Chapter Text
It took Enjolras at least a full minute to realize that Grantaire wasn’t joking around, that he wasn’t going to come back into the apartment, grinning that atrociously cocky smirk like he usually did.
Of course, this wasn’t a usual fight.
Sure, the pair had had their disagreements in the months they’d been dating; they were, after all, nearly polar opposites in so many respects. Some arguments had gotten heated (the one after Grantaire had missed so many of his creative writing classes that the professor had come into the Musain one day to make sure he wasn’t dead or dropping out had been especially memorable), but they never lasted. Grantaire would crack a smile and kiss Enjolras’ forehead, calling him “Apollo” and squeezing his hands tenderly. Enjolras would stubbornly try to hold on to some of his frustration, but it always slipped away with Grantaire’s fingers intertwined with his.
And it was always Grantaire who broke the tension, even when Enjolras went too far and said something cruel without meaning to. Grantaire could sense the moment in their arguments where things were about to go beyond the point of rescue, and he always stopped them, always calmed them. Enjolras wasn’t used to Grantaire going off the rails; with anything else, yes, but not when it came to them. And he certainly wasn’t used to Grantaire furiously bolting out of the apartment.
Maybe it was arrogant of him to expect Grantaire to always be the one to cave first, but that’s how things had been, and that’s how Enjolras had assumed they would continue. When he wasn’t trying to overthrow governments or rewrite the justice system, Enjolras was actually a creature of habit. Once a pattern was set, he found comfort in that routine. Like how he had to brush his teeth first thing in the morning, no matter if he was at home or curled up in a cubicle in the campus library or camping out on the steps of the state house. Like how he did laundry every other Saturday morning (which was usually filled with not only his clothes but strays from Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Gavroche, and anyone else). Like how he and their friends opened the Musain in the morning or closed at night; everyone had their tasks, everyone knew what to do, and everything went smoothly because of that.
Armed with the realization that he might have done something extremely stupid and that he’d have to be the one to fix it this time, Enjolras ran out of the room, leaving the apartment door hanging open behind him. He practically jumped down the flight of stairs and burst onto the dark, empty street, looking both ways hopelessly.
Of course it was deserted; it was nearly 1 in the morning and, though he was close to campus, Enjolras lived in a cluster of apartment complexes that mostly catered to an older crowd, not the typical college student. He had let himself hope that Grantaire would be sitting on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and angrily venting to Eponine on his phone. But he was nowhere in sight. Enjolras looked down the street in both directions again, squinting his eyes in the darkness.
He felt helpless, and he hated feeling helpless. It was a useless emotion because there was always something that could be done. He knew he shouldn’t have yelled at Grantaire, but what did he expect? Grantaire had contemplated suicide, something Enjolras couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around. Grantaire said it wasn’t recently — he said it had been a long time since he had those thoughts — but Enjolras couldn’t be sure. In the span of five minutes, he had started to doubt every scrap of happiness he thought the two of them had ever shared. What if all the wisecracks, all the sarcasm, all the embraces had just been for show? What if his smile that Enjolras adored so much was a constant lie?
And worse was the nagging nausea at the thought of a world without Grantaire. A world without his caustic laugh, sharp tongue, brilliant if sometimes misguided mind, and those beautiful clear eyes that Enjolras had come to rely on. What if Grantaire had given up? What if he’d hurt himself? What if he was hurting himself right now? Enjolras felt his knees begin to buckle, and he steadied himself by sitting on the cement bench in front of his building.
Enjolras prided himself on staying cool in dire situations — he could run a restaurant during any hectic rush, he could calm a crowd when fighting broke out at protests, he could balance multiple deadlines at school and finish everything early — but he found that panic was quickly taking over this time. His breathing was becoming labored; he was almost gasping to get enough oxygen into his lungs even though he was sitting perfectly still. Images of Grantaire passed out drunk in a dangerous area, or strung up in a noose, or lying in the middle of the street wouldn’t stop flashing before his eyes. He put his arms down so that his palms were resting flat on the cool cement, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on slowing his pulse and keeping the dizziness at bay.
