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Courfeyrac plopped down next to his fearless leader, shifting his chair ever so slightly to move his eyes out of line with the setting afternoon sun. This forced him closer to Enjolras. Only one of the party minded this intrusion of personal space.
“Courfeyrac…what are you doing? Can’t you see I’m busy?” The sound of the wooden chair legs rutting against the tile floor roused him from…whatever it was he was doing. All Courfeyrac knew was that his face was pressed against the papers strewn across the desk, facial features obscured by the unruly mop of golden blond hair that flopped forward as he sighed with exasperation.
“Busy, Chief? Doesn’t look like you are…you’re not writing. And you certainly aren’t giving a speech. There’s no meeting tonight. Right?” Enjolras grunted assent, his face still pressed against the table. Three empty coffee cups were scattered above him, so Courfeyrac knew he wasn’t sleeping. “Then what ails you, fearless leader?” His dark eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern, and he placed a gentle hand on Enjolras’ back, massaging gently through the red fabric of the jacket.
For once, Enjolras did not shy away from the physical contact. He sighed and lifted his head. Running a tired hand through his curls did nothing to right their haphazard placement. Courfeyrac had rarely seen his chief so disheveled. Yes, he looked rough after 3 nights of not sleeping to finish a speech for one of the rallies, or coming out of a jail cell after the mandatory holding period. But this seemed different. He couldn’t figure out what it was, yet. He rubbed gentle circles into Enjolras’ back, completely in his element of consolation and support. “Talk to me, man. That’s what I’m here for.”
Enjolras shifted abruptly, scooting his chair away from the table and pushed himself up with his hands on the edge of the rough wood. “What am I doing, Courf?”
“What? You’re…. leading a revolution, last I checked?”
“No, I mean, what….” He shook his head and stood up. He began pacing, unsure what to do with his hands. He ran them through his hair again, rubbed the bridge of his nose (a habit he picked up from Combeferre they both did while deep in thought), and checked each coffee cup to see what he could dredge out of them. All the while his countenance was wretched in something that was completely new. The corners of his mouth drew slightly upward, eyebrows heading downward and eyes full of confusion.
“Dude, seriously. What’s up? This is not like you.” He rose to meet the other man in an attempt to pause his hurried actions.
“No, I know. It’s not like me it’s just…” His usually strong gaze fell stare intently as his Converse. “R didn’t come to the meeting last night.”
Courfeyrac took his turn to be utterly confused. “Well…yeah. R doesn’t show up. He’s probably on one of his depressive bouts. You know how he gets.”
“Courfeyrac, you don’t understand!”
“Obviously. What’s wrong with you?”
“Everything. I know how he gets and still, I yelled at him. Now I haven’t seen him in 5 days.” Enjolras slumped down into the chair again, head in his hands.
Courfeyrac remained standing. Of all the things he expected his best friend to say, this wasn’t on the list of topics. This wasn’t even on the list of backup topics. For once his garrulous life, he was at a loss for words. He stood there, mouth agape, and ran his own hand through his curly brown hair. “What?”
“How thick can you be, Courfeyrac? I think I may have scared him away for good, this time. I can’t believe my idiocy.” As if he had an epiphany, he jolted up and all but ran towards the stairs to the main room of the Musain. “I need something stronger than coffee…”
“Enjolras, wait!” Courfeyrac followed him and stopped him on the stairs. Despite being taller than most of their group, Enjolras did not gain much speed from the extra length in his stride. “Are you going to…drink? Over Grantaire?”
“YES! Why else would I drink? It’s only fair, right?” They both sat down on the stairs, the ancient structure creaking.
Courfeyrac could only shake his head, hands buried in his bright vest jacket. “Nope, still not following.”
“Courf, it’s like this…Grantaire drinks because he thinks he is worthless. At least, I think he does. But he’s not. I just make him feel that way.” Here, he paused to get some sort of confirmation from the Center, who merely cocked his head and whirled two fingers to indicate go on to Enjolras.
“He’s not worthless. He’s brilliant and talented and worth so much and all I do is make him sad when that’s the opposite of what I want. God, I sound ridiculous…
“Courfeyrac, he hates me and I can’t stand that.”
“….You can’t be serious. Enjolras. You really are clueless, aren’t you?”
The sorrow on his face was again replaced with confusion. “What about that makes me clueless? You don’t think I know my own friends? I think I really do feel something for him and I know he hates me. I’ll never have a chance to let him know. Courfeyrac, what do I do?”
“Oh my sweet holy God. Enjolras! You like R?” The words came out in an excited rush, much higher than his usual pitch.
Enjolras’ hands shot out in exasperation. “Have you been listening at all? This is why I don’t usually let you guys see me like this.”
“And, if I may ask, fearless leader, how often are you like this?”
“I…I don’t know. How often does Grantaire skip out on us like this?”
“Enjolras! That’s, like, twice a month. You…you…” He began gesticulating wildly, his mouth moving without sound in a strange miming act. He was all but bouncing up and down, attracting more than a little attention from the downstairs patrons.
“Courfeyrac, use your words.”
“No. I can’t. Just…” Courfeyrac held out his hand toward Enjolras, holding him metaphorically in place. Enjolras unwittingly held his breath, waiting. A sudden impulse broke Courfeyrac of his reverie. He turned on a dime, his absurd Oxford shoes squeaking on the wooden stairs as he leaped downward 3 stairs at a time. “Be right back!” And he was gone.
Plaintively, the blond called after his friend, “If you see R, let him know I’m here, okay?” He propped himself up and trudged up to the stairs to resume his work. Those speeches wouldn’t write themselves.