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A knocking on his door wakes Grantaire. His toes are cold for some reason and he grumbles, curling his knees toward his chest to pull them back under the blanket. The knocking comes again, this time accompanied by a voice calling his name. He flings the duvet off and runs a hand through his hair as he reaches for the doorknob.
“Grantaire--” Jehan's fist is raised to knock again. He drops his hand to his side and grins. “Hey, the dining hall is serving Thanksgiving food. Do you want to go get some?”
“Thanksgiving is bullshit.” He beckons Jehan in and yawns hugely, rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm.
“Yeah, I know it is.” Jehan twists a strand of hair round a finger, then points at him with the other hand. “But food is not bullshit. Turkey and stuffing and cranberries and all that good stuff, except without the extended family and holiday drama. Or the colonialism, sort of. Yes or yes?”
“What time is it?” Grantaire asks, digging through his rumpled sheets for his cell phone.
“Five forty-five. Why? Were you napping?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I'll go. Let me put pants on or something.” He turns away, trying to run his fingers through his hair and smooth out the sleep-tangled curls.
“Want me to leave?”
“Nah, I don't care.”
He strips off his pajamas and tugs on a pair of jeans and a sweater, shoving his feet into his shoes and rubbing his eyes again. He holds his hands out, palms up. “Lead the way.”
The dining hall is noisy enough to wake Grantaire up the rest of the way via sensory overload, but Jehan leads him up to the second floor and into a less loud corner. Grantaire smiles at him gratefully. They sit down and start eating, with Jehan exclaiming in delight that the cranberries have citrus and cloves in them. Grantaire saws slowly at his meat, overcome with thoughts of the upcoming holiday.
He'll be going home for Thanksgiving in a few days, which is nerve-wrackingly uncomfortable to think about. Charlotte will be there, and his parents, but also his grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and things. They don't know the true extent of everything that has happened over the last few years, but they know enough not to bring wine or any other alcohol to holidays, and not to ask a lot of questions. He still knows he'll have to endure an evening of glances and quickly changed conversation topics and the feeling of his own fingernails digging deep into his palms. The last time he really tried to participate in a family holiday, he ended up curled up on his bed, hating himself for going nowhere and having no future while everyone else his age seemed to be doing so much. He's spent most of his holidays since then by himself in Charlotte's apartment, playing video games or watching stupid movies and eating cereal. His parents have convinced him to come to the last couple of family gatherings this year, but being around everyone still makes him want to become one with the floor.
“Hello? Grantaire? Anyone home?”
Grantaire blinks and jerks back to the present. “What?”
Jehan raises his eyebrows and points to his left. “Mind if Enjolras sits with us?”
He glances up to find Enjolras standing beside him with a tray of food, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Oh, sure. Why have you got your backpack? Vacation starts today.”
Enjolras sits down and drops the bag at his feet, kicking it under his chair with a flick of his ankle. “We're having another meeting after Thanksgiving, and I need to work on it a little before I go home.”
“Overachiever, I see.”
Enjolras shrugs and stabs at his green beans. “Just thorough.”
Grantaire grins teasingly. “Doesn't mean you're not an overachiever.”
Enjolras lobs a roll at him; he snatches it out of the air and takes a bite. “Hey!”
“It's mine now. You gave up custody when it left your hand.”
Jehan nearly falls out of his seat with laughter when Grantaire sticks out a crumb-covered tongue at Enjolras' pout.
-------------
Despite Charlotte's attempt at a pep talk on the drive over, Grantaire spends most of Thanksgiving trying his hardest to tune out his family. He sits on the couch playing Words With Friends on his phone and takes far too many smoke breaks than are probably healthy. He concentrates on his food and then on entertaining his eight year old cousin with a game of back and forth doodles in his sketchbook. Most of the conversations manage to fly right by him, but there's no way for him to block out the looks he can feel being thrown his way and the way his extended family peers at him with something like confused pity and concerned interest. By the end of the night, his skin feels like it's crawling with the sensation of too many eyes sliding across him. He hates that his hair is swept back in a ponytail; he just wants to hide behind it like a curly brown curtain. He's grateful when it's time to go and he doesn't have to pretend to like it when everyone is hugging him goodbye. Charlotte drives him back to campus with a huge tupperware full of leftovers on his lap. He sits with his head against the cool glass, a sharp contrast to the warmth seeping into his jeans from the container of food.
They stop in the drop-off section in front of the school and Grantaire unbuckles his seatbelt with a relieved sigh. Before he gets out of the car, Charlotte leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “You did good back there. I know it's stressful.”
Grantaire wrinkles his nose and shudders. “I itch. I wish I didn't have to go.”
“I know. But you survived.” She grins as he opens the car door and steps outside. “Go sleep off the turkey. Say hi to your friends for me.”
