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The door slams.
For a moment, Enjolras can do nothing but stand and stare at it, painfully aware of how quiet it is. Then he grabs his laptop and settles onto the couch, angrier at himself than he cares to admit. They've been fighting for days - a week almost, if he's being honest. It's always like this in the build-up to the rallies or protests, an unfortunate but inevitable process of blowing off steam. And they're always fine, Enjolras reminds himself. It's unpleasant, but it's always fine.
Robespierre leaps onto the couch to curl up beside him, purring loudly, and Enjolras spares a hand to scratch behind his ears.
"He's impossible," he informs the little cat. Robespierre only blinks and slinks off. "What, you, too?"
He tries to finalize his speech - it's mainly just notes and statistics that Combeferre needs by tomorrow - but after two hours of furiously typing and furiously backspacing, he is forced to concede that it's a lost cause, at least for a while. He surfs news sites instead, but they're all sickeningly biased, and he doesn't make it twenty minutes before he shoves the laptop aside and stands, itching for something - anything - to do. The beginnings of a migraine pound somewhere just behind his ears and neck.
And Grantaire still isn't back yet.
He wars with himself, but it's the persistent sound of rain pattering against the window that breaks him. Chewing on the knuckle of his thumb, he squints out into the downpour while he waits for Joly to pick up.
"Hi, Enjolras. Whatcha need?"
"Grantaire isn't with you, is he?" Enjolras asks. "He went out a couple of hours ago and hasn't been back."
"Hmm," Joly replies. They've known each other for years - years and years - and with that one syllable Enjolras knows that A) Grantaire is not with Joly, nor is he with Bossuet, B) Joly knows they've fought, and C) Joly is betting that Enjolras is the one at fault. "I'm sorry, Enjolras, I haven't heard from him. Have you tried Courfeyrac? Or Jehan?"
"I'll try them next," Enjolras says tiredly. "Thank you, anyway."
"No problem." Joly hesitates. "I hope he isn't out alone. It's raining."
"Yes, I know, Joly. I'll call Courfeyrac."
"And I'll text Jehan."
"That would probably be a good idea. Thank you again, Joly."
He hangs up before the other man can respond, gripping the phone tightly. He gives himself the slightest respite, closing his eyes and willing his headache to go away before he dials Courfeyrac's number and waits, phone pressed to his cheek.
"Nope, not here," his friend says at soon as he picks up. Enjolras groans.
"Did Joly really - "
" - text everyone immediately? Yes, he did, because it's raining, you idiot. What did you expect?"
"So he's not with you, then?" Enjolras asks; even to his own ears, he sounds just this side of desperate. Courfeyrac sighs.
"No," he answers sternly, and, oh, wonderful, Courfeyrac thinks it's his fault, too.
"Is that Enjolras?" he hears Éponine demand. "Put his sorry ass on the phone, Courf, I'd like to know what stupid-ass excuse he has this time - "
"Swear jar!" a muffled Gavroche shrieks in the background. Enjolras rubs his temples.
"I've got to go," he tells Courfeyrac over the ensuing Thénardier brawl. He can't be sure, but he thinks Azelma's joined in, too. "Call if you hear from him."
"I will," Courfeyrac promises. "And Enjolras?"
"What?"
"You guys are kind of - you're the real deal, all right? So, you know." He sighs again, equal parts frustrated and fond. "Keep that in mind." Enjolras glances out the window; it can officially be called a storm now. Something heavy and cold unspools in his stomach.
"I will, thank you," he replies before hanging up. His phone buzzes immediately.
R's not with us - sorry, dearest, Cosette has sent.
we're keeping an eye out at the cafe, Jehan assures him.
what did u do hes not picking up his cell, Bahorel wants to know. Enjolras resists the urge to chuck the phone at the wall. Sometimes it's nice to have such a close-knit group of friends. And sometimes, he thinks irritably, it smacks of the worst kind of co-dependency.
The sky darkens outside the window as Enjolras gamely has another go at his speech. In the other room, Robespierre yowls; he's not a fan of thunderstorms, and, funnily enough, Enjolras' head isn't a fan of wailing cats. Another hour passes before Enjolras admits to himself that he has spent far more time compulsively checking his phone than actually working, and, resigned, he shuts the laptop off and grabs his coat.
"I'll find him, don't worry," he tells Robespierre absentmindedly, phone in one hand, umbrella in the other. Robespierre only meows and retreats under the bed.
It's even worse than it looked from inside the apartment. Rain drums down onto Enjolras' back as he fumbles with the umbrella, an unyielding torrent that has him soaked through his coat within seconds. He checks the complex parking garage, but the car is still there, so wherever Grantaire has sulked off to, it's got to be within walking distance. Although Grantaire can walk for hours, inebriation and weather aside. There aren't any bars in the area, but he could have taken the bus, and oh, fantastic, now his head is really starting to hurt.
