
He cracks one eye, just barely making out the young man’s small tired smile in the dim light of the bedroom.
“I might say yes,” he says.
–
Eponine and Combeferre are the ones that find them in the morning, after finding Grantaire’s cat waiting patiently on the welcome mat. Sebastien runs to meet them, immediately bouncing back towards the bedroom, as though he’s excited to show them to the two.
Enjolras is slumped uncomfortably over the arm of the plush chair, his long legs curled up beneath him. Grantaire is tangled in a mess of green towels and grey sheets, naked save for his boxers.
And Grantaire’s hand is tucked safely in Enjolras’.