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Grantaire was eight years old the first time he twisted in his bedsheets and wondered what it would feel like to just keep twisting, to twist until they looped around his neck and cut off his oxygen and let him die. Maybe his mother would finally notice him; at the least his father couldn’t hit him anymore.
He was eight years old.
To adults, children don’t have “real” problems; their worries and concerns float away on a summer breeze of carelessness, chalked up to hormones or underdeveloped brains or whatever psychiatrists came up with. The truth was that some children saw in their waking lives worse nightmares than other children could even imagine, and that these problems were more real than many “adult” problems. And they grew. And they festered.
And so by the time Grantaire turned thirteen years old, he was already lost, lost to a sea of depression, of self-loathing, of self-medication in the form of a bottle. He who never had anyone who loved him, who wanted him around, found his comfort in the ready embrace of addiction and despair.
The problems didn’t disappear, but they were hidden for a time, and thus for a time, it was enough. When the bottle was no longer enough to hide what he could not face, Grantaire turned deeper into the hold of addiction, swallowing pills, snorting white powder, injecting questionable substances with even more questionable needles into his veins. Always seeking that next gap where he could pretend that he wasn’t himself, that he wasn’t the way he was, that life was something worth sticking around for.
That he graduated high school was a miracle – that he got into college was an act of God. And it was in college that he met them – the group of people, nominally his friends, Les Amis de l’ABC – who would forever change his life.
Including, and especially, Enjolras.
When later he would tell this story, he would claim love at first sight. He would be lying. Lust at first sight, certainly. Love…well, Grantaire was incapable of love at that time, of an emotion burning that brightly. He was in a constant state of hungover or drunk, high or itching for it, far too caught up in this cycle to feel anything but passing want coupled with self-loathing that made him truly not want for it.
Besides, Enjolras hated him. Tolerated his presence at most, but must surely hate him, for how could anyone such as Enjolras not hate Grantaire? Even Grantaire hated Grantaire. And Grantaire was not a golden godling full of fervor and light.
And in Enjolras Grantaire sought affirmation, sought reassurance that he was as worthless as he felt, as useless as he knew he was, as unworthy to be in Enjolras’s presence as he was in any of Les Amis, who were all good men with good hearts. Luckily for Grantaire, Enjolras’s emotions ran high and he kept a short fuse, thus supplying twisted validation to Grantaire as often as he sought it.
It became a drug in and of itself, an addiction as pure as any of his others.
And in the meantime he brawled, getting into barfights, sometimes with Bahorel, sometimes against Bahorel, always waiting to get beat up, to feel fists against his skin, to feel the physical embodiment of how he felt inside. Grantaire, who had watched Fight Club a few too many times, would stand grinning at the sight of his blood-flecked teeth n the mirror, at the rapidly darkening bruises on his cheek and jaw, and think to himself, I am Jack’s wasted life.
He wasn’t. To say he was anyone’s wasted life was to imply that he had potential in the first place, which was mostly a lie at this point. What potential did a man such as he have? He had the potential mostly to end up dead in a ditch, dead on the side of a road, dead in his shithole of an apartment with a needle sticking out of his arm. That was the potential Grantaire had.
All men must die. And Grantaire realized he had gone from chasing the high, the illusion of something worth sticking around for, to chasing the eternal nothingness he hoped would come sooner rather than later.
He didn’t care.
Addiction, depression, alcohol – it had all spiraled and morphed into one big embodiment of everything wrong in his life. And Grantaire was beginning to feel like he was so very, very tired of fighting against the inevitable.
Because it – he – just wasn’t worth it.
Enjolras was a fighter; whether for the cause or for the downtrodden, it was in his very bones to fight. He had never met a challenge that he would back down from, met an opponent that he was unable to beat.
Yet.
But Enjolras was not involved in Grantaire’s battle, in his mental fight. Grantaire was a periphery at best in Enjolras’s life, an unpleasant blip that caused more consternation than he was surely worth, sitting in the back of meetings, cracking jokes, interrupting, arguing with Enjolras over every little point only to wink and say disarmingly, “Just playing devil’s advocate.”