He’d seen Joly have enough panic attacks to know the signs.
After a minute of deliberate, calm breaths — in through his nose and out through his mouth — he felt slightly better and his mind was a fraction clearer, though he noticed as he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants that his hands were shaking and he couldn’t seem to control the tremors at all. He hit redial and brought the phone to his ear, tapping his leg impatiently. After ringing only once, the call flipped to Grantaire’s voicemail — a simple, gruff “It’s R, go on then” — meaning he was either ignoring Enjolras or, more likely, he had turned his phone off.
Enjolras sighed and hung up without leaving a message, knowing that wouldn’t do any good; Grantaire wouldn’t be checking them. He then hit 1 on his speed dial and thankfully Combeferre picked up almost immediately.
“What’s up, Enjolras? I’m a little busy at the moment. Courfeyrac managed to fall and nearly give himself a concussion, so I’m here with him and Joly, checking things out.”
Hearing Combeferre’s voice was enough to make his leg stop shaking at least.
“It’s Grantaire,” Enjolras almost whispered as if he were telling a secret. He couldn’t seem to make his voice any louder. “You haven’t heard from him, have you? Or has Courfeyrac?”
After a brief silence, Combeferre responded in a steady but concerned tone, “No, the last time I saw him was after we closed up. He was with you. Why? What happened?”
“We just ... we had ... it was just a fight. I’m sure he’ll come back soon. I’m probably just being silly.”
Another pause. “You’re never silly, Enjolras. He left the apartment and hasn’t returned?”
“Yeah, but it’s only been like five minutes. I’m sure I’m overreacting. Just let me know if you or Courfeyrac or Joly hear from him, OK? I just want to know he’s all right.”
“Are you all right?” Combeferre asked, shushing Courfeyrac — “Watch my hair, Joly, geez” — who Enjolras could hear whining in the background. “You sound strange. And quiet. Which is even more strange for you.”
Enjolras had to almost crack a smile at that. “I’m just a little worked up; I’ll be fine.”
“OK. Well, I’ll call around and see what I can find out, yeah? In the meantime, try to stay calm. And recognize the fact that Grantaire has gotten himself into some of the most insane and reckless situations imaginable. Remember that time Eponine had to pick him up at the police station after he’d gotten into a fight with those party clowns and he was covered in confetti and glitter but not a scratch on him? I’m sure no matter where he is, he’s fine.”
Nodding his head even though Combeferre couldn’t see, Enjolras thanked him and hung up. He immediately hit 2 on his speed dial and waited for Feuilly to pick up. Grantaire and Feuilly had been spending more time together than usual lately, since Grantaire enjoyed helping fellow artists and Feuilly gladly accepted any and all assistance as the deadline for his thesis project approached. The apartment Feuilly shared with Jehan and Combeferre wasn’t too far from him; maybe Grantaire had run over there, and they were lost in a mess of canvas and glass and paste.
After listening through the rings, the call clicked over to voicemail. Feuilly always answered his phone if he heard it, even through his light sleep, so Enjolras figured he was probably too engaged in his work to pay attention to anything else. He decided against leaving a message. He didn’t want to run around causing all of his friends to unnecessarily worry. That wouldn’t do any good.
Knowing Eponine was at some sort of concert and wouldn’t be checking her phone, he texted her a short message — Let me know if you hear from Grantaire — and then he called Bahorel. If he were thinking clearly, he would have reached out to Eponine and Bahorel first, seeing as they had known Grantaire the longest and knew him and his stunts better than anyone. Yet, Enjolras was not thinking clearly. His rational decisions were interspersed with the desperation that had been etched all over Grantaire’s face before he’d left, and it made Enjolras’ stomach drop and his entire line of sight get blurry for a few seconds every time.
“Yo,” Bahorel said groggily, as if he had been asleep. Enjolras, however, seriously doubted he was at home, much less in bed this early on a Saturday night. “Enjolras? What’s wrong?”
