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It was quiet. It had been relatively quiet for nearly five years. Except for the times Grantaire would become nearly overcome with the insanity inducing silence that he would turn his loudest music to the highest volume it could reach.
There were other times he would let his music calm him as he painted or played the guitar along and the more poppy ones that Courfeyrac had long ago snuck into his playlists that allowed him to dance along. He hadn’t done the latter in over a year. There was a lot that Grantaire had slowly stopped doing because he just couldn’t muster the passion for it, he couldn’t remember the last time he actually sang something. He painted out of necessity, not monetary necessity but for his mental stability. Grantaire had woken one morning and realized he could hardly function on his own, he needed his friends. The only thing he could do was paint them.
Enjolras, at one point, had overwhelmed and consumed the artists time and work. Now, he missed each of them dearly that they all shared the time he dedicated to his paintings and drawings. His heart ached with every day he left them. In the five years he had been gone, he had grown numb. Numb with sadness and loneliness. Grantaire took little joy in his solace, he always had. As the anniversary of the day he was shot neared for the fifth time, Grantaire was growing tired. He could not handle spending another year in that house, in that country.
He wanted to go home.
And yet he knew that he couldn’t.
The lives of his friends were at stake even now. The terrorist group had not ceased its horrors since his “death.” They were as much a threat now as they had ever been. Grantaire’s own loneliness would never trump his devotion to the lives of his friends. Not ever. Grantaire rose from his bed and decided to walk around the town to get his mind off of his friends, not that it wouldn’t help. Nothing ever did.
Grantaire was pulling on his ratty boots when he felt his phone vibrate. Grantaire hardly ever got calls, Combeferre when he could and every other month Javert or Valjean would check in with him. This was even more shocking when the name across the phone read “Javert.”
“Rene.”
“Yes?”
Shockingly, Javert did not respond immediately. This struck Grantaire because in the years Grantaire had been in Ireland, the Inspector had never stayed quiet. He would get straight to the point and the conversation was over after five minutes. When Javert’s silence extended to over a minute, Grantaire was frightened.
“Inspector? Is everything alright?”
“Yes, you…Rene, turn on the television to the local news please.”
Grantaire was in his living room and leapt over the couch before he could think. He punched the on button to the remote and quickly scanned to the News.
He dropped the phone.
“It is believed that the F.B.I. were able to apprehend the terrorist leaders this morning around 10:58 in Texas, Nebraska, and Southern Florida in simultaneous sting operations. Many members of the group opened fire on the officers and were killed in the process. Those still alive are in custody and will await trial for multiple counts of murder, homeland terrorism…”
Grantaire had stopped listening. Grantaire had stopped breathing. Grantaire’s mind was unable to form any coherent thoughts, he felt like he had been set free.
When Grantaire was able to move again he remembered about his phone. To his surprise, the inspector had stayed on the line.
“Javert.” It was all he could muster.
“I keep my word. You and your friends will always be in danger, there is always another group to take these bastards mantle, but, you are safe to go home now. Do you need some time to…”
“NO. I don’t…I don’t need anything, I just. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“I thought you might, we already have people on the way to move your things by the morning.”
Grantaire felt tears pool in his eyes. He put the back of his hand to his mouth so Javert couldn’t hear the beginnings of his sobs.
“Thank you.”
“It’s my job, but off the record, I’m glad you can finally go home.”
It was probably the nicest thing Javert had said to anyone. Ever. It only made Grantaire sob more. He heard Javert disconnect the line and the first thing he thought to do was call Combeferre, because he could come home. This would have to be dealt with delicately.
They all have thought for five years that he’s been dead.
He couldn’t imagine the pain of knowing he was alive would do. They had finally moved on from his death, moved on with their lives. He would be coming in and ripping open the wounds that hurt his group of friends the most, bringing back all the old memories. Grantaire would have to watch them fall apart for a second time, and this time he had a front row seat. The phone is still ringing while his thoughts wander.
“Hello?”
Grantaire nearly drops his phone a second time. His breathe hitches and a silence falls over the line.
