Work Text:
He’s holding hands with Combeferre. Enjolras is leaning in against him and resting his head on his shoulder and laughing and smiling and trailing the fingers of his unoccupied hand through his hair, and Grantaire can feel nausea pushing up his throat so he just turns on his heel and storms towards the bathrooms, unsure what he’s feeling at first until it resolves into a massive aching lump of hurt and distress and betrayal that sits on his chest. It was just a stupid argument, it was just a silly little thing about going out or something and now Enjolras is…he’s doing this, and Grantaire doesn’t know what’s going on, he just leans against the sink and stares at his reflection for a few awful, sickening minutes, shocked and pale, before he burst into tears.
Grantaire hasn’t cried for ages – he’d thought himself incapable of it, thought his desperate attempt at blocking off his more complex emotions had stripped him of that ability, but right now he’s sobbing, great heaving gasps that make him feel sick and shake so hard he’s worried he’s going to just collapse to the floor or pass out, he’s feeling so utterly shaken and confused by what’s happening. He only came down here to apologise, to tell Enjolras he’s sorry, he has no idea why he even bothered, now, Enjolras clearly doesn’t miss him, he’s already found someone else, of course it was fucking Combeferre he’s perfect, the bastard.
Enjolras is either being intentionally mean – and a complete moron – or he truly doesn’t care about Grantaire, and the overriding opinion of his complete jackass of a brain is the latter, that he’s pissed Enjolras off so much he’s gone, he’s turned to someone more reliable and familiar who won’t screw him over like Grantaire inevitably will – like Grantaire has. He tried to take a few deep, calming breaths but his chest was tight and he leaned forwards and pressed his forehead to the mirror and sobbed, wretched and feeling nothing but hurt and wounded, his chest heaving and his head swimming.
“R,” someone says, and he looks over to see Jehan beside him, a hand on his shoulder, and he suddenly can’t support himself any more, his knees are buckling and he slides to the floor, hands still gripping the sink, knuckles white from it, his forehead pressed now against the cool porcelain as he blurts out the whole story to his friend, in between massive gulps of air and harsh coughing sobs. It isn’t until he’s finished that he realises that Jehan is stroking his back gently, and it isn’t until he’s stopped speaking that he can really feel the nausea creeping up his throat and he only just shoves Prouvaire away in time to push past him and grab the bin to vomit into, the first disgusting lot of it watery and thin and the second wave is acidic and burning and forces more tears from his eyes.
Jehan clicks his tongue and pulls his hair back from his pale sweaty face for him, murmuring something, which Grantaire thinks is supposed to be soothing to him, and helping him to his feet. He still feels dizzy and sick and hollow the way he always does after he vomits. He blinks blearily, and allows Jehan to pull him from the bathroom and back out into the bar for a glass of water. He’s buried his face in the crook of his arm by the time he hears Enjolras’ voice, irritated at first.
“What the hell happened here?”
Jehan’s there within a moment and Grantaire can imagine his pretty face – twisted and contorted with fury but still lovely, like some vicious nymph or sprite. “You happened here, what the hell were you doing draping yourself all over Combeferre like that?” he hisses, and Grantaire hears the floorboards creak and would bet all the money he has on that being the sound of Enjolras stepping away – Jehan is terrifying sometimes.
“I didn’t – I wasn’t-”
“Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve done? Do you even know him at all? You know how he can be, but you didn’t fucking think, did you?”
“I’m sorry,” Enjolras insists. “I’m – Jehan, please, let me take him home, I’m so sorry.”
Jehan does that clicking thing with his tongue again and sighs. “If you hurt him again, I will eviscerate you, I will fucking destroy you. Understand?”
“Yes,” Enjolras replies in a quiet voice, and then his hand is on Grantaire’s back and he just groans, he feels awful still, and hollow and upset and knows that Enjolras is there but it feels like he’s not, it feels like he’s a million miles away. “Let’s go home,” he whispers, and Grantaire allows him to help him up and guide him out the door and up the road to their shitty little apartment that’s all they can afford since Enjolras’ parents cut him off for dating a man and Grantaire’s number of jobs went from three to one in a single day when his employers found out he’s gay. The same article about the MP’s son and the failing artist was to blame in both situations.
He’s not sure how they make it up the stairs but they do and he flops down on the sofa, face smashed into a pillow, as soon as he can, hands trembling and that nausea rising in his throat again. Enjolras is close, he can feel his hand on his back and one resting on the cushions by his head.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, and Grantaire turns his head so he can look at him with one eye carefully. “I didn’t – hurting you wasn’t my intention.”
“But you did,” Grantaire croaks back, throat sore, tears welling in his eyes again – fucking tears, he looks ridiculous, he knows. “You did hurt me. You’re everything to me, why would you do that?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Enjolras repeats, voice wavering once but not a second time. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” That’s weak, and Enjolras seems to know it because he shakes his head and sighs. “You drive me mad. You make me so angry, even when you’re not trying to. I just needed to calm down and it felt good to think I might be able to get back at you like that. I never intended for you to see.”
“Have you ever done that before?” Grantaire murmurs, feeling hideously wobbly again.
“No, I – it was just a snap decision.” He’s carding his fingers through Grantaire’s hair carefully now, and he does seem genuinely emotional about the whole ordeal. “I’m sorry you were sick. I’m sorry I upset you enough that you were sick. I’m sorry I upset you.”
“I don’t – it’s okay,” he mutters and turns a little into the hand in his hair. “I mean, it’s not. I still feel – I’m not okay. That hurt. That shook me, I feel uneven, now. Like the ground isn’t flat anymore and I can’t see where I’m going, like I’m going to trip and you’re supposed to be there to catch me and for the minute I can’t trust you to do that.”
“You can trust me.” Enjolras’ voice is low and soft and slow, and he’s watching Grantaire with an intensity that shocks him. “You don’t have to, not right now, but you can. When you’re ready to, you can trust me. I want you to be able to. I love you, I really, really do love you, and I’m really, really sorry.”
Grantaire squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and turns away to bury his face in the cushion, and when he looks back up at Enjolras his face is a bit drier.
“Come lie down with me,” he says, turning onto his side so there’s enough room for the two of them on the sofa. Enjolras clambers up gratefully and lies down facing him so they’re pressed together at their foreheads, chests and knees.
For a few moments they just breathe and Enjolras reaches up to brush away a tear from the corner of Grantaire’s mouth gently.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again after a few minutes of silence.
“Okay,” Grantaire replies. “Okay.”