“Is Grantaire with you? Or have you talked to him tonight?” Enjolras tried to make his voice sound normal, even though Bahorel wasn’t likely to be as observant as Combeferre had been.
“Not since we were at the Musain. Why? I thought he was staying at your place tonight.”
“We had ... a disagreement, and he left. I was hoping you’d talked to him,” Enjolras felt the gnawing in his stomach grow more violent. He wondered if it was some kind of warning. Actually, he was doing his best to not wonder.
“Well, I haven’t. I came home and went to bed after Eponine socked me, that feisty little pain in the ass. And ... hang on ... no messages on my phone. Why are you so worked up? You two pull this shit all the time.”
“He never leaves though,” Enjolras replied, suddenly standing up and looking both ways down the street again without any real hope that Grantaire would be there.
“Well, what happened that’s making this time different?”
Enjolras wasn’t sure how to answer. He suspected Grantaire hadn’t told anyone about his dark contemplations, and it wasn’t Enjolras’ story to spread around. He didn’t want to tell Bahorel unless it was absolutely necessary, but lying was not a strongpoint of his. He figured his best course of action would be avoiding the question.
“It’s kind of personal really,” he said after a minute, trying his hardest to keep his voice steady as he paced along the sidewalk.
“If you don’t want to tell me, why should I help you? What if R just needed to get away from you for a night?”
Enjolras knew what it felt like to get punched by Bahorel; on more than one occasion he’d made the mistake of getting in the middle of one of Bahorel’s bar fights, trying to use words to solve the disagreement, and instead got accidentally walloped by Bahorel’s wayward fist. Yet, this was the first time Enjolras could remember getting hit with his sharp words. He was momentarily speechless, simultaneously pissed off that Bahorel would say something like that to him and hurt that he would think such a thing and have such a low opinion about his and Grantaire’s relationship. Did all of his friends wonder what Grantaire was doing with him?
Before Enjolras could reply, Bahorel cleared his throat and Enjolras heard the sound of a bed creaking in the background. Maybe he really had been asleep. “Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just in a bad mood. I’m not trying to be a dick.”
“It’s OK,” Enjolras said immediately, leaning against a light post, his balance becoming unstable as another image of Grantaire, drunk and stupid and getting into an outmatched fight, flashed before his eyes. “Just ... do you have any idea where Grantaire might have gone? I need to find him.”
“Was he drunk?”
Remembering the changes in Grantaire’s face as Enjolras had read from his notebook, the way his eyes darkened and how his mouth had formed into an impenetrable straight line, it was an easy answer.
“He was about as stone cold sober as I’ve ever seen him.”
“OK, so he’s going to be looking for a bar. You don’t have anything open near you, so he probably made a beeline over here.” Bahorel lived something like 10 blocks toward the south, in the same apartment complex as Grantaire, a floor apart. (At one point, they had laid sheets of plywood on the stairs so Bahorel could just slide down to Grantaire’s floor and rigged a rope against the wall so he could pull himself back up, but their landlord put a stop to that.) Their building was right on what was the main drag toward campus; it was filled with student housing, hipster coffee houses, and an overload of bars open all night long. “Why don’t you make your way here and I’ll meet you on the street? We’ll find him in no time. Of course if he doesn’t want to talk to you, I’m not going to make him either.”
Enjolras smiled for the first time during their conversation. “Thanks Bahorel. Oh, and could you check his apartment, too?”
“He won’t be there. When he’s upset, he doesn’t like to be alone. But yeah, I’ll swing by anyway,” Bahorel said before hanging up.
Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Enjolras started walking in the direction of Grantaire’s apartment. A few strides later at the nearest intersection, he looked down and saw that he didn’t have any shoes on. His bare feet, the hard, cold pavement beneath them, hadn’t registered in his brain at all. That definitely wasn’t a good sign of his current mental health.
He debated just continuing, shoes be damned, but then he realized he didn’t have his wallet or his keys. And he’d left his apartment door open.
