Work Text:
When Grantaire gets out of holding for his second DUI, Courfeyrac does not look pleased. Grantaire knows he shouldn’t be: it’s half past five in the morning, and Grantaire woke him almost two hours ago. He’s certainly got work in the morning, but Grantaire was desperate and didn’t know who else to call.
“You can’t keep doing this,” Courfeyrac says, anger at the forefront of his voice as he unlocks the car. Grantaire slides into the passenger seat with only a little trouble.
“I know.” Courfeyrac sighs and looks at him as he slides the key into the ignition.
“Do you?” He doesn’t let Grantaire answer. “No, really, do you R? This is your second DUI for Christ’s sake—you got fired from your last job because of this. When are you going to get your shit together?”
It’s the most sober he’s felt all night when Grantaire replies, again, “I know.”
Courfeyrac is driving now, but he could look at Grantaire. He doesn’t, and it’s purposeful.
“You better. I’m not doing this for you again.” Then he completely misses the turn to get to Grantaire’s house. Grantaire frowns. “I’m taking you back to mine,” he says quietly, “You’re not drinking as soon as you wake up.”
Every part of Grantaire’s body wants him to protest, but he keeps silent. Because this time, he really does know.
When he wakes up the next day, the first thing he does is vomit. He’s surprised but grateful that it’s not on the floor of Courfeyrac’s small living room: apparently his friend had put a trashcan next to him after he passed out. Grantaire rolls off of the couch after the first wave so he can better kneel over it when the second comes up, and then the third. His head aches, but it’s only half from a hangover: the rest is from the fact that he hasn’t had a drink yet.
“Thank God you’re up, I was beginning to think you were dead,” Courfeyrac says. He flops down on the couch. When Grantaire looks up at him, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, Courfeyrac cringes. He does not look pleased.
“Wha’ time ‘s it?” Grantaire asks, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Just past four. Like, I went to bed, got up, went to work, and came back, and you were still asleep. Jesus.” Grantaire’s eyes open again. Courfeyrac looks properly pissed now.
“Yeah, well, y’know me,” he says, hoping it will diffuse the tension. Courfeyrac sighs.
“I do.” It’s almost spat. “R—you fucked up last night, okay? You can’t just brush this one away becau--”
“I said I know,” Grantaire hisses. “For fuck’s sake, I—I know, okay Courfeyrac.” Courfeyrac’s eyes are boring holes into him now, and it almost makes him shiver. Instead, he leans over and vomits again.
“I—know,” he repeats, and this time tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. Grantaire isn’t even sure why they do, but they’re there, stuck almost behind his throat and in his eyelids, and he wishes they would just go away. Instead, they flow faster. “Fuck, I need a drink.”
“No.” Grantaire’s eyes snap up to meet Courfeyrac’s. His are cold. “No, you don’t need a drink. You’re getting sober.” Grantaire shakes his head.
“I can’t—I can’t do that, okay? I’ve t-tried, you fucking k-know that, it’s useless as fuck and I’m just… I just need to…” The words won’t come, but the emotion is spinning his head. He drops it to his hands and curls fists into his own hair. Then Grantaire tugs hard. He tugs until it’s all he can feel anymore, until he’s ripped at least half of a handful out. It takes Courfeyrac prying his hands away to realize his friend has moved.
“Grantaire,” Courfeyrac says, and his voice is soft compared to earlier. “Grantaire—look at me. Look at me.” Grantaire, shakily, does. Courfeyrac’s brown eyes lock to his hazel. “You’re capable of it. Okay? And I know—shit, I know I shouldn’t have gotten upset, but I’m just sick of seeing this—this addiction or disease or whatever the proper way is to classify it is, I’m sick of seeing it destroy your life.” He’s holding both of Grantaire’s hands in one of his, and his other hand is warm between Grantaire’s shoulder blades. It’s the first thing that has grounded Grantaire in ages.
“Me too,” he whispers. It’s the first time he’s said it in forever, but as soon as he does, Grantaire knows how true it is. Courfeyrac nods.
“Then we sort this out. We—I don’t know, find you an Alcoholics Anonymous group or whatever, or get you into rehab. If you’re serious, I’ll… I’m your friend, I’m willing to help you okay?”