Devil’s advocate, Enjolras’s ass.
It didn’t help that Grantaire was attractive, in a way that he didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to try and process. Any attractiveness was overridden by his sarcasm, his cynicism, his devil-may-care attitude that rubbed Enjolras the wrong way. He chalked it up to just another reason why Grantaire was a distraction.
He wanted to kick Grantaire out, to ban him from meetings, but Combeferre refused. “You need him,” Combeferre told him. “He does good things for you. Makes you stop and think. And besides, he looks like he’s going through a rough patch right now, and could probably use all the support and friends that he can get.”
Enjolras didn’t particularly care what Grantaire was going through – it didn’t excuse his behavior in meetings, regardless – but reluctantly agreed to letting Grantaire stay, though he was determined the dark-haired man would not get to him.
Which was why, when Combeferre called, Enjolras had the reaction that he did. “It’s Grantaire,” Combeferre said, his normally calm, controlled voice sounding anything but. “I don’t exactly what happened, but he and Bahorel got in a bar fight and something was said and Grantaire took something, and moral of the story is you need to get over here, now.”
Enjolras sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ferre, this is hardly my area of expertise. I really don’t think that I can do anything—”
Combeferre’s voice was on the brink of fury when he cut him off. “Enjolras. That wasn’t a request. He’s at my place. Get here. Now.”
“Ferre—” Enjolras started, with another sigh.
“He asked for you,” Combeferre said, roughly, interrupting Enjolras yet again. “We tried to get him to tell us what he took and the only thing he said was your name. So either get over here or we’re bringing him to you.”
That stopped Enjolras in his tracks. Why in the world would Grantaire say his name, of all things? He would have pondered longer but Combeferre rarely made idle threats, so Enjolras headed to Combeferre’s apartment.
He found Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Bahorel all there, all looking with grave concern at Grantaire, who was curled on the couch, back facing them, looking dead if not for the subtle - and far too slow - rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Barely.
At Combeferre’s indication, Enjolras hesitantly approached, placing a tentative hand on Grantaire’s shoulder, withdrawing it instantly when Grantaire flinched. “Grantaire?"
The sound of Enjolras’s voice was enough to make Grantaire roll over, eyes glazed and unfocused. “Enj…ras?" he breathed.
Enjolras knelt down next to him, tentatively touching his shoulder again when Grantaire didn’t flinch away. “I’m here," he said, voice uncharacteristically soft.
"I fucked up," said Grantaire, voice almost dreamy and just as quiet as Enjolras’s had been. “I’m sorry."
"Don’t apologize. It’s fine. No one’s angry with you."
The dreamy half-smile on Grataire’s face tightened and he started to turn away. “No, not angry, just disappointed."
Enjolras’s grip tightened momentarily on Grantaire’s shoulder, and he just managed to resist the urge to make him turn around and face him. “No one is disappointed in you, Taire. I’m not disappointed in you."
"You’re always disappointed in me," Grantaire murmured. “And this time you should be."
Wordlessly, he held his arm out to Enjolras, who extended Grantaire’s arm, eyes narrowed as he saw plainly what had been going on, the scars and the track marks that illustrated Grantaire’s life so clearly. “How—" he started, voice cracking with something like fury, a mask for the icy panic that gripped his heart like a vice. “How could you do this to yourself? How could you be this stupid? Grantaire, at this rate you’re going to kill yourself! Is that what you want?"
"Yes," breathed Grantaire, voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want."
"Grantaire—" Enjolras started, then had to stop, completely unsure of what to say.
Grantaire half-smiled again, a bitter smile. “Now you understand."
Enjolras did understand. And he didn’t. He never would be able to understand since he was not in Grantaire’s shoes, had not experienced what Grantaire had. He knew in that moment that his harsh assessment of Grantaire had been just that – overly harsh. He knew that something was broken inside Grantaire, just as he knew that, in a rush of emotions that he couldn’t even begin to make sense of, something inside of him broke at the thought of that.
