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He’d seen it on some website the other day: "If you don't like where you are, move on. You are not a tree." He didn’t know of this Jim Rohn who was credited for the quote, but it stuck with him nonetheless.
You are not a tree, move on. He’s been telling himself for days now, like a mantra. One failed relationship wasn’t going to be the end of him. You didn’t have to keep friends if they were dragging you down. Enjolras rolls out of bed, shaking his blond hair out of his face. His dorm is a complete mess, but he’s used to it by now and at the very least the disorder is contained to his own quarters. Obviously Grantaire has become a bad influence.
Things have been tense since their last fight, like a bowstring pulled too tight. They fight all the time, honestly, whenever Enjolras gets sick of the alcohol or the apathy, they fight, and Grantaire disappears for a few days. When he comes back, and he always does, they both pretend nothing has happened, tiptoeing over thin ice around their other friends until the tension just falls away. This time is different though. He hasn’t seen Grantaire for two weeks now. It feels like his nerves are thrumming constantly just under his skin, waiting for the bowstring to be released and the arrow to sail through the air.
Enjolras meanders into the bathroom and turns on the shower. As he waits for the water to heat up, he can hear his roommate shuffling around in the kitchen. Enjolras closes his eyes, and steps into the warm water, feeling it run over his shoulders and down the slope of his back. He had been hoping a hot shower would ease the worried contents of his mind, but no such luck. He sighs.
Done with the shower he steps back out into the steamy bathroom. He wraps a towel tight around his waist, brushes his teeth, and runs a comb through his unruly hair. The steam has dispersed and he glances at himself in the mirror. He knows somewhere in the back of his mind that many people think he’s attractive, but he’s never actually cared. He has a higher calling, a cause to fight for, and there will never be time for dating anyway. Staring out from the mirror are his own blue eyes, the dark rings giving away the troubled interior of his mind. Enjolras sighs again, and slips on his boxers.
Entering the corridor, he gets hit with the scent of fresh coffee. He inhales deeply, a small groan escapes his lips, as he lets the welcome aroma calm his nerves.
“Morning,” his roommate, Combeferre, calls from the couch. Enjolras mumbles a reply and punches the right buttons to get another pot of coffee started for himself.
“Is everyone going to be there tonight?” Enjolras asks, toweling off his head.
“Everyone has been informed,” he pauses, ”even your stupid friend who insists on crashing our meetings.” Enjolras knows Combeferre is just trying to purge any blame from himself and he can hear the tones of disapproval ringing through the words. He gives his hands a rueful smile.
“Thanks ‘Ferre. Though I doubt he’ll show.”
The coffee shop is bustling with people, but their group takes over most of the back seating space. It’s become a sort-of-weekly thing, everyone meeting up to hang and catch up. Combeferre is speaking to him at length about a new bill the Senate is trying to pass. The bell on the door jingles lightly, barely audible above the friendly racket. Enjolras glances up absently and starts when he sees a familiar raven-haired man headed their way.
Enjolras turns back to Combeferre, though his attention is thoroughly divided now that Grantaire has entered the scene. Enjolras watches out of the corner of his eye as Grantaire saunters in, with much more confidence than usual. The bottle inside the crumpled paper bag explains the shift, but it makes Enjolras’ proverbial hackles rise. It’s only four in the afternoon and Grantaire’s flushed cheeks give him away, if the bottle doesn’t.
As he approaches his eyes skip over Enjolras pointedly. The chatter of the group quiets marginally when he gets closer. Obliviously, he just plops into an armchair, his dark curls bouncing lightly against his forehead. Enjolras has completely missed the last couple of points Combeferre was making, too busy watching his friend sprint down the path of destroying his life. Enjolras knows he shouldn’t say anything, he knows he’ll just make it worse. Grantaire reclines back and sets his muddy boots up on one of the tables and Enjolras just can’t help himself.
“Is that really necessary?” he snaps. He doesn’t even know whether he means the boots or the bottle. He’s breathing heavily and the suddenly the whole group is quiet. Some of the other patrons glance up, but probably prefer to mind their own business. Grantaire’s eyes survey the whole room before they finally land on Enjolras. His gaze is loaded, despite the glint of intoxication.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I offending you, your highness?” he deadpans. Indignation rises like a wave inside Enjolras’ chest, and he clenches his fists to hold back a retort. They hold each others’ eyes intensely. Instead he smirks venomously and says,
“Oh no, you’re fine.” He turns away and mutters, “fucking drunk.” Between one second and the next, Enjolras is grabbed by the shoulders, ripped from his chair and slammed against the wall. His head cracks against the wood, and he sees stars; there’s an arm pressed against his throat holding him to the wall but luckily he can still breathe.
The resulting onslaught of noise makes him flinch further into the wall, “Grantaire!”, “What the hell are you doing?” “Dude, chill out!” His vision clears and he looks into wide green eyes. They’re much closer than usual and Enjolras can pick out specs of brown among the forest of jade. Combeferre’s hands are firm on Grantaire’s shoulders, but no one is pulling them apart yet. The group is standing around them, ready to take action, but clearly not sure if they should interfere. Enjolras glares defiantly into the face of his attacker. Grantaire’s lips are curled back in a snarl, his chest visibly pumping. Enjolras can taste the alcohol on his friend’s panting breaths. They just stare at each other, chests touching on every inhale, Grantaire’s inky curls tickling Enjolras’ forehead. He thinks the clash of their opposing hair must be poetic to an onlooker, the black tangling into the gold. He clenches his jaw, expecting malice or violence.