He knew he wasn’t thinking clearly — he could acknowledge that — and it wasn’t like him to be so scatterbrained. Even under intense pressure, even with the threat of physical harm, even with the very core of his ideals under attack, he could always focus. He didn’t like feeling like this, veering toward out of control. It was almost worse than the helpless feeling that was still clawing at his insides. Caring about Grantaire had changed him; the relationship they shared had changed him, piece by piece, so slowly that he hadn’t even recognized it. It wasn’t until Grantaire was no longer there that he fully saw it.
But he didn’t have the time to spend analyzing his feelings at the moment.
Enjolras turned around and sprinted back to his building, taking the stairs two at a time to reach his apartment, the door still hanging open, the glare of his small TV the only light. He went into his bedroom and grabbed his wallet and keys from his dresser; then he slid his feet into a pair of Combeferre’s old sneakers that were on the floor, and walked back into the living room. After turning the TV off, he hesitated for a second before bending down and picking up Grantaire’s small notebook from the ground. He didn’t know why he would possibly need it, but a gut feeling told him he would. He put it in his pocket with his phone and then closed the door quietly, locking it behind him.
He let his body move on autopilot, making his way down the dark streets on sense memory. He alternated between jogging and sprinting, the avenue becoming more populated the closer he got; he couldn’t really hear much besides his heart pumping in his chest, which was only making him more nervous by the second. It wasn’t until he was within view of the north side of the university that he reached the block where Grantaire and Bahorel lived. There weren’t a lot of people out, but it was definitely more crowded than his area.
Standing at a corner, he leaned against a crosswalk sign to catch his breath and looked for Bahorel. He glanced past a group of undergrads hanging out on the curb and another pair arguing in front of a parked car. Not spotting Bahorel right away, Enjolras decided he couldn’t just wait around. That wasn’t how he did things. He didn’t wait. Waiting was for people who didn’t have the ambition to act. He’d already wasted time by being indecisive, bothering his friends, and definitely not running his fastest.
He struck off toward the nearest lights, which happened to be O’Malley’s, the Irish pub directly below where Grantaire lived. Enjolras knew it was Grantaire’s favorite, and he allowed himself to hope it would be this easy. That he would walk in and find Grantaire drowning himself in whiskey. That he would put his arms around him and gently lead him outside, whispering apologies in a soothing tone. That he would take Grantaire upstairs and they would forgive each other and fall asleep in his boyfriend’s tiny, grungy bed. Even though he didn’t like to apologize as a general rule, especially when he hadn’t really done anything wrong in his eyes, Enjolras would do it this time. He’d do anything.
He walked in and searched for Grantaire’s messy curls, starting at the bar and then gazing across the span of the dark room, straining his eyes to see each table. But Grantaire wasn’t to be found. Enjolras approached the counter and waited for Drew the bartender, a kind of burly guy with dreadlocks that Enjolras had met many times while picking up Grantaire, to acknowledge him.
When Drew finally turned around, unless Enjolras’ imagination was playing tricks on him, the bartender actually sneered, his top lip curling upward. He stepped slowly but purposefully down to the end of the bar where Enjolras was standing and placed his large arms on the counter, staring at Enjolras with a kind of terrifying focus.
“What do you want?”
Enjolras wasn’t sure what he could have done to make this man so hostile toward him, but the worry that had been eating away at him for the past half-hour turned to anger in a split-second.
“I’m looking for my goddamn boyfriend. Have you seen him?” Enjolras snapped.
Drew narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer, still at least a head taller than Enjolras. The rest of the bar, admittedly sparsely populated, had gone silent watching them.
“I don’t think he cares for your company right now. Why don’t you fuck off and take your self-righteous, arrogant ass back home?”
Enjolras knew he wasn’t particularly intimidating to the average observer, but that worked to his advantage most of the time because nobody expected the sheer ferocity that he was capable of. Drew was either just being an asshole or he was hiding Grantaire somewhere or had at least seen him, and Enjolras wanted answers. He didn’t have time for jerks playing power games, he thought as he fought another wave of panic-induced dizziness.
