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I seek an escape

Grantaire's POV

Being painfully asocial, I rarely receive texts. My own friends don't even text me all that much, so to see my screen flashing with a message from Combeferre is a rarity, and frankly quite unnerving. Combeferre is as diplomatic as people come, so if it were to be texting me, the immature one, then I must be the last resort for an emergency, and I'd better answer that goddamn text. It's not like I really care about shit anymore, but Combeferre has been my friend for a while, so it's kind of my duty to assist him, in addition to the fact that lots of self-help manuals will tell you that helping others can improve your mood, too, although the painkillers seem to be doing that just fine.

I swipe the screen of my phone, enter in my password (which is really just a reference to rats using the number codes to accommodate letters), and peer down at the text I've received, which, as I read it, isn't so much an emergency, surprisingly.

Meet me at the Corinth? I need to talk to you.

I don't know what he could possibly want, considering he doesn't go out of his way to talk to me, despite our friendship spanning the terrain of a couple years, but I close my phone, sighing, and make my way down to the destination with nothing better to do. Hopefully it will occupy me, at least.

~~~~~

When I arrive at the Corinth, a homely wine shop a couple blocks down the street from my apartment (protruding from the opposite direction of the Musain, my other frequent hangout), the place is desolate, which can be mostly attributed to the time, an era when most people would be at home, cooking dinner or performing other evening activities about which I would have no clue because, as I mentioned, I'm a very asocial person. Kenopsia weaves into my mindset, an eerie warning that not is all that it seems. This shop is so desolate that Combeferre is the only person here, or so it seems, as a shadow lurks in the corner, somewhat familiar but somewhat distant simultaneously. I just assume he's on his own in this place, unrelated to Combeferre's business with me, business whose intentions I have no idea about.

Combeferre flags me down, scooting out a chair for me with his foot, which I graciously accept. I'm more nervous than I usually am, more on edge, which is either a side effect of the pain killers or a side effect of being stabbed in the back by someone I only wanted to please, maybe both. And something about the fishiness of this situation leads me to believe that the person I only wanted to please may be the center of the discussion I'm about to have with Combeferre.

My companion doesn't talk for a few moments, instead taking the time to absorb what's become of me. I'll admit — my appearance is more haggard and disheveled than it would normally be, which is a difficult status to achieve, so I can understand why Combeferre would be a bit more than astonished to see me like this, but, because he's Enjolras' roommate, he probably knows what went down between us, and because he is one of the many people who wants us to end up together, he's most likely just trying to recover from the way my love for Enjolras manifests upon my rough figure.

Since it's clear that Combeferre is too stunned to talk, I proceed with the conversation, having dealt with this awkward silence for long enough (I don't appreciate being stared at, even if I do it to other people all the time). "So why did you call me in here?"

Combeferre snaps back to the present with an alarming jolt, and once he works his way through registering my question, a smile plucks the remnants of confusion from his face, but bits of mischief replace them. "Enjolras!" he calls.

Enjolras? What is Enjolras, of all people, doing here? That must've been the lonely figure creeping in the edge of the Corinth, and that's why he looked so familiar yet so distant to me. Nevertheless, I do not want to see Enjolras under any circumstances, but my brain soon splits away from that statement so that there are two halves, one that yearns for Enjolras' forgiveness, one that yearns to be free of this trap into which my so-called friend lured me.

"Is this some sort of fucking intervention?" I shout, panicked, startling the shy bartender who, until now, was uninterested with our affairs, and probably didn't even realize we were here. "I trusted you, Combeferre! How could you do this?"

My threats do not prevent Enjolras from making his way over to our table, and thus pandemonium consumes me. He can't be here, no, not yet. Yeah, he looks just as anxious as I do, but two anxieties don't produce a neurotypical result. They produce fearful silence between the two parties hosting them. Enjolras and I will move nowhere but backwards, but Combeferre is being as stubborn as Enjolras says I am.

Combeferre twists his arms together across his chest, reclining in his chair. "I hope you've recovered enough from yesterday's excursion, as it's now time to sort through some differences."

"You're not leaving, are you?" I inquire, movements as frantic as a puppy new to the world, a puppy terrified of the world.

"No, because if I did, then you would just sit here quietly, and rant about each other in your heads."