“Will do. Thanks, Charlotte.”
She waves him away and he lifts the tupperware in his hands at her in lieu of a wave goodbye.
When he gets back to his room, he shoves the tupperware in his refrigerator and flops down on the bed to sleep. He's glad to know that most of his friends will be back tomorrow and he can distract himself from his own annoying Thanksgiving problems by listening to their stories. His body still itches. He briefly has the thought of showering the day away before exhaustion takes over and he passes out only halfway under the blankets.
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Saturday afternoon, everyone is back on campus and they're all crowded in the Musain on the cluster of couches and easy chairs. Grantaire is flopped on the beanbag chair by the sliding glass door to the patio outside, listening to the rain tap against the glass as everyone shares their most exciting stories from the holiday back home.
“Every time I go home I realize how much I love cooking for myself. My mom almost set the house on fire cooking the turkey. It's a wonder I survived my childhood.” Courfeyrac laughs and claps Marius on the back. “Marius here was able to save it, though. Who knew he could cook?”
“I just taught myself one summer, that's all.” Marius shrugs one shoulder shyly.
“Well, you saved the day.”
“Right, okay guys,” Enjolras flips open his binder and everyone quiets down. “I know finals are coming up and most of us are going to be concentrating on finish up our work and studying, but Courfeyrac and I figured Les Amis should do one more thing as a group before we all go home for winter break. We were thinking of having a few evenings volunteering at some of our local soup kitchens or homeless shelters before we all leave. I know it's a little cliched, but I think interacting with people might be a better and more personal way of giving out holiday kindness than handing out fliers.”
Grantaire resists the urge to groan aloud and resorts to dropping his head into his hands instead. There is so much wrong with this plan. There is so much wrong with what they think they know. There is so much wrong with all of this. He tugs at his hair in frustration.
“I was reading an article a month or so ago about how the ones around here are often understaffed, or at least in need of a few extra hands.” Courfeyrac interjects.
“I think it's a good plan,” Combeferre is nodding. “I think all of us are free enough in the evenings to do a few days of volunteering.”
Grantaire sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. He argues with Enjolras during a lot of their meetings, but this is different. This isn't just a random subject he's speaking his dissent against, or an argument he's nitpicking so Enjolras has to have stronger convictions. He doesn't want to let any of these memories resurface, doesn't want to mention this part of his past. He doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to talk about any of this, but they're all so wrong. He has to. He digs his nails into his palms and takes a deep breathe, squeezing his eyes shut even as his voice rings out across the excited group of people.
“That's not how this works.”
“What?” Enjolras' head has whipped around to look at him, tensed and hunched on the beanbag.
“You can't just volunteer for a couple of days at a soup kitchen and think you've solved some of the problem of homelessness. That's no better than those people that only ever volunteer around the holidays because they want to feel good about themselves.”
“What do you propose we do, then?”
It's Enjolras' usual response to his criticism, and normally he responds in much the same way, almost like a game. This time, though, it seems like everyone can see that this is different. They're all waiting expectantly for an explanation. Combeferre has his lips curled in against each other, attentive. Feuilly looks sympathetic and Marius only looks intrigued. Grantaire uncurls himself slightly and shrugs one shoulder, grimacing.
“Food access is only part of the issue. And honestly, it's about the only issue most people even think about. Homeless people aren't just there to be helped and pitied during the holidays. It's a year-round thing. The problem is long-term, so you need to think long-term. We don't want pity, we just want respect. People are homeless for a lot of reasons, but food isn't really one of the main reasons. It's a problem that comes with homelessness, not something that perpetuates it. It would be better for you to offer your skills. Since some of you are law students, you can volunteer to help hook people up with legal help, even if it's just explaining what all the legal gibberish means or helping them contact a lawyer or something. Go tutor some kids at the library or something, one of those free programs that anyone can sign up for. Follow-up programs that help people once they've got a place to stay. You don't just go from homelessness to knowing or remembering how to pay your bills and clean your house and keep a job and all that shit. Volunteer for that Big Brothers Big Sisters program. Even give them money even if they're going to spend it on drugs. At least they'll have agency. Hell, just listen and respect them and let them tell you what they need. If someone had listened to me back then and offered to help without sounding so fucking patronizing, I might have--”
He bites the inside of his cheek, hard. They're all staring at him. He looks away and shoves his pinky in his mouth to gnaw at the nail.
“That's important information, Grantaire. Thank you.” Enjolras turns back to the group, obviously trying to hide his surprise at the outburst that was unusual even for him. Grantaire uncurls his fist. There are thin lines of blood where his index and middle fingers met his skin. “Why don't we take those suggestions to heart. We can still work at the soup kitchen, but after we get back, why don't we work on making some long-term goals to help alleviate the problems he's just told us about. We can do some individual research before the volunteer nights and then reconvene as a group. Sound good?”