He's doing this for attention, he thinks angrily. And it's working, damn it.
He tries to approach this methodically, checking usual hangouts like the drugstore corner and the decrepit basketball court a couple of blocks down. When this fails, however, finally he breaks down and just calls.
"Grantaire, it's me, come home so we can talk."
"Grantaire, me again, please call me back, it's really nasty outside."
"Grantaire, please pick up. I'm sorry. Please pick up."
The wind buffets him from all sides, throwing rain in his face no matter how tightly he clutches his coat around him. He walks ten blocks down one way, then ten blocks the other, shivering and cursing and trying not to panic. Finally, finally, his phone rings, and he answers it with a breathless and frantic, "Grantaire?"
"Where are you?" Grantaire demands. Enjolras closes his eyes and counts to ten, because it's what Combeferre would want him to do, but he finds, not really to his surprise, that he is just as angry as before, possibly even angrier, and he's pretty damn sure that it wouldn't matter if he counted to twenty or fifty or a thousand, he'd still be shaking with fury and hurt and sheer fucking frustration with this stupid, overdramatic -
"I am currently at the corner of Du Maine and 5th," he hisses, "soaking wet and looking for you. Where are you?"
"I'm at the apartment," Grantaire says as if Enjolras should have realized that from the start. "I came back, like, an hour ago and you were gone."
"Yes, because I was looking for you."
"Well, come home, you found me," Grantaire replies with a near-audible roll of his eyes. Enjolras struggles mightily with himself before hanging up, restraining himself from throwing all pretense of self-control away and screaming into the storm until his throat is raw.
At the apartment, he seethes, heading back to where Grantaire waits, warm and completely safe. At the apartment, AT THE APARTMENT.
He's sitting on the couch when Enjolras stomps in, rubbing Robespierre's upturned belly. The cat takes one look at Enjolras and rockets off to the bedroom. Grantaire's eyes widen as he twists to look at Enjolras.
"Jesus, you're soaked," he says, standing. "How long were you - "
"Two hours," Enjolras snaps, but ruins the effect by sneezing. Eyes watering, he flings his coat away where it hits the floor with a wet slap. The umbrella, too, clatters to the ground, sprinkling water everywhere. "What the fuck were you thinking?" he demands. "Why didn't you answer anyone's calls?"
"You told everyone?" Grantaire groans. "I went out for a walk!"
"Yes, for five hours."
"I've been out for longer - "
"Not in weather like this." Enjolras crosses his arms, partly because he's afraid that he'll strangle Grantaire if he doesn't, partly because it's warmer. "You could have passed out somewhere, you could have been mugged, and I would have no idea - "
"I didn't go drinking," Grantaire growls. "Though I'm pretty sure I should have." Enjolras drips onto the floor.
"Then what did you do?" he inquires through gritted teeth.
"I told you - I walked."
"Then why didn't you pick up your phone?"
"Because I forgot it here!" Grantaire explodes. "I didn't charge it last night, and I left it on the dresser. Jesus, Enjolras." He flops back down on the couch again, face stormy, and Enjolras all but loses it.
"We are talking about this," he informs Grantaire, marching around to stand in front of the other man, who glowers to the side. "You don't get to avoid this, we are talking about this, Grantaire."
"Oh, sure. That always goes so well."
"It might if you would bother to communicate instead of disappearing for five fucking hours!"
"I didn't disappear - "
"Yes, you did, you left, and I had no idea where you were - "
"So you called everyone else in the hopes they'd solve the problem for you. And then you worked on your speech," Grantaire guesses nastily, and it's close enough to the truth to hit Enjolras right in the gut. It must show on his face, because Grantaire nods, mouth tight. "Right. I knew it."
"It wasn't - "
"Oh, spare me," Grantaire suddenly spits. "I'm not in the mood for your goddamn righteous indignation."
"If you had any idea - "
"What?" Grantaire cries dangerously. "Any idea of what? I get it - I'm an afterthought, I'm fully aware, believe me, God, just - just - "
"Just what?" Enjolras insists, glaring. "Go on! Just - " Without warning, a volley of sneezes attack him, one after the other in sudden, violent spurts. He tries to regain momentum, but it's hard to glare ferociously through streaming eyes. Something in Grantaire's expression softens.
"You're gonna get sick," he mutters. Shivering, Enjolras says nothing, only glares harder. "Enjolras." Grantaire sighs. "Go get out of those clothes and take a bath and we'll talk then. Okay?" When Enjolras makes no move to leave, his eyes narrow. "Okay?"
