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Everything hurts and he feels like he’s dying. Nothing hurts and he thinks he may be flying.
Grantaire had never meant for it to go this far. At first, it was nothing, a small indulgence after a rough day. It became a way to cope. It became a crutch. He couldn’t go a day without it. He needed it to wake up in the morning, to get through the day. He found that he could not live without it.
He had the drinking, yes, but the cocaine, the cocaine was what truly helped. Grantaire didn’t feel anymore, he couldn’t feel anymore. He wasn’t happy unless he was chasing that beautiful moment of clarity, that dually painful and painless high. Sober, he could barely live with himself, with the crippling depression that had become his life. He didn’t know what to do with himself when he was sober. With the help of the cocaine, he could live again, or, at least, what felt like living, even if it was just for a little while.
His friends, of course, knew. And he knew that they knew. They had to know. He had changed, he could see it himself. He saw it in the way Combeferre looked at him, a mix of worry and pity. He saw it in the way that they all tensed when he walked in the room. He saw it in the way that Joly was positioned next to Courfeyrac, caught in the act of whispering something in his ear as he glanced over at Grantaire. He saw it in Jehan’s movements, the way he would lay his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. He saw it in Enjolras’s eyes, the expression of disgust and concern that lived within them. He saw it when he looked in the mirror and could no longer stand what he saw there.
Grantaire had tried, halfheartedly, to stop. None of his attempts had been successful. He knew quitting cold turkey wasn’t the right way to go about this, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually talk to anyone else about the elephant in the room. And so he had tried, disposing of his remaining supplies, and waiting. He had succumbed within hours and he hated himself for it.
He couldn’t paint anymore. What had once been a part of him was no longer there. The drive, the desire to create beauty out of nothing, had disappeared and had been replaced with lines of powder and the occasional needle. He was nothing. He was merely taking up space.
He had done things he was not proud of in order to continue his habit. There had been more back alleyways than he cared to remember; more nameless, faceless men than he wanted to think about; more reasons on a long list of why exactly he was headed straight to Hell.
The top reason on that list being, of course, his love and adoration of Enjolras. Through everything, this was the one thing he had retained, the one thing that had not yet left him, and, if possible, this made him hate himself even more. The fact that he still wanted him, that he desired this god, monster though he was, sickened him.
Now more than ever, Grantaire understood why exactly Enjolras hated him. He was a poor excuse of a human being. The one and only thing he was good at was gone, his inability to paint or even simply sketch frustrating him beyond belief, until he found refuge in a line of white powder. He was worthless. He was good for absolutely nothing.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the cocaine. Maybe it was his broken heart that made him call Enjolras that night. Grantaire didn’t know what he would have done if Enjolras himself had picked up the phone; the voicemail was more than nerve-wracking on its own.
He hadn’t planned out what he would say; it was more of a spur-of-the-moment, God-I-hope-I-won’t-regret-this idea more than anything else. When he heard Enjolras’s voice in his ear, calmly asking him to leave a message, something inside him broke. Nothing, he realized, would ever be enough. No matter how much he drank, no matter how much cocaine found a way into his system, it would never be enough.
Grantaire couldn’t seem to string even a few words together. He was trembling violently, almost dropping his phone. The first clear word that came out of his mouth that was not a form of garbled profanity was Enjolras’s name.
“…fuck…umm…Enjolras, I…shit, this was a spectacularly bad idea, I should just hang up now, but Christ, I can’t seem to…and I don’t know what I’d have done if you’d actually picked up, but, I don’t know, I guess…you should probably just delete this, because I…I am really, really not sober at the moment, and I know you hate me, but…Enjolras. Please. Will you listen to me? Even if it’s just for a moment, on the off chance that you haven’t deleted this as soon as you saw my name pop up on your screen or heard my voice on the message…I just…I wanted to tell you…I needed to tell you…Fuck. It doesn’t matter, anyway. I’m going to just hang up, and we can pretend…no. I’m done. I’m done with pretending, and I’m done with you and your fucking pity because I don’t need it. I don’t fucking need your pity, nor do I want it. That’s not what I want from you. But what I want from you…what I want from you is the one thing you’ll never be able to give me, and it’s my own fucking fault, because I will never, never be good enough. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m such a fuck-up, I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment, I’m sorry you hate me. I’m sorry that I made you hate me. I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done and all the things that I’m going to do. And I honestly don’t know why you don’t hate me more…why you can even stand to be in the same room as me…because I hate myself too, you know. I actually hate myself more than you do because I have to live with myself. I have to live in this skin every day of my fucking life and that…fuck. Shit. I shouldn’t have called. I’m not myself…but then, when am I ever myself? I don’t know who I am anymore…I don’t think I ever did…Christ. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Just…ignore this. Ignore me. Forget about me…forgive me…”
The last few words were practically inaudible, mumbled into the phone as Grantaire finally gave up, yet again finding what passed for peace at the bottom of a bottle and still more lines of perfect powder.