He placed his arms on the bar to mimic Drew’s posture, refusing to back down.
“How about you stay out of my business and tell me where Grantaire is?” Enjolras was whispering, but he accented each syllable, giving his words a weight that he hoped demonstrated that he wasn’t playing around. The last thing he wanted was to stand there, playing a heavy-handed back-and-forth with a bartender who he’d seen come this close to snapping a person in two.
“Why don’t you fucking make me?” Drew snarled back, folding his arms across his chest as he stood up straight.
Enjolras wasn’t a physical fighter by nature, but he was tired of this. He didn’t know if Drew was hiding something or just looking for a fight, but he was getting it. Enjolras leaned forward and pressed his finger against Drew’s collar bone, aware that he was acting reckless but also not caring.
“That was a mistake, pretty boy,” Drew backed away, keeping his eyes on Enjolras as he walked around the back of the bar and then approached. “Let’s see if you’re made of more than blonde hair and big words.”
Drew gathered Enjolras’ shirt in his fist, pulling him close and, for a few seconds, Enjolras closed his eyes and wished for it. Maybe getting punched would knock some sense into him, since he was acting like a lunatic. Maybe he deserved it for causing Grantaire to run away in the first place. But before he felt the impact, he heard Bahorel’s voice ring out: “No, hey, don’t! Drew, put him down!”
Enjolras turned his head as Drew reluctantly let him go. Bahorel was dressed in jeans and a white tanktop to contrast against his skin, which was a little ridiculous considering the early spring weather. But it showed off his muscles, and of course he wouldn’t give up that opportunity. Enjolras rolled his eyes. Bahorel came up to him, putting his arm around Enjolras’ shoulder protectively.
“Are you OK?” he asked, his eyebrows pinched together in concern.
“I’m fine,” Enjolras replied, shrugging out of Bahorel’s grasp. “This asshole won’t tell me if Grantaire was here though.”
It was almost as if he were drunk, the way he was acting and talking, without any concern for tact or respect. Well, he was never particularly tactful, but he liked to think he conducted himself with a bit more poise than he currently was. He knew how to use his words to solve problems, not his fists. However, in his mind, Drew was standing in the way of him finding Grantaire and making things better, and diplomacy wasn’t worth wasting another second.
He started toward Drew again, suddenly filled with rage. He didn’t know if it was directed at Drew or Grantaire or himself. Yet, Bahorel pulled him back, pushing him against the wall.
“What the hell is your problem, Enjolras? Are you trying to get yourself beat up?” Bahorel hissed.
“I need to find Grantaire. Please, I need him,” he said in a small voice.
Enjolras suspected it was the “please” — which slipped out before he could even think — that made Bahorel’s expression soften into a kind of understanding. He at least understood how desperate Enjolras was and the lengths he was willing to go.
“Go outside, OK? Wait for me on the sidewalk,” Bahorel pointed out the door. Enjolras was about to protest — after all he was the one who always gave the orders — when his mind finally made the connection that he was a stranger there.
Sure, he’d hung out with Grantaire and their friends in the bar, but he wasn’t a regular and they had no reason to trust him. Grantaire, on the other hand, had made O’Malley’s a kind of second home; all of the bartenders knew him and trusted him and liked him. All of the patrons enjoyed his company. Right now, Enjolras was an angry boyfriend demanding to see one of “their people.” Of course Drew reacted the way he did; Enjolras would have done the same, although less threatening, if someone had marched into the Musain that way, seeking one of his friends.
Nodding weakly, Enjolras spun on his heels and walked quickly toward the exit. Once outside, he leaned against a parking meter as he watched Bahorel talk animatedly to Drew; he knew Bahorel could be very convincing when he put his mind to it, and he hoped that would be enough to make Drew spill the beans. Enjolras shoved his hands in his pockets as he waited, gently feeling Grantaire’s notebook, as if touching it would bring him closer to his missing boyfriend. He wished things worked that way. He didn’t often wish for things because what good did wishing do when you could act instead? But right now, he was wishing.