There are nods all around but Grantaire just feels like the air around him is being sucked away. He stands shakily, unlocking the sliding glass door and stepping out onto the wet patio, fumbling a cigarette into his mouth. The rush of nicotine when he finally wins his battle with the wind calms his frazzled nerves. He wishes he hadn't said anything. He wishes he'd just let them pretend they were doing good instead of exposing that part of himself to all these people. He runs his hands through his hair and stares out across the street at the people folded into their jackets against the rain. When he turns around, everyone is packing up and standing to leave. Jehan shoots him a concerned glance through the glass, and he shrugs in response. It's out there. There's nothing he can do to stop them wondering and guessing and making assumptions, incorrect or not.
His phone vibrates a few hours later, back in his room. U okay? Jehan has texted him, Enjolras and Courf and I are going to that student improv show in an hour. Want to come? They're usually pretty funny.
i'll be fine. just no questions please. He answers. i'll go if there's food.
They throw candy into the audience most nights.
done.
The little on-campus pizza place/cafe is packed, the small wooden stage usually reserved for casual open mic nights now has chairs set up in front of it with people buzzing to grab a seat. Grantaire shoves his beanie in his pocket and looks around for his friends until he catches sight of Jehan waving at him from a chair in the far corner of the room.
“We thought maybe your bed had eaten you,” Courfeyrac announces by way of greeting when Grantaire finally makes his way to them.
“No, I couldn't find my phone.”
“It's chronic with you, isn't it?” Jehan teases.
“That's one thing my bed definitely eats, yeah. Socks and, of course, myself being two others.”
Courfeyrac snorts, then hits him repeatedly on the thigh in excitement as the improv troupe hops onto the stage. Grantaire finds himself actually participating, shouting out suggestions when the actors ask and laughing at the ridiculous games and scenes. As promised, they do throw candy. Grantaire gets tossed two Smarties, one of which he gives to Jehan, and a mini packet of M&Ms. He catches Enjolras staring at him a couple of times and ignores it, trying his best not to think of his verbal slip-up earlier in the day.
He parts with the group, citing exhaustion and a final to study for, when Courfeyrac slings his arms around Enjolras and Jehan's shoulders and suggests they all go out for a drink. Bars are not something he's willing to test his willpower on just yet.
He does study for his art history final for a little while, smokes out the window, then doodles in his sketchbook for a time without thinking. He finds himself drawing places and faces he knew back when he was living half on the streets and half in Leroy's shitty excuse for an apartment. Leroy's face appears in the scratch of his pencil. So does a sketched-out memory of the dead end view from his bed, all the crumpled McDonald's bags and knocked over empty bottles and dirty sheets. A broken into parking meter and vending machine bloom beside each other. He sketches out one of Montparnasse's eyes and part of his nose before he has to stop. It's exhausting to remember all of this. Sometimes it feels like it was decades ago, sometimes he feels like he just knocked on his parents' front door yesterday. He's really glad he refused the trip to the bar and went home. Even though he feels fine mood-wise, the back of his throat aches.
---------
Study period for Les Amis only half exists. Monday and Tuesday before finals are reserved for studying, but the weekend before? That's socializing and party time. Since Combeferre and Enjolras live off-campus, Courfeyrac has commandeered their house and convinced them to host the holiday-and-end-of-semester party. Aware of the mix of religions (and non-religiousness) within the group, the house is decorated with a cacophony of garlands and paper decorations and things for everything from Christmas to Kwanzaa to Yule. At some point during the night, Courfeyrac admits that he mostly just loves shopping and decorating for holidays, no matter what they are.
Courfeyrac, Jehan, Musichetta, Eponine, and Bossuet are up and dancing to Courfeyrac's pop music playlist. Everyone else is lounging in the chairs and couches in the living room, watching the enthusiastic bodies swinging back and forth. Somehow, Grantaire feels more comfortable around alcohol here at his friends' house. This isn't a place specifically for drinking, and he's not expected to be drinking even if other people have a bottle in hand. Feuilly is sober, and Enjolras has been nursing the same glass of white wine all night. It's warm on the sofa with Joly's feet in his lap. He barely feels tempted tonight.
“Up, up, up!” Musichetta appears in front of him, beckoning him to join the dancing group. He relents, taking her hands and allowing her to swing him around to the beat of the music.
“I don't dance, you know.” He tells her.
“I can tell!” She wiggles her hips at him. “Loosen up a little!”
Bossuet catches his eye over her shoulder and does the robot for a moment before winking playfully at him. Grantaire rolls his eyes and dances a little longer, still awkward and stiff, before all the music and moving and people start to get overwhelming and he ducks away, wandering into the kitchen for a soda.