It wasn’t Combeferre.
“…Hello? Combeferre isn’t here right now, can I take a message?”
Grantaire hadn’t heard his voice in nearly five years. He had seen him make speeches on t.v. and over the internet, but directly. Not like this.
Enjolras.
It takes everything in him not to say anything. Even though they were safe now. It didn’t sound like he even knew about the good news yet. It’s not like he could just spring “Guess what! You’re dead ex-boyfriend who you thought you watched get shot and bleed to death has actually been living in Ireland for five years while you mourned him! Surprise!”
Grantaire hangs up and regrets it immediately.
Enjolras stared at Combeferre’s phone and set it down with a shrug. The number had been blocked so he had no idea who it was. He moves back to living room where he had been working on his opening statements for a custody battle for a transgendered couple later that week. Combeferre comes out of the bathroom and takes a seat next to his friend. Enjolras and Combeferre had been moving the last Combeferre’s things out of their apartment to go into a house he and Eponine had been planning on moving themselves and Gavroche into before the wedding.
“Someone called you, no idea who. Number was blocked.”
Combeferre ‘hmms’ and grabs the remote to turn on the t.v.
“I’m getting a water, want one?”
“Sure.” Combeferre answers smiling.
Enjolras leaves for the kitchen while Combeferre finds his way to the local news station. It was on commercial and Combeferre was shown the joys of local puppies for sale at PetSmart!
“Breaking News. The nation is rocked by the simultaneous sting operation that has lead to deaths and arrests of a terrorist organization that has been responsible for several shootings and small bombs set off around the nation for the better half of th decade. Someof the most well-known deaths that are owed to the group are, Miles Mavrick, Allison Beeson, Rene Grantaire…”
Combeferre leaps up as he hears a glass shatter. Combeferre spins on his heel to find Enjolras shaking in the doorway.
“They…they caught them.” It was statement rather than a question.
“It’s over, finally. It’s truly over.” Enjolras’s face is starting to swell with tears.
Combeferre pulls his friend into an embrace. He holds them there, he doesn’t know how long they stood there. It didn’t really matter. Combeferre, while holding their leader, realized what this truly meant.
Grantaire would be coming back.
Three hours after Enjolras finally calms down, Combeferre receives a call from Inspector Javert.
“I expect you know what this is about?”
“I do.”
“I’ll need you to gather your friends tomorrow, this will have to be handled by a professional…I know you would rather my team and I tell your friends. You have been put into a precarious enough situation as it is.”
Combeferre sighs. “I would greatly appreciate that, thank you.”
“It’s a part of my job. I suggest you gather them at a local hotel. We will tell them and give them a while to cope and your friend will come in when they are ready.”
“I…yeah. Alright. Is three o’ clock alright?”
“Any time will work, I just want this boy back where he belongs. He’s been alone for far too long.”
“I agree completely. Thank you, three it is.”
Combeferre disconnects and finds Enjolras in the kitchen drinking warm tea and trying, unsuccessfully, to rub away a migraine.
“Enjolras, I know you’re having trouble dealing…”
“No. I’m not, ‘Ferre, I’m happy. I’m so happy it fucking hurts. I just…I need a little bit of time to sort it out, I miss Grantaire, but I finally have closure.”
Combeferre’s heart sinks into his stomach.
“I’m happy for you. I got a call from Inspector Javert, the one we gave our statements to. He needs to speak with all of us again. Are you free at three tomorrow.”
Enjolras scowls but nods his head.
“Alright, I’ll…” Combeferre is interrupted by the ringtone he had designated to Eponine.
He goes into the next room and picks up the phone only to have a flurry of voices and a frantic Eponine. All Combeferre was able to get out,
“Can you meet me at three tomorrow? We all need to discuss something.” This process was continued well on into the night with each of the Les Amis.
By the time Grantaire called, Combeferre was well prepared. There was only silence at first but finally Combeferre was able to say,
“I want to be the first to welcome you home.”
If he heard Grantaire start to sob, he would never mention it.