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Grantaire has one of Enjolras' hands in his, and is manipulating the fingers one by one, bending them and folding them across one another gently as he leans his head on Enjolras' shoulder. The TV show they're watching is a dull hum a few feet away. Grantaire can feel Enjolras' lips against the top of his head.
“You know, I have some vacation time saved up at work.” Enjolras murmurs into his hair, “I was thinking we could go somewhere fun for a little while. Maybe go be kids again and go to Disneyland.”
“You were a kid once?” Grantaire teases, “I thought you were always full of fire and rebellion.”
“I was terrible as a child, to be fair.” Grantaire's seen photos. Freckled nose and a defiant light in his eyes even when posing for a school picture. It was Courfeyrac's fault; he still had all the yearbooks.
“I knew it. Are you sure you want to take a vacation right now? I thought you had some big events coming up.”
“It's okay. There's plenty of people to take care of them. I want to spend some time together, just you and me.”
There's a warm feeling in his chest, and Grantaire shifts closer to press a kiss against Enjolras' shoulder. Enjolras threads their fingers together and they stare distantly at the television, neither of them really taking in the soft volume of the show. Ideas of a vacation away and some time together preoccupy their internal vision.
Grantaire's cell phone rings, and he sits up and digs it out of his pocket, checking the caller ID before answering. "Hi, ma."
"Grantaire?" Her voice is soft and strange, and he frowns. "Is Enjolras with you?"
"Yeah? He's sitting right next to me. Why?"
Enjolras peers at him, at the phone held up to his ear, and takes his free hand, winding their fingers together. Grantaire smiles at him, just a little glance and quirk of the lips, before his gaze returns to middle distance as he listens to his mother's distorted breaths over the line.
"It-it's Charlotte." He feels his heart come loose and shoot up into his throat, and he thinks he might vomit it up. "I don't-- She-- She was driving home from work last night and...and a drunk driver ran a light and hit her as she was going through an intersection."
"Is she okay?" he whispers into the phone, feeling Enjolras' fingers tighten around his.
"No," his mother replies in a similar whisper, voice hoarse with tears she'd obviously been trying to hold back. "No, Grantaire. She didn't make it. They hit the driver's side and her car is so little--"
He doesn't hear the rest. The phone clatters to the floor. Enjolras bends down and retrieves it, hanging up despite his mother's voice still drifting from the speaker. Everything is muffled and strange and there's nothing inside his head but a loud static and her name and he doesn't know what that even means anymore.
"Grantaire?"
Grantaire hardly seems to hear him. Instead, he shifts until he's curled up on the couch, head in Enjolras' lap, one hand clutching the knee of Enjolras' jeans.
Grantaire's first emotional reaction once Enjolras has guided his distant, shocked body to their bed is not to cry, but to laugh with a frantic hysteria that frightens them both. He buries his face in his hands and if he couldn't hear the terrible manic giggles, Enjolras would think that his shaking shoulders were from tears.
“What fucking irony!” Grantaire runs claw-shaped hands limply over his face and then turns and punches the pillow beside him. He feels like his nerves are numb, like he's drunk-dreaming, a horrible, sweating nightmare. “A fucking drunk driver. Fuck. You know that could have been me? I could have done that to her, or to someone like her. I could still.”
Enjolras kneels on the bed, reaching for his lover's curled back. “Grantaire, please don't talk like that--”
“She's dead, Enjolras!” This time, when Grantaire wheels around to face him, there are tears in his eyes and he's breathing hard. “She's not supposed to be dead. This isn't fair. She promised she wouldn't leave me. What will I do without her?”
Enjolras finds that he has no answer. Instead, he pulls Grantaire against his chest and lays them both down. He tangles his fingers in the hairs at the back of Grantaire's neck, pressing his lips against the top of his head when he feels tears wet his shoulder. Neither man sleeps that night.
Grantaire shows up to Charlotte's memorial service clutching Enjolras' hand so hard both their knuckles are striped white and red. He'd tried to help with its preparation as much as he could, but most of the time he'd hardly left the couch, and just looking at his camera made him think of her.
The Amis find him one by one and hug him and apologize and all he can do is nod and shake and try to hold in whatever it is that's making his stomach feel like shattered glass. Jehan presses their foreheads together and whispers what he recognizes as Emily Dickinson, and he can only drop his head down on Jehan's shoulder and pull him closer.
Eventually they make it through the groups of mourners gathered in solemn clumps to Grantaire's parents at the back of the building. His mother clutches him against her and he fists the back of her dress and finally lets himself go, great sobs heaving across his shoulders as he tries to muffle himself against her shoulder. He doesn't realize his legs have given out until they're on their knees. He doesn't want to be making a scene, he shouldn't be doing this. He reigns himself in, somehow, accepting the tissue box that Enjolras has produced seemingly from nowhere. He and his mother wipe their faces and he grabs her hand.