Enjolras knew he was acting borderline insane, but he couldn’t help the anxiety spreading inside him. What if he had pushed Grantaire over the cliff? What if their relationship, the happiness they shared, had been the only thing keeping Grantaire grounded and he’d ruined it? What if he’d put Grantaire into danger by pushing him too far? By demanding answers that maybe Grantaire would never have?
He curled his fingers around the notebook as Bahorel emerged, his handsome face stoic for a change.
“He said Grantaire was here --”
“Where? Where is he now?” Enjolras interrupted, craning his neck to peer into O’Malley’s.
“He’s gone,” Bahorel answered, laying his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders to calm him. “Drew said R was there for like five minutes, got two shots of whiskey, and then bolted. Said he was seriously upset about something. Care to explain?”
Enjolras didn’t want to talk about it. He was almost positive Grantaire had kept the suicidal thoughts to himself, that he wouldn’t want to be a burden to his friends. And Enjolras didn’t want to make them worry either. Yet, he didn’t see a way out without completely pushing Bahorel away, and Enjolras knew he couldn’t do this alone, especially since he was losing more of his composure every minute. And he figured Bahorel deserved to know what he was dealing with tonight.
“You ... uh ... do you know about Grantaire’s ... troubles?” Enjolras hated being less than precise, but he was hoping to slide his way into this conversation with more grace than he had with Grantaire.
Bahorel shifted his weight, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He slid one out and lit it, taking a long drag before looking Enjolras in the eyes.
“You mean his depression? Yeah, I know about it.”
“Do you know ... did he ever tell you how bad it was?” Enjolras felt his pulse racing, images of Grantaire’s face flashing before his eyes like before. There was this deep, almost ache in his chest that felt like tiny, strong fingers pressing against his ribcage. He needed to find Grantaire.
“Enjolras, stop beating around the bush. We don’t have time to fuck around here,” Bahorel finally seemed to have caught onto just how worried Enjolras was, and his features settled into a solemn concern.
“He was suicidal,” Enjolras blurted out.
Bahorel nearly bit through his cigarette, coughing on the smoke. “You’re messing with me, right? Suicide? No, no, that’s not R. He wouldn’t.”
Pulling Grantaire’s notebook out of his pocket, Enjolras handed it to Bahorel. “Read the last page.”
Bahorel tossed his half-finished cigarette on the ground and stomped on it as he flipped to the end of the notebook. His eyes got wide as he read the words that Enjolras could still taste in his mouth.
“It’s a fucking will,” Bahorel whispered with disbelief as he closed the notebook with a bit too much force, practically throwing it back at Enjolras like he had to get rid of it as quickly as possible. “He wrote a will. He thought giving me some shot glasses would make up for him offing himself.”
“And we argued about it,” Enjolras continued, “because I couldn’t understand. I still can’t. But he ran out before we could really talk about it, and I don’t know ... I’m scared he’s going to do something stupid, that I pushed him too far. We need to find him.”
“Yeah, we do,” Bahorel nodded, running his fingers through his short hair as he took a few, long breaths. “OK, Drew said R was here less than 10 minutes ago, so we aren’t far behind. We’ll just think like him and we’ll find him, yeah?”
Enjolras extended his arm to indicate for Bahorel to go and he’d follow.
They stopped in every open bar on the street, Bahorel doing the talking since Enjolras couldn’t be trusted to keep his cool. Most of them said they hadn’t seen Grantaire; a few said they had, but he’d left already. It was like playing a game of tag with a ghost.
After they hit the last bar on the block, Enjolras remembered he hadn’t checked his phone since he met with Bahorel; he’d put on silent because he wasn’t thinking clearly. The theme of the night. Standing at the corner with Bahorel questioning a couple who were too inebriated to stand straight, Enjolras turned his phone on and a screen popped up saying he had seven messages.
