Chapter Text
Grantaire has been cutting himself since he was sixteen. Because the fact of the matter is that he’s a piece of shit-he’s always known that-so why not treat his body like the shit it is?
He’s stopped for a while, after meeting the Amis, because with how touchy they are they couldn’t not come across the scars. Couldn’t not think of him differently if they knew.
But then he started indulging himself in the wonder that is Enjolras. Enjolras, whose words only ever made any real sense when he was yelling at Grantaire and telling him what a useless piece of shit he is.
And Grantaire? Grantaire thrives off it. Every What you think doesn’t matter and Don’t bother coming and You’re useless is stored away for later, when he can appreciate the words with a blade dragging across his skin.
So he wears jeans and sweatshirts when he’s with the Amis and keeps provoking Enjolras until-
“Get out.”
“What?” And Grantaire’s head perks up from where he’s seated at the bar, nursing a beer. He hadn’t been looking at Enjolras while they argued, hadn’t seen the point. But now he looks. And Enjolras is fuming. His skin is bright red and Grantaire is sure smoke would be coming out of his ears if that were even possible. And if the strained look on Combeferre face hadn’t been enough to warn him that he was in trouble, the hand now gripping his collar was.
“I told you to leave,”Enjolras grits through his teeth, and stops to regain his composure. Grantaire closes his eyes for a brief moment to commit the moment to memory.
And then the hand is gone and Enjolras is back sitting between a mildly horrified Marius and a frazzled Combeferre.
“But-” And now it’s Grantaire’s turn to stop himself from flipping his shit. Because what the fuck? This isn’t how it works. Enjolras calls Grantaire worthless, calls him useless and then returns to being slightly annoyed and Grantaire goes home afterwards and finds a clear stop to cut. And this- This is not following the script. “Why?”
“You have no place being here. You’re a cynic, you don’t believe in a word we say, do you? Your one purpose is to add a pessimistic twist to everything I say, except- No. You serve no purpose,”Enjolras says quietly, which makes it so much worse. Grantaire wishes he’d explode again. Wishes he’d grab and poke and spit and not just sit there. “You’re worthless.”
And Grantaire realizes he’s pushed too far. That Enjolras means every single thing he’s said. He realizes there will be no more meetings, and getting Enjolras to scream and raise his voice is no longer something he’ll be receiving.
And he realizes one last thing: He has nothing left to lose.
So Grantaire hops off his stool, walks past a nearly-in-tears Jehan and a shaken Courfeyrac and stops at the door. He stares down at his Converse for a moment before sighing and rolling up his sleeves.
Grantaire turns slowly and bares his arms to Enjolras. He watches the expression of Enjolras’s face shift from anger to confusion, to something Grantaire can’t place.
“I know,”Grantaire says, and lowers his gaze. “I really do.”
And he leaves.
He ignores Courf’s shouting in the distance, and walks the three miles to his shithole of a flat, content. He doesn’t bother locking his door and when he pulls out his razor, doesn’t bother lowering the blinds to his bedroom.
Grantaire cuts because of Enjolras, but this time is… different. He cuts a trail across his torso, and the his arm and then his legs and he ignores all the vibrations coming from his phone because he just can’t.
He only stops when he head starts to hurt and he realizes he’s crying and his hands are shaking.
So he goes and does what he always does. He takes an icy shower and pretends it doesn’t hurt to breathe. He let the blood run down his thighs and down the drain. Grantaire gets out, and doesn’t bother putting on anything other than a pair of briefs before he climbs into bed and waits for it to blow over.
But the thing is- it doesn’t blow over. Grantaire wakes up to seventeen missed calls from the Amis and thirty texts. He curses thinking about what his phone bill is going to look like.
Grantaire looks about the bedroom, and is very thankful that he doesn’t have a flatmate. Because this? This is a fucking disaster. There are blood stains on the carpet and broken razors. The empty bottles of beer strewn about the room don’t do much to help the image, either.
He climbs out of bed and thanks his lucky stars he doesn’t have work at the museum today. His entire body hurts and looks horrible. Grantaire honestly doesn’t want to look in the mirror, but he supposes he kind of has to be get to his toothbrush.
And yeah, he was right, he looks like shit. The bags under his eyes are nearly twice as big as they normally are, which is saying something. His hair lies in flat curls from all the sweat and he pulls it into a top knot before brushing his teeth.
Knowing he can’t lose any more pride than he already has, he checks his phone.
Jehan :p
Grantaire?
Jehan :p
Grantaire are you alright?
Jehan :p
Please answer your phone, we’re all worried about you.
There are several more from him along the same lines, so Grantaire switches to all the ones from Joly. They’re the same thing, only in a panicky format that is so Joly it hurts. He doesn’t bother ready Ferre or Courf’s texts, and only really realizes what he’s done when he look at Enjolras’s text.
Apollo
If you don’t answer your phone by the end of the night I am coming over. I know you don’t have work, Feuilly told me; Don’t try avoiding me. I’ll be there at ten.
And, well, shit, because it’s 9:47 and Grantaire throws on some jeans and a t-shirt/sweater combo. He scrambles to throw his razors in the cabinet under his sink just in case Enjolras comes in his room. He thrown the bottles scattered across his flat in the trash bin he should really empty. He sprays the Febreze Eponine picked up for him frantically throughout the flat to cover the smell of stale booze and blood, and it isn’t working. By the time Enjolras gets there’s Grantaire is halfway to a panic attack.
The rasp at the door stops him in his tracks. He debates getting the door, and realizes Enjolras knows he wouldn’t be anywhere else.
He opens the door to a slumped over Enjolras, who, for once in his life, looks like absolute shit. His eyes are bloodshot and there are heavy bags under his eyes. Grantaire doesn’t need to ask to know he hasn’t slept all night.
“Hi,”Grantaire manages, and goddamn it, can he not fuck something up for once? Because Enjolras literally grimaced the moment he opened his mouth.
“Hi.” Enjolras stops for a moment, staring intently at the door with a face of pure confusion. Grantaire isn’t sure what to do with that. Enjolras is… Enjolras is very sure of himself. Everything he says is precise. Knowing. Hell, the text he sent Grantaire was more sure of itself than Grantaire’s ever been in his life. But the Enjolras standing outside his door looks like he wants to run away.
“I’m assuming you want to come in,”Grantaire reaffirms. Enjolras refuses to meet his glance but nods anyway, following Grantaire in when he opens the door.