“I'm so sorry, Mom. God, I just--”
“I know. I'm sorry too. I don't understand.”
“I don't know. I don't know.”
The memorial is touching, and everyone seems to have something lovely to say about Charlotte. Both Grantaire's parents speak at length about her light and her ambition and her beauty and her utter kindness. Her friends speak, Grantaire's grandparents, their cousins, a few of her teachers.
“Do you want to say something, Grantaire?” Enjolras whispers, squeezing his hand.
Grantaire shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again. “Yeah, but-- I can't. Not right now. I just-- I can't.”
“It's okay. You don't have to.”
“Enjolras, I don't know if I can do this,” Grantaire runs his hand through his hair and sniffles unattractively. His stomach hurts. It feels like his windpipe has holes in it and all the air is whistling out. “I don't know if I can get through this without-- I don't know if I can get through this.”
“You can. I promise. And I'm here for you. I'm going to be by your side for as long as you need me.”
Grantaire can't make it to the funeral. He wishes he could, for her, but getting out of bed feels utterly impossible. So does sleeping. Distantly, he hears Enjolras call his mother to let her know, hears the relief in his voice when he thanks her for understanding. He hears the shuffling of things being rearranged on the kitchen counter. Enjolras comes into the bedroom and kneels in front of him, sliding his iPod into Grantaire's hand and kissing him gently on the forehead.
“Do you want some tea?”
He wants a drink. He wants some vodka, or about thirty beers, he'll even take some shitty wine, just to drown all of this. He wants a drink, he wants a drink, he wants a drink, and his throat itches with it and his eyes burn with it but that is not an option, not after all of this.
Grantaire isn't sure what he wants besides what he can't have, so he nods anyway. What Enjolras brings him is chamomile and he surprises himself by drinking it. Enjolras puts on a pair of sweatpants and joins him in bed.
“You don't have to--”
“Grantaire, I want to. I want to help you and I want to be here for you and I promised, didn't I?” He rubs the top of Grantaire's earlobe that pokes out from under his blankets. “I love you, I want to do this.”
Grantaire rolls over and curls up against Enjolras' body, his head buried against his the blonde's stomach. Enjolras slides his fingers into Grantaire's hair to massage his scalp gently for a long time, until he feels Grantaire's tense body relax and his breathing even out from the shaking aborted sobs it had been for hours.
It's fucking hard, but he knows he has to. The idea of a fucking dirt plot, of her body under the ground, of Charlotte anywhere but out here in the air, grinning, it makes him feel sick. He can't decide if he wants to bolt, run away and walk forever or drive until he runs out of gas, or curl up in bed or on the floor and never move again. All of it paralyzes him. But he has to. He has to see her.
Grass hasn't grown yet, but there are already flowers propped up against her headstone. Someone has placed a teddy bear the same colour as her hair against one of the bouquets. A few tea candles are scattered about, damp with dew. Enjolras hangs back while Grantaire steps forward and kneels in the dark dirt, placing his own wildflower bouquet against the cold stone. He leans his forehead against the letters of her name.
“I fucking hate this. Talking to a rock like I'm talking to you. This isn't fair. You're going to tell me to shut the hell up, but it really should have been me instead. You don't deserve it. Listen, I wanted-- I wanted you to know that you're the best thing that ever happened in my life. You've helped me through so much and never got mad or frustrated and you never threatened to leave and you never stopped supporting me. You saw me vomit my guts out and you stood there while I screamed and cried at you and you made me shower and you cleaned my arms and you helped me get into school and you bought me a camera and-- This list could go on and on. You're the most incredible sister in the world. And I know I have to fight it for you. I can't let it take me, not with how you died. I promise, Charlotte. I promise I'm going to try my hardest to get through this and stay clean. For you. For me too, I guess. You saved me, Charlotte. You really did, and you kept on saving me. I'm sorry I couldn't say it at the memorial. They just wouldn't have understood. They wouldn't have gotten it. Well, Enjolras would have, but no one else. I love you, Charlotte. I miss you so much.”
He can't believe he's still got enough liquid in him to cry again, but somehow there are tears sliding down his cheeks and his nose is dripping uncomfortably but just like every time since that phone call, now that he's started he can't stop. He hears Enjolras' footsteps and leans into the embrace that warms him from behind.
“I promised her,” he explains through the hitches in his breath, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I promised her I'll try as hard as I can.”
“And I'll be there. I promise her that, too.” Enjolras has tears on his own cheeks.
Grantaire breaks from Enjolras' hold to lean forward and kiss the stone, just above her name. It's cold and hard but somehow it helps. He tries to scrub at his face but only finds himself streaking tears where there weren't any before. “Can we go home?”
Enjolras nods, standing up and holding out a hand, which Grantaire accepts. They walk back to the care with their fingers entwined, salt tracks on their faces. Enjolras doesn't let go the entire drive home, only kissing each of Grantaire's knuckles when he feels his hands begin to shake.