Enjolras was a fighter. This was one battle that he could not fight. And that knowledge wounded him in ways he could not begin to comprehend.
What he could do, and what he did do, was sit down on the couch next to where Grantaire half-sat, half-lay, gathering him into his arms. Grantaire was so much lighter than he expected, and Enjolras’s stomach twisted unpleasantly, wondering when the last time was that Grantaire ate, wondering when the last time was that Grantaire cared enough to give himself sustenance.
Enjolras had always thought Grantaire was headed in the way of killing himself, whether through the drink or something else. Now that he saw the reality in front of him, he hoped and prayed more fervently than ever that he was wrong, that there was still time to help him.
Grantaire twitched in his grasp, trying to pull away. “Let go of me," he rasped.
Enjolras shook his head. “No, I’m not going to, Grantaire."
Twisting more violently, Grantaire snapped, “You don’t even like me. We’re not friends. Let go."
"That’s not true," Enjolras said, voice as gentle as he could make it while still ringing with the truth. “I am your friend, we all are. We care about you."
“Let me go,” sobbed Grantaire brokenly, making half-hearted efforts to push Enjolras away. “No one wants me here, no wants me to be their friend, to be their anything. I’m nothing, I’m useless, let me go.”
Enjolras only gripped him tighter. “No,” he said, voice firm. “I won’t. Because you’re wrong, Grantaire. We do want you here. I want you here. You are my friend. You are mine. I will never let you go, not without fighting for you.”
Grantaire continued to sob, abandoning his efforts to push Enjolras away, instead laying his head against Enjolras’s chest and crying into his shirt. Enjolras rubbed his back soothingly, holding him as tightly as he dared, eyes burning with unspoken emotion. Combeferre ushered everyone else out and stopped only to clap Enjolras on the shoulder as he continued holding Grantaire to him, whispering, “Stay as long as you need."
He stayed all night, cradling Grantaire in his arms as Grantaire slept fitfully, waking to cry and shake more, for which Enjolras would hold him all the tighter.
The next morning, Enjolras drove him to a rehabilitation clinic. They sat together in the car for a few moments, Grantaire looking down at his hands, eyes still red from crying. “I…thank you," he started, awkwardly.
"Don’t thank me yet," Enjolras replied, smiling slightly. “The worst, as I understand it, is yet to come."
Grantaire shot a fleeting look at the entrance to the clinic, then dropped his gaze back to his lap. “I…I don’t know how to say this, if now is the time, but I…I mean…"
"Don’t," Enjolras commanded in a gentle tone. “We’ll talk about it when you’re out."
Grantaire half-smiled, something of his old snark sneaking back into his voice as he said, “You don’t even know what I was going to say."
Enjolras smiled slightly as well. “No, but I know what I think you were going to say, and if I’m right, it should be the last thing on your mind. I’ll wait for you to get out, and then we can talk, alright?"
Nodding, just once, Grantaire muttered, “Thanks. Again. I’ll…I’ll see you."
As he started to get out of the car, Enjolras reached out, hand encircling Grantaire’s too-thin wrist. “Grantaire, wait, I—" He broke off, biting his lip nervously. “Get better, alright?"
"I’ll try," said Grantaire with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Enjolras nodded, jerkily, then said in a low voice, so quiet Grantaire almost couldn’t hear him, “I believe in you."
Grantaire blinked, surprised, opened his mouth to say something, seemed to think better of it, and jerked his shoulders in a half-shrug. Then he was gone, up the stairs and into the clinic, and Enjolras stared after him for a long time before driving away.
Rehab was not difficult. Staying clean within the sanitary white walls was hardly the issue. It would be staying clean outside of the clinic that could ruin Grantaire.
He talked with the therapist about it, his worries about relapse and clean living. He told her about Enjolras, how much he meant to Grantaire, how much Grantaire wanted to get clean and stay clean for him.
To which she responded that if he really wanted to get clean, he had to get clean for himself.
