#abccafe

“Knock, knock. Anybody home?” 

Enjolras startled out of his reverie at the sound of that husky voice. He looked up into the eyes of Grantaire. Those eyes. He could get lost in them so easily. Too easily. The golden specks that were scattered amongst the brown caught the firelight in the most captivating way tonight. His eyes dropped to his friend’s lips for the briefest second before he took a deep breath and tore his gaze away. He stared into the fire that smoldered in front of the chair where he sat. Something inside him flared with a matching glow, even as he fought to smother the familiar warmth.

“You were really lost in your thoughts, my friend. Even more so than usual. Where were you?” Grantaire spoke as he plopped down onto the chair across the table from him. A brown bottle landed on the table with a clunk a moment later. 

“What is it tonight? Rum or whiskey?” he replied, ignoring his friend’s question for a moment as Grantarie wiped his hand across his mouth. 

“Father refused to give me an advance on my allowance again, so I had to settle for Madame Hucheloup’s cheapest rye. Honestly, I don’t know why he hasn’t given up on expecting anything from me. He knows I have been measured and found wanting. Things would be so much easier if he just shifted his standards to match.”

“Yes, yes. We all know you are good for nothing, R” Enjolras replied, the slightest hint of satire in his voice. The truth was, he saw the little things that Grantaire thought no one noticed. How he always put aside some of his dinner from the cafe, handing it off to that street kid Gavroche when he didn’t think anyone was looking. Or how desperately he reached out for connection with his fellow students, even if it looked like drunken teasing or sarcasm. Enjolras believed that Grantaire could be a real leader, if he dropped that protective mask of carelessness that he wore. And if he could put down the bottle for once. 

Grantaire rolled his eyes at his friend’s jest and raised an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t answer my question…”

“Lamarque is unwell. The news came tonight.” 

“Oh. Has the word spread? I hadn’t heard anything.” Grantaire’s face turned serious. He knew how important Lamarque, and the cause he championed, was to Enjolras.  Grantaire couldn’t quite imagine throwing oneself so wholly into one thing, especially to the extent that Enjolras did. His friend cared more about the fight for rights and freedoms for the people of France than Grantaire had ever seen anyone care about anything. 

“I don’t think so. I was trying to decide if I should tell everyone or if it was best to wait a bit and see if he makes a recovery first. Do you think it would shake their support too much if they knew?” 

“I suppose that would depend on what he was sick with. Cholera has been going around, and you know they say that’s a death sentence.” 

“Life itself in France is a death sentence for many.” Enjolras replied somberly.

“And now you know why I enjoy the company of my bottle, my dear friend. Might as well enjoy whatever time I have until it all catches up to me, eh?” 

“Enjoyment? That’s what you call it? I’d have guessed numbing the despair of reality was more likely the driving force.” Enjolras met the other man’s gaze as he spoke. 

Grantaire snorted. “We all have our ways of facing the day. Some of us numb our feelings and some of us simply refuse to admit they exist.”  As he said the last, he stood up and faced the fire, frustration clear in his stance. 

Enjolras was silent for a moment. He gazed at his friend’s tousled, curly head of hair and his broad shoulders. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wanted to counter the accusation in R’s statement, but he knew if he took his eyes off the cause, even for a moment, it would be that much harder to return to it after. He had to remain focused, to put aside anything that could distract him from the fight they were championing. Too many people had died in the fight for freedom already. If he faltered, he would be failing them and dishonoring their memory. How could he live with himself then? Even if it meant denying himself what he longed for the most. 

Yet he couldn’t bear to be at odds with his dearest friend. Enjolras stood up and moved to stand beside R in front of the fire. 

Grantaire held his position, unwilling to make up that easily. He had a passionate nature and felt things more deeply than anyone around him realized. A childhood marked by a dead mother and a distant father had taught him to retreat into himself more with each passing year. Once, he had fallen and skinned his knee while walking with his father to church. Five-year-old Grantaire had tried to be brave, but he couldn’t contain the tears as they slipped down his cheeks. He could still remember (although he did his best to forget) the scorn that he saw in his father’s eyes when he looked up to him for comfort. “Are you crying, boy? Get up and brush yourself off. How are you ever going to amount to anything in society if you wear your heart on your sleeve so? You’ve got to toughen up, young man. Tears will get you nowhere in life.” Grantaire had spent most of his childhood in boarding schools, and had long ago found drink to be a particular solace from the loneliness he had borne for most of his life. 

Not many people know of this painful childhood, as he rarely allowed anyone to see that deeply behind the mask that he wore. He was known as the jester of the group, always teasing or making a sarcastic comment. He flirted, he mocked, he laughed, but he never showed how he really felt about anything. The only real emotion he allowed to slip through was his admiration and affection for Enjolras. 

Grantaire stood silently, waiting for his friend to speak first. He could see him from the corner of his eye. R took a deep breath and held it. Their shoulders were almost touching. He could feel the warmth of his friend’s closeness. He found himself wondering, as he often had before, if he was the only one who felt this energy between them. Did Enjolras ever think of him, in the rare moments when things were quiet? Did he ever long to step just beyond the barrier of space they somehow always managed to maintain between them? To lean in until their lips…”

“I’m sorry. I was out of line.” Enjolras’ voice was soft. There was a rare tenderness in his tone as he spoke, quietly enough that only R could hear him. “I confess, I cannot allow myself to feel anything other than my passion for the people of France. Perhaps someday, when we have secured their freedom, I can allow myself to think and feel differently. For now, I am just thankful to have my friends by my side in the fight.” Enjolras turned to face Grantaire, extending his hand and waiting for his friend’s response. 

Their eyes met. They regarded each other for a long moment. R dropped his eyes and studied the offered hand before taking it in his own. A current flowed through his arm at the contact. They locked eyes again and Grantaire could swear he saw a softening in his friend’s gaze. A feeling of contentment filled him as Enjolras nodded and touched Grantaire’s shoulder with his free hand. 

R released a deep breath.