Enjolras wants to stay and confront this thing properly - he should stay and confront this thing properly - but instead he finds himself laying back against the edge of the tiny tub, desperately trying to keep his eyes open. His head still hurts, but not so badly anymore. Actually, it all feels a bit fuzzy now that he's had a moment to calm down and he's exhausted and the water is so warm and he's just so tired, so bone-deep tired that he doesn't realize that Grantaire has come in until he opens his eyes to see him sitting cross-legged by the tub, watching him.
"You were out looking for me," he states, very carefully, and Enjolras nods, the water rippling with the movement.
For a moment, there's only the sound of of liquid lapping at the sides of the bath. Then Grantaire takes a breath.
"Are we all right?" he asks slowly. Enjolras' brow crinkles.
"What do you mean?"
"Are we" - he gestures between himself and Enjolras - "all right? Because if you're going to break up with me, you need to do it now. I don't think I can take much more of this." Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut, expelling all the air in his lungs in one long, silent sigh.
"Do you want to break up?" he asks when he can bear the stillness no longer, afraid to open his eyes and see the answer. But no answer comes. He steels himself and looks at Grantaire.
"Right. Okay," the other man says awkwardly, stricken and vulnerable, and Enjolras realizes in an instant that he has once again managed to say the exact wrong thing.
"I just wandered around in the rain for two hours looking for you," he reminds Grantaire. "I don't - Grantaire, I don't want to break up, I want to shake you and scream at you and make you understand how frustrated I am, but I don't want to break up with you." Grantaire looks down, shaggy curls falling into his eyes, and Enjolras reaches out a dripping arm to cup his face. "I'm sorry I yelled earlier," he says quietly, thumb perusing Grantaire's cheek. He can't tell if the wetness he finds there is from the bath or something else. "I fucked up."
"And then I fucked up in an even bigger way," Grantaire mumbles. Enjolras makes a face.
"You scared me, yeah." With a miserable little huff, Grantaire shifts to lay his head against the edge of the tub. "You're not an afterthought," Enjolras whispers after a moment, pressing his lips to the crown of his head. "You're never just an afterthought. Jesus Christ, Grantaire."
Grantaire doesn't say anything, just sighs. From this angle, Enjolras can only see the top of his head and a little bit of his nose, and it bothers him, but he can't muster the will to move. The water has started to cool when Grantaire sits up at last, making a quick swipe at his eyes that Enjolras pretends not to notice.
"I'm gonna go order pizza," he says, glancing quickly at Enjolras before becoming abruptly fascinated with a crack in the wall left of them. "If that's all right with you."
Enjolras nods, still feeling sheepish, and he watches Grantaire go with the nagging suspicion that he still hasn't quite managed to fix this. He forces himself to get out of the tub, towels himself off, and nips into the bedroom in search of a pair of sweats and the raggedy old sweater that is technically Grantaire's, but Enjolras steals it so often, it might as well be his.
"We've stopped fighting, you know," he mutters to Robespierre, who hasn't budged from under the bed. The cat pokes his head out, ears twitching back and forth. "You can come out now."
When he emerges from the bedroom, dressed and sniffling - if he catches a cold, he'll never hear the end of it from Joly - Grantaire is sitting on the couch, looking lost. Enjolras studies him for a moment, then sits beside him.
"I'm still mad at you," he informs him. Grantaire turns his head to shoot him a low-lidded glare, but Enjolras has his hands fisted in his air and his mouth firmly pressed to his before he can manage it. Grantaire makes a helpless little noise in the back of his throat and pulls Enjolras until he's nearly in his lap, his fingers running over Enjolras' sides to hold onto his ribs. He opens his mouth without much persuasion, and when Enjolras slips his hands under his shirt, he gasps.
Things are quickly progressing into decidedly more involved territory when the buzzer squawks. They both jump.
"Pizza's here," Grantaire says with a breathless laugh. Enjolras tucks his nose against his neck and grins. A small grin. But it's there.
They end up curled up on the bed, the pizza box near their feet, Robespierre on Enjolras' knees, and Enjolras' laptop in Grantaire's lap. They start a movie, but Enjolras' eyes keep sliding closed, and eventually, he drifts off, head nestled in the curve of Grantaire's hip. Grantaire cards his fingers through Enjolras' hair long after the other man has fallen asleep, listening to the sounds of the rain outside; he wakes with them still tangled there and a crick in his neck from sleeping sitting up.
"I love you," Enjolras murmurs, only half-awake, and even though they've been together for a year, even though he's heard Enjolras say it a thousand and one times, Grantaire's breath still catches in his throat.
"I love you, too," he whispers back, and Enjolras smiles.