He scoffed at first, but as he thought more about it, he knew she was right. This - whatever this is or was or whatever between him and Enjolras - he could have just imagined it. Or it could be as fleeting as a dream, a blip to soon pass. He couldn’t rely on it, on getting better for it, for him.
Of course, if he wasn’t getting better for Enjolras, was there a point to getting better, to making something of his life? He was still going to be a screwed up slacker even without the drugs and booze. Was it really worth it?
He sat one day watching the sunrise, up long before he needed to, and to his surprise felt a longing to paint the scene in front of him, the sun dappling the trees and grass. It was the first time he had wanted to paint in years, and he realized that the world was still a beautiful place. And he began to think that maybe it was worth it.
It was going to be a lifelong battle, but for the first time in a long time, Grantaire began to think that maybe it was a battle he could win after all.
During his stay, Les Amis wrote to him. They weren’t allowed to visit, but still all managed to send letters. Especially Enjolras, who wrote him every single day.
And every letter Enjolras sent always ended with the same missive – “Stay strong. You belong to us. You belong to me. And you are strong enough to get through this. Believe in yourself, because I believe in you.”
It didn’t solve anything. It never could solve anything. These words were just that, just words written on a piece of paper, sentiment and nothing more.
But the words stirred something deep inside of Grantaire, something that had lain dormant for as long as he could remember. And it was as if they gave Grantaire permission to search inside himself for those hidden parts he could barely remember, as if they gave Grantaire permission to find strength he didn’t know he had, as if they gave Grantaire permission to face his demons.
As if they gave Grantaire permission to heal.
And though it wasn’t the words or the sentiment expressed that healed Grantaire, that set him back on the right path, it was through them that he discovered strength he had not known he had possessed. It was through them that he was able to turn his life around.
The words didn’t do anything – not on their own. Words alone never could; sentiment alone never could. Even if he had had Enjolras to cradle him every night and whisper those words in his ears, it would not be enough.
Words are not a cure.
There is no cure.
But they reminded him that such a time existed when Grantaire did not hate himself as much as he did now. And they gave him hope that such a time could come again. They were ammunition in a fight that Grantaire had previously been unable or unwilling to undertake, a literal fight for his life, and maybe – just maybe – they were the final motivation he needed to finally, finally start fighting back.
When he got out, it was without fanfare. There was no greeting party waiting to meet him, just Combeferre, who had volunteered to be his sober living companion for the first few months, at least. As Combeferre pulled him into a gentle hug, he whispered in Grantaire’s ear, “He wants to see you. When you’re ready."
Grantaire was as ready as he could be, having prepared for and fretted over this moment for the past week, wanting to see Enjolras, not wanting to see Enjolras, not wanting to see the look on his face, the look in his eyes, the fear, the wariness, and most of all, the…something more. He feared that most of all. Both of seeing it, and of seeing it disappear.
Still, it was the moment he had been preparing himself for, and he knew he had to do it sooner rather than later. So that night, he had Combeferre drive him to Enjolras’s, and palms sweating, he knocked on the door.
It was only a moment before Enjolras opened it, and seeing Grantaire standing there, a rush of emotions flit over Enjolras’s face, before settling on genuine happiness to see him. “Grantaire," he said, smiling, reaching out to pull him into a gentle hug. “I missed you." He pulled away, holding him at arm’s length. “You look really, really well."
"Thanks," said Grantaire, blushing slightly. “I have you to thank, in large part. Your letters…they really helped."
Enjolras smiled slightly. “Good, I’m…I’m glad they helped."
They both stood in awkward silence for a few moments before Enjolras cleared his throat and asked, “Do you want to come in?"
Grantaire nodded, feeling even more nervous. He followed Enjolras inside, realizing this was his first time in Enjolras’s apartment, and he mentioned as such.
A strange look crossed Enjolras’s face and he shook his head. “Actually, it’s not you. You spent the night here one. You were, uh, sleeping off a bender."
