Chapter Text
Courfeyrac and Combeferre huddled over Combeferre’s laptop, quietly discussing something Grantaire couldn’t hear. Jehan was holding down the edges of a banner for Feuilly while he painted — Bahorel was mocking them while they worked, but he wasn’t idle either. Everyone in the house seemed to be doing something.
Everyone except, evidently, for Enjolras.
Grantaire snorted.
“Do you think he realises that he couldn’t actually function without you all?” Grantaire asked, curling up in his chair.
Courfeyrac and Jehan looked up. Combeferre kept typing.
Grantaire carried on with a telling drawl. “I mean, this stuff aside—” He waved his hand. “He physically needs you in his daily life. He wouldn’t survive.”
Bahorel muttered: “Sounds familiar.” Feuilly smirked.
Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Fuck off, I can remember to eat on my own.”
Joly and Bossuet peered around the fireplace. They’d been working in the kitchen, but Grantaire had caught their attention.
“He’s busy,” Courfeyrac explained.
“He forgets he’s human,” Grantaire countered.
It spoke volumes that no one needed to say ‘his’ name. They’d all known exactly who Grantaire was referring to from the start.
Grantaire grunted and shrugged. “Maybe he isn’t. But he only eats and sleeps because Combeferre tells him to.”
Combeferre didn’t answer.
“Courfeyrac buys his clothes for fuck’s sake.”
Bahorel and Feuilly exchanged disbelieving looks.
Courfeyrac glanced at the floor. “It’s better than letting him dress himself.”
Bahorel stared. “Are you serious?”
But Grantaire wasn’t finished. “If he coughs, Joly’s got a lozenge. I’m actually positive he’s got a crush on Feuilly. Bossuet’s the only one in this whole fucking house who gets his sense of humour— although, maybe you just laugh at everything.” (He did, but was also fond of Enjolras’s sarcasm.) “And Jehan!”
Jehan’s eyes widened.
“Did you know,” Grantaire sat up in defiance of Combeferre’s sudden, severe glare. “That Jehan /cuts his hair/.” Combeferre covered his face with his hand.
“It looks good,” Jehan answered.
Bahorel folded his arms over his chest as Courfeyrac tried to intervene. “I don’t do anything for him,” he said.
Grantaire snorted. Twice. Bahorel raised an eyebrow.
“Does ‘destruction of government property’ ring any bells?”
Feuilly stifled a smirk. Bahorel’s expression remained neutral for a moment.
But then he deflated. It was a fair point. Grantaire looked smug.
“I’m just saying,” the cynic told them. “He /needs/ you guys. He literally needs you.”
There were mixed emotions at that. Joly and Bossuet smiled — they liked that they could help. The camaraderie they all shared meant a lot to them. But Feuilly and Jehan were more aware of how Grantaire hadn’t assigned himself any purpose.
And from Grantaire’s point of view — he had none. It would have been ridiculous to pretend. He was a cynic — he was the thorn in their sides and a tear in the fabric of their collective faith. He could drink with them. He could live with them.
But he couldn’t be one of them.
He knew that.
“And what about you, Grantaire?” Enjolras called from the balcony on the second floor. He’d heard most of what Grantaire had said. ““What do I need you for?”
Grantaire looked up. He smiled as he replied: “You don’t.”
Enjolras’s expression was stoic. “And as usual — you’re wrong.” He walked away.
Grantaire blinked and looked down.
No one else spoke.
Grantaire glanced at Bahorel, and then Courfeyrac, and then finally at Combeferre.
They all looked just as surprised as he did.
He lunged out of his chair.
Bossuet stepped out of the way as Grantaire sprinted for the spiral staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Enjolras had retreated into his room.
Grantaire walked right in. He very rarely went into Enjolras’s room — he had a habit of lingering on the threshold, but never crossing over it.
He marched in and stopped in the middle. Enjolras was fiddling with an mp3 player.
“What’s my purpose?” Grantaire demanded.
Enjolras didn’t look at him.
Grantaire was a little too drunk to let the matter drop. “Enjolras.”
Enjolras pursed his lips. But he did raise his eyes. He fixed them on Grantaire with a dark, potent stare. “You are my reminder.”
Grantaire’s gaze narrowed. “Of what?”
“Of what happened to Icarus.”