He grabs his leather jacket from the pile on the kitchen counter and finds his way outside with his bottle of Dr. Pepper to light a cigarette and sit on the top step of the back porch even though it's cold and wet under his butt. The silence is nice, his breath visible even without the smoke in the light spilling out from the windows. He balances his chin on his fist and smokes.
“Hey--”
“Oh shit!” Grantaire jumps at the unexpected sound, dropping his cigarette in the mud at the bottom of the steps. “Fuck, Enjolras, you startled me.”
“Sorry, I didn't mean--”
“It's okay. Guess I'm just jumpy.”
“Sorry about your cigarette.”
Grantaire shrugs, pulling the pack out of his jacket pocket and lighting a fresh one. “I've got more,” he replies with the cigarette clamped between his lips as he fights to light it with cold fingers.
“Can I...?” Enjolras gestures to the space beside him on the step. Grantaire waves his hand in a 'whatever you want' gesture. Enjolras sits beside him, placing both hands self-consciously on his knees, one finger tapping against his patella. “Listen, I guess I want to apologize for the other day. I was just thinking of a final volunteer thing for the group to do. I didn't even consider the long-term consequences of the problem of homelessness. Thank you for bringing that up. And thanks for coming with us to the soup kitchens last week anyway.”
“I mean, what else was I going to do? Say no and refuse to go out of protest to your ignorance?”
“You could have.”
Grantaire snorts. “That would have been hypocritical of me on so many levels.”
They lapse into silence. Grantaire leans back on his elbows to stare up at the sky and blows smoke rings towards the muffled splotch of moon that glows through the cloud cover. Enjolras sighs through his nose twice in the span of a couple of minutes. The third time, Grantaire sits back up and rolls his eyes.
“Spit it out.”
Enjolras hesitates, tapping his knees. “You said 'we' the other day. Like you knew from experience.”
“I do.” He had a feeling someone would ask about this. Of course it's Enjolras. Nosy, caring, well-meaning Enjolras.
“Oh. I didn't know.”
“None of you do. Did.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it's my fault for letting it slip.” He lights another cigarette. Two and a half in fifteen minutes. He'd better watch it or he'll become a chronic chain smoker. Enjolras looks like he wants to ask another question, so Grantaire decides to beat him to it. He sighs, watching the trail of smoke disappear into the night. “I started drinking when I was thirteen. Got incredibly fucking addicted and left home after I graduated high school and just started living on the street and feeding the addiction. My next drink was all that mattered. I ended up staying with this junkie-- I never got into that shit-- but his buddies kicked me out after a while because I was too fucked up to help them get money or gear. I lived completely on the streets for like six months before I went back home and detoxed. I was living out there for a year, give or take. Took me a year after that to really kick the worst of it, but my sister helped. I've been pretty much clean for three years now, I guess.”
There's a long silence, then, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For telling me that even though you didn't have to. For being so strong.”
“I'm not--”
“You went to the volunteer nights even though they probably reminded you of some awful things. You're here with all this--drinking--around and you're a recovered alcoholic.”
Grantaire grimaces. “Recovering. No one's ever recovered.”
“Still. That's pretty amazing.”
He wants to laugh in Enjolras' face, but he doesn't. Everyone says he's made so much progress. He has no idea what progress looks like. It always hurts. He always wants it. Three years without letting it win, maybe that's sort of impressive, if he doesn't count that shiver of want that goes through him every time he thinks about a drink, or sees a bottle, or smells it on someone, or feels like shit all day, or wakes up feeling not so great even if it passes, or passes a 7/11 or-- the list could go on.
He shrugs. “Thanks, I guess.”
Enjolras stands and offers a hand. “It's cold out here. Let's go inside.”
Grantaire lets himself be helped up.
“Listen--” Enjolras stops him with one foot inside the warmth of the house, reaching out to squeeze his arm. “I apologize for any time I've been harsh with you for arguing with my ideas. I struggle with constructive criticism, but I think it's something I need. I do appreciate it, because it keeps me on my toes. I consider you a good friend, and I just wanted to let you know that if you need anything, even if it's just someone to talk to, I'm here for you. And I mean that honestly.”
“I-- thank you, Enjolras.” Enjolras pulls the door open wide and they step into the warm cocoon of sound and light. Grantaire is still blinking bewilderedly at Enjolras' shoulder blades. The show of support was unexpected. Maybe things can change. Maybe it's not such a bad thing for them to know.
Musichetta pulls him back into the dance as soon as she sees him. He's still not the best dancer, but he's willing to give it a shot. He can feel Enjolras' eyes on him while they hop around the room, but this time, it feels like something gentle and warm has settled on him, and nothing itches, not even his throat.