Instead he watches as the fire leaves Grantaire’s eyes and his posture slumps. Enjolras stumbles as Grantaire shoves him away so quickly you’d think he’d been burned. Combeferre is there immediately though, and grabs his arm to steady him. Having regained the higher ground, Enjolras turns and spits, “You’re drunk again. What’s your problem?” Grantaire bows sardonically.
“Just actin’ as expected, Apollo. I have a reputation to uphold afterall.”
“Why do you even bother to show up this way ‘Taire ?” Enjolras has never been able to understand the self-destruction that has infinitely taken root in Grantaire. He knows his past is not pleasant, but Grantaire just never talks about it, and changes the subject anytime anyone ever tries.
“Weall have er roles, we dance to tha tune the fiddle plays,” He gesticulates wildly, the alcohol taking it’s toll as he begins to slur words together.
“What are you even talking about? Make some sense, or get out,” He didn’t mean to be so harsh, but the cruelty he’d been brought up in had a tendency to slip out when he was upset. The way Grantaire flinches bodily at the ultimatum makes Enjolras’ chest contract. He wants to take it back, but he can’t now.
“Why do you even invite me?” His voice is so quiet but the words are so loud. Enjolras wants to reach out, to show some sign of camaraderie to his friend, that they all want him there, they want him whole. Not this broken thing he has become. But he has no words to offer as answer. He opens his mouth, closes it. He thinks for a second then opens it again to speak.
“We want you to be the best you,” he struggles for a moment, “we want to help, but you never let us.” And for a moment Enjolras hopes that he may have finally gotten through Grantaire’s rough exterior, but-
“Bullshit.” And Enjolras would call bullshit himself, but the utter doubt in Grantaire’s eyes convinces him, his friend is a lost cause right now. He sighs inwardly, bowing his head for a moment. Enjolras straightens his shoulders, glances to Combeferre next to him for support, and looks at Grantaire in earnest. He steels himself with indifference, hating what he has to do. Enjolras makes sure there is no feeling in his voice.
“Fine. Grantaire, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Hurt flashes across the dark-haired boy’s face, but is quickly drowned in detachment. “You’re drunk most of the time, you won’t talk to anyone and you don’t even care enough about us to care for yourself.” Grantaire rears back and hurls his bottle at the wall. The entire cafe goes silent as whiskey drips from the splatter, and glass shards clink to the ground. Grantaire’s chest is heaving again, but Enjolras can’t do anything but hold his stare.
“You don’t know me, you have no idea what you’re-”
“Just go.” Enjolras drops his eyes to the floor and turns his back. The screech of protestant chair legs and the slamming of a door signal Grantaire’s exit. You will move on, you’re not a tree, he thinks blankly.
Enjolras slumps into a chair, as strained conversations start back up. The manager is on them like a hawk though, while she alternates sweeping up the shards of glass and glaring at their group unabashedly. It has started drizzling outside, and the shop gets busier, as patrons flock into the cozy chairs, unaware of the miserable haze that has settled over everything in Enjolras’ view.
Eventually Combeferre suggests they take their gathering out of the shop, preferably to a bar. Enjolras has every intention of just going home to wallow in angst, but the group convinces him to at least have one drink before heading home. Which is how, three strong drinks, a short cab ride and a semi-inebriated stumble through the rain later, Enjolras finds himself damply moping on the couch alone in his dorm. The irony of it is not lost on him, but he rarely drinks and plus Grantaire never even learned the word moderation.
He glances at the clock on the wall, the blue LED lights blare 10:42 into his retinas, and when he closes his eyes he can see the shapes momentarily burnt into his eyelids. When he opens his eyes again the clock reads 11:37. Enjolras blinks a few times, and smacks his lips. His tongue tastes like someone rubbed tree bark all over a filthy street urchin and then dared him to lick it. He walks into the bathroom to brush his teeth just to get the awful taste out. Enjolras sighs in relief when the minty toothpaste clears his head a little. The fog of booze has lifted considerably since he got home.
He wanders into the kitchen to get some water. He absently notes the lack of new coats on the coatrack. His lonely red jacket has left a small puddle that he should probably clean up before someone slips. His roommates have obviously not returned from the bars yet. And as though conjured by the thought there’s a sudden insistent knocking on the door. Combeferre probably lost his keys somewhere. He can hear the rain still pelting the roof, and sympathizes for his other friends who may still be traversing home. Enjolras opens the door to find a sopping wet Grantaire, dripping onto his welcome mat. His hair is plastered to his face by rainwater but his eyes are shockingly clear, without a trace of liquor. Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot into his hairline.
“Grantaire.” Enjolras says. Grantaire stands awkwardly in his doorway, head bowed, looking at Enjolras through his lashes.
“We should talk. Can I come in?”
“Uhm...” He clears his throat. “Yeah, uh sure.” Enjolras moves out of the way, and their shoulders brush lightly as Grantaire crosses the threshold. He’s making a mess, the water from his hair and clothes dripping all over the floor, and words hang unspoken in the air between them. But Enjolras finds he can’t bring himself to care. The tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and for the first time all day, he feels at ease. A small smile tilts one side of his mouth.
“I wasn’t expecting you.” He says, and he means it in more ways than one.
“I wasn’t expecting me either.” Grantaire offers a breathy laugh and meets his eyes. For the first time, they talk. And they only argue a little bit. Enjolras can’t help but think that even though trees can’t move, they had always seemed rather content right where they were.