One was from Eponine, saying she hadn’t spoken to or seen Grantaire since she left the Musain earlier that night. Two were from Combeferre, saying no luck yet. Another from Bossuet, saying he was meeting Joly at the park to scope it out. And the last three were all from Feuilly: the first apologizing for not answering, the second saying Combeferre had filled him in and he and Jehan would go to campus to look there, and the third saying no luck in the English building and they were heading to the art studios.
With each text, Enjolras felt his chest tightening and his hearing was starting to mute like it had earlier. He knew he needed to work through the worry; he needed to find Grantaire before anything happened. Yet, he felt his previously never-ending reserves of strength and determination depleting. He could go 72 hours without sleep on the pavement outside the governor's house, but a missing boyfriend was somehow too much for him to deal with. He put his phone back in his pocket and then lowered himself to squat above the sidewalk.
Confused, Bahorel followed suit, kneeling down to sit.
“Nobody’s heard anything,” Enjolras finally said, blinking up to meet Bahorel’s gaze. “How could he just disappear? Why would he do that?”
“He’s not used to having so many people care,” Bahorel replied sadly. “I mean, he’s had me and Ep since we were teenagers. But he’s never had a group like this, and he’s certainly never had someone like you.”
“I know I’m terrible, but can we not --”
“I don’t mean it that way, Enjolras.” Bahorel paused, swatting at Enjolras’ knee. “It’s a good thing. You’re a good thing. And Grantaire isn’t used to good things.”
“Yeah, but you and Eponine have always been there for him.”
“Having two friends in the whole world isn’t a good thing. I mean, yeah, Ep and I are awesome, and the three of us have had each other’s backs. But it’s sad that we had to be the only people to do it, you know? Ep’s family is a pack of thieves and con artists, mine is about as indifferent to each other as strangers, and Grantaire’s was actively tortuous. And that’s not fair, but we dealt with it because we had to. Shit is different now. He’s got you, brilliant and idealistic and frustrating as all hell. And someone he’s head over heels in love with. Someone he could lose.”
It was clear Bahorel and Grantaire had had many discussions about this, and Enjolras was stripped of words. Suddenly, everything made sense. Grantaire had left the apartment not because he was angry at Enjolras; he left because he was afraid that if he stayed, Enjolras was going to break up with him. He thought he would lose Enjolras by exposing that part of himself.
And Enjolras felt sick with not only worry but shame as well because it was never his intention to make Grantaire or anyone feel as if they had something to prove to him. He knew he demanded a lot of the people in his company, but he’d never wanted this. He loved all his friends despite of and because of their flaws and their strengths equally. It was the same with Grantaire. He loved Grantaire because ... he ... he loved Grantaire.
“But he didn’t ... but we ... I didn’t realize --”
“It’s OK,” Bahorel interrupted. “I mean, really. R loves that about you. That despite being kind of oblivious sometimes, you’re so good and you make the people around you better.”
Enjolras ran his hands down the sides of his face, settling them on his neck, his skin slightly damp from trekking around the city all night. “Do you think he would do something? Something drastic?”
Bahorel bit his lip and shrugged. “I really don’t know. I didn’t know he was so messed up. Obviously it hasn’t been lately. He mentioned Jehan’s birthday was coming up, and that passed months ago. It was before you and him started dating, before he really felt a part of the group. I’d like to think he’s better now. But I just don’t know.”
The fact that Bahorel was as unsure as he was didn’t make Enjolras feel any better. He wanted comfort, platitudes that “everything would be OK” and “there there” and other meaningless words. He had never wanted such blatant lies before. What were their purpose? But he wanted them now; he needed to feel like everything wasn’t falling to pieces for just a few seconds.
“OK, let’s head back to R’s. Maybe he’s home by now,” Bahorel said, getting to his feet and offering a hand to Enjolras.
“I thought you said he --”
“It’s been awhile now. If he got his drinks, he might have gone home to cool off and be somewhere safe, you know?”
Enjolras nodded, standing up and following Bahorel, their pace too quick for Enjolras’ tired legs, but he kept up anyway.