"Oh." Grantaire’s heart sank, and he licked his lips nervously. “I…I can’t imagine what you must think of me."
Enjolras frowned and gestured for Grantaire to sit next to him on the couch. “What I must think of you?" he repeated. “What do you mean?"
Grantaire flushed and looked down. “You…you’ve seen me at my worst. I…I honestly don’t know if you’ve ever seen me sober. And…I just…"
He trailed off, but Enjolras took over gently. “You’re worried that I hate you, or look down on you, but Grantaire, you couldn’t be more wrong." Grantaire’s eyes flickered up to his, and Enjolras reached out and squeezed his hand. “The only thing I feel is guilt over not knowing earlier how much you were hurting, not getting you the help you needed."
"You couldn’t have known," Grantaire protested, but Enjolras shook his head.
"I could have, if I had looked past the cynicism and the smirk, actually looked at you as a person. I should have noticed, I should have said something, I should have—" He broke off, biting his lip.
Grantaire squeezed his hand. “You were busy planning a revolution. What good is a drunk, depressed drug addict to your grand plans?"
Enjolras shook his head. “That’s not an excuse. You more than ever are one of the people that we’re fighting for."
"I’m not a cause, Enjolras," said Grantaire shakily, his heart sinking. “You’re not fighting for me."
"I am." Enjolras’s voice was quiet but fierce. “But not as a cause. Because you’re my…my friend."
Something darkened in Grantaire’s eyes. “Just your friend?"
Enjolras’s eyes met Grantaire’s squarely. “You tell me."
Grantaire bit his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. “It won’t be easy," he warned in a soft voice. “This isn’t something that is done and over with, something that’s just going to go away. I will always be an addict."
"I know that," said Enjolras softly. “I…I’ve been doing research. How to help a recovering addict. How to help someone with depression. But I want to be there for you, Grantaire. As best as I can."
"Then - yes," said Grantaire simply.
Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t ask a question."
Grantaire’s eyebrow matched Enjolras’s. “You mean you weren’t planning to ask me to go out sometime?"
Enjolras blushed slightly. “I mean, I was, but…so you will?"
Nodding, Grantaire said thickly, “Yeah. If you’re willing to try, then so am I."
Enjolras reached out to pull Grantaire close, kissing him gently, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. Grantaire snuggled against him, grateful for the feeling of Enjolras’s arms around him. “I’ve been lost for so many years,” whispered Grantaire against Enjolras’s chest.
Enjolras kissed him on the top of his curls. “You will never be lost again. I’ve found you; I’ve got you. And I’m never letting you go.”
Grantaire pulled back, just a little, eyes wide and sad. “You can’t promise that. I know you mean it, I know you want to mean it, but you can’t make that promise, Enj, because there’s no way you can keep it.”
“I can,” Enjolras replied, voice sure and steady. “I cannot promise that you will never feel lost again, I cannot promise that you will never fall, will never stumble, will never surrender yourself to your demons because I can’t promise any of that. As much as I desperately want to. But what I can promise is that you are mine, that I will never surrender you without a fight, that when you think you’ve given up I will always try to find a way to bring you back to me.” He paused, then added, “You are mine. And I will always fight for you, fight beside you, fight when you can’t. Always remember that.” He kissed him again, just lightly brushing his lips against Grantaire’s forehead. “I love you.”
And Grantaire knew, really truly knew, that Enjolras meant it – he loved Grantaire for all that he was, all that he could never be, all the brokenness and the jagged edges and the parts that didn’t seem to fit together. He loved Grantaire, and on its own it would never be enough, enough to sustain him, to keep him whole, but on the bad days, on the days when Grantaire succumbed to the darkness that would never truly recede, it might be enough to get him through, to keep him going until he found the light again.
Because if Enjolras could love him, really, truly love him, then it would serve as a powerful reminder that Grantaire could love himself, just a little, too.
So he curled in even closer to Enjolras, basking in his warmth, feeling more whole than he had in years, and whispered against Enjolras’s neck, “I love you, too.”