Grantaire nods. He says thank you. He asks Courfeyrac if he can get a lift home, to which Courfeyrac agrees. And then he goes inside, kicks off his shoes, grabs a bottle of Vodka and gets drunk all over again.
That’s how Grantaire spends the next three days. He leaves his place to walk the few blocks to the corner liquor store, where the girl behind the counter knows he’s got a problem but never says anything. When he only buys two bottles of vodka instead of six, she raises an eyebrow but says nothing. He’s glad for that, because he’s already opened the first bottle by the time he gets home.
The ABC has their meetings on Tuesday evenings, and it’s relatively early after one that the knock comes on Grantaire’s door. He unlocks it without checking, and is only a little bit surprised to see Courfeyrac standing there. He’s frowning. That’s when Grantaire realizes he missed the meeting.
“Fuck you, asshole,” Courfeyrac says. He turns on heel and storms out. Grantaire sinks down to the floor, leaning against the peeling doorframe. Yet again, he’s managed to disappoint the people around him, just like he always has.
Just like he always will.
“What’s going on?”
Grantaire’s head snaps up. There, standing in the hallway, is Enjolras. His eyebrows are almost knitted together in confusion, as if he somehow hadn’t realized Grantaire is a useless drunk. Grantaire can barely muster the energy to roll his eyes.
“I’m just being me, you know,” he says, bitter and sarcastic. “Ruining lives, crushing hopes, and the like.” Enjolras crouches down.
“Courfeyrac stormed off and left me here. What’s going on?” Against his better judgment, Grantaire looks Enjolras straight in the eyes.
“I’m a fucking alcoholic, Enjolras,” he says. “I’m a fucking alcoholic and I’m going to lose my license and probably spend time in jail and I’m too damn useless to do anything about it.” His voice cracks. He can’t hold out any longer, and the tears come, hot and fast. Enjolras’ eyes go wide.
“Come on,” he mutters, “let’s get you inside.” Grantaire doesn’t have the energy to protest as Enjolras maneuvers him up and properly back into his messy apartment. Grantaire doesn’t even have the energy to be ashamed of the weeks old dishes, or the empty bottles, or the pots half-full of vomit. He just falls down on the worn couch, and Enjolras goes down with him, holding him as he shakes with sobs.
“’m sorry,” Grantaire spits. It feels like he’s been buried alive under failure, and the pressure is causing self loathing to burst out of him at the seams. Enjolras touches two fingers to his cheek.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says, and he sounds almost hyper-rational. “Just get help.”
Grantaire snorts. “Why, so I can fuck that up too?” Enjolras shakes his head.
“You won’t fuck it up. Not if you actually want it.” Grantaire rolls his eyes.
“Do you have any idea when I last went a day without a drink?” A little unease works its way beneath Enjolras’ skin; Grantaire chuckles darkly. “It’s been years. Literally, years. And now—” Anger bubbles up “—now you’re sitting here, watching me fail again, like it’s some fucking game. Is this fun for you?! Is this something funny, watching Grantaire mess up again, giving yourself another reason to hate me?!”
Enjolras swallows. “I could never hate you,” he says, just barely a whisper. “And no—no, pity isn’t the right word either. Grantaire, I worry about you.”
It’s the last thing Grantaire expected to hear. That Enjolras, of all people, apparently cares enough about him to actually worry.
“And,” Enjolras continues, “I would like to see you get help. I would like to see you destroy this. Because you don’t—no, listen to me, you don’t deserve what this addiction does to you. And maybe you can’t see it but…” He worries his lower lip. “I can. Everyone else can. And I know they don’t like seeing you hurt either.”
Quietly, Grantaire says, “I just don’t know how I can. I’ve never been able to before.”
“I believe in you,” Enjolras replies. “Even if you don’t believe you can, I do. And I will do whatever it takes, whatever you need, to help you through this. Now can you look at me?” Grantaire looks at him, eyes swollen from crying, hair in disarray. Enjolras gives him a small smile; Grantaire struggles to return it, but he does.
“Now, we’re going to clean this place up okay?” Sluggishly, Grantaire nods. Then, Enjolras stands, extends a hand, and helps Grantaire up. Together, they throw away the trash, empty the bottles, do the dishes, and wash the laundry that Grantaire has let pile up. At the end of the night, when Enjolras falls asleep on the couch, Grantaire thinks the small warmth blooming in his chest might be called hope.