He felt his phone vibrate as he walked and, when he checked it, it was a text from Eponine. She asked why people were looking for Grantaire as if he were missing, why he wouldn’t answer her calls, and if she should be worried. He hadn’t wanted to worry his friends, and he’d somehow managed to get all of them involved in his fruitless search. He started to answer Eponine, but instead he almost ran into Bahorel, who had stopped at the intersection closest to their apartment.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as he sidestepped Bahorel, who only nodded in front of him.
There was Gavroche, holding his skateboard against his side, in worn jeans and a neon green windbreaker that Eponine probably made him wear at nights so he wouldn’t get hit by cars.
“Gavroche, it’s late. Why in the world are you awake and out on the streets?” Enjolras asked, staring at the child in front of him.
“I heard Ep talking on the phone, saying people were worried about Grantaire. So I thought I’d look for him, too.”
Great, Enjolras thought. Not only had he managed to worry every one of his friends, but an 11-year-old was out wandering the streets in search of his missing boyfriend as well. It might have been a new low.
“He’s outside the Musain, if you’re interested,” Gavroche continued, keeping his voice steady despite the fact that he was literally bouncing with the news, the soles of his sneakers lighting up in the darkness.
Enjolras’ head shot up and he took a few steps forward to place his hands on Gavroche’s shoulders. “Are you sure?” he asked in a frantic whisper.
“Of course, E, I don’t spread false information. I saw him with my own eyes like five minutes ago. And he didn’t look like he’d be going anywhere anytime soon,” Gavroche grinned.
Enjolras gripped Gavroche for another second, squeezing him tightly, before taking off in a full-blown run down the street.
“Enjolras, wait!” he heard Bahorel shout from behind.
But he wasn’t going to wait. He knew where Grantaire was. Grantaire was OK. And there was nothing that would keep Enjolras away. He needed to see it for himself; he needed to see Grantaire’s face, to see him in one piece. Enjolras ran straight through lights, taking it for granted that the streets were empty enough that any cars actually out would be vigilant enough to spot a blonde maniac tearing down the block.
He kept a steady rhythm as he passed Grantaire’s complex and continued down the street. He could hear Gavroche and Bahorel yelling, meaning they were following, but Enjolras wouldn’t slow down. He was on a mission and, once he was on a mission, he was single-minded. All of the haziness that had been blocking him before had filtered away, and his laser-like concentration had returned. It gave him a precise focus on the path ahead.
Jumping over a pothole, he then rounded a corner and passed by his block. His tired legs were screaming at him to stop, but he ignored it and kept running, the Musain almost within sight. He would have run a thousand more miles if he needed to.
He arrived at the street where the Musain was, and he managed to increase his speed, even though he had already been pushing himself. Sweat was pouring down his face, making his hair damp around his ears, soaking through his thin T-shirt. He counted his steps; each time his foot hit the ground was a beat closer to Grantaire, closer to everything he needed.
Skidding to a stop across the street, Enjolras felt faint.
He could see Grantaire curled up on the stoop of the Musain Grille, wrapped in his favorite green hoodie and holding a paper bag that inevitably contained a bottle of whiskey. He must have gone home at some point because his jacket and shoes had been left in Enjolras’ apartment, and he was fully clothed now. For a moment, Enjolras chastised himself for not going to Grantaire’s apartment in the first place and just waiting there. That would have been the logical thing to do, if he’d been thinking logically.
But that didn’t matter because Grantaire was OK. There he was, in plain sight, alive and breathing and unharmed.
Enjolras rested his palms on his knees as he caught his breath, never taking his eyes from Grantaire, who hadn’t noticed him yet. He gasped for enough air to fill his lungs; the pain in the balls of his feet all the way up his legs didn’t matter because his boyfriend was there.
Everything could still be OK.
Though he was far from recovered physically, Enjolras took off across the street, staring at Grantaire’s face, waiting for his clear eyes to come into focus. He didn’t look in either direction before crossing the avenue.
The last thing he saw was the bright glare of lights from his right, and the last thing he heard was Grantaire screaming his name before everything went black.