He has a fair point, but I still do not want to be here in any arrangement of events. I love Enjolras, and I always have, but now there's a film that has settled over us and turned our relationship to dust, a top layer that makes all the difference, a top layer that blinds us from seeing that we could be much more than arguments. That top layer, no matter how thin, is the only thing upon which any of us are focusing, and Combeferre is now trying to remove it. Props to him, but is that an attainable goal? Is he simply shouting into the void that everyone made a point of avoiding?

Enjolras and I exchange our first glances since I stormed out of his apartment to try and hide my accumulating tears, and they're more powerful than I ever would've expected. There's an intensity in it, an intensity that I cannot properly describe with words nor paint. Calling it "opia" wouldn't even be enough, as that's just a definition. I need the entire world in order to express this, every word in existence, both verbal and in the unspoken plains of how things just are, how existence is too complex to pinpoint. It's like that, yet it's not like that, because that only scrapes a millimeter of material when we're working with a skyscraper. All I know is that it's fascinating, that it pulls me in, that it seems to last a century, and I barely hear what Combeferre is saying until I break the connection like I don't give a shit anymore when, in reality, all I've been doing is giving a shit, and that's why I'm such a wreck.

I hate that Enjolras has to see me like this, because although I always look like an incorrigible wretch, I look even worse now than I do on regular days. Even Enjolras, a man who battles with the gods for the title of most magnificent, has been hollowed out by yesterday's tussle. His previously golden skin is now flattened to a pallor, and his radiantly crystal eyes no longer shine as bright. Unfortunately, the fight did not take the biggest toll on us, as our states are further worsened by the shared knowledge that we did this to each other, that it was our volatile human nature that landed us in this position, that this could've been prevented if we were only smarter.

We are bound to end in ruin.

"First order of business," Combeferre begins, dropping his palms flat onto the table with a thud, therefore jarring us out of our remission from how potent the stare Enjolras and I cherished was. "Let's start by getting you both to actually talk to each other. Seriously, you look like petulant children."

I wince, and, astonishingly, so does Enjolras. He knows that "petulant child" is one of his favorite things to call me when we're fighting, and our fighting is the reason why we are now so estranged and why we are sitting in this café in the midst of an intervention, but we won't ever break free of our fighting if we don't talk to each other, so I follow Combeferre's advice.

"Did you mean what you said, Enjolras?" I ask. That question probably wasn't so appropriate, because it stirs the blame onto Enjolras for saying those things, instead of me, who triggered by them by being a petulant child, but people only recognize one side, so it's mostly a controversial question, a controversial question that I cannot take back.

Combeferre looks as though he's just been punched, as I've undermined his whole plan with one simple phrase. I was not supposed to say something like that. It was supposed to be more positive than it is, but I'm the master of fucking things up.

Enjolras' personality has flipped to that of my roommate's. He's quiet and reserved and frankly a whole lot nervous, too. The Enjolras I know isn't scared of anything, especially not telling me how he really feels about my obstinacy. He is a natural leader who never backs down. He is confident in ways that I didn't think people could be confident. That's what I admired about him. This? This is not Enjolras. I just want him back, but I keep throwing him into uncomfortable situations. I've done enough. I let him speak.

He's hesitant, though, because while I'm willing to listen to what he has to say, he doesn't even know what he's going to say, as I tossed this bomb at him and expected him to catch it with his fingernail, but good old Enjolras always tries to power through things, regardless of whether or not it exhausts him to the point of near mental combustion, and I should appreciate him for persevering for my sake, but he's wearing himself out trying to speak. "Grantaire," Enjolras starts, testing out my name, but that's as far as he gets before pausing. "Grantaire, while it is true that you are stubborn and petulant often, that doesn't mean you are not my friend, and that doesn't mean I should've acted as I did last night. I lashed out at you when I should not have, and I am very sorry."

It's incredibly demanding to push those words out, but Enjolras has accomplished things I could never accomplish, like he does always, and I am indescribably grateful that he could find it within himself to tell the truth. I knew that what he said was the ineluctable answer, the sole outcome, and that's okay. I'm just thankful that Enjolras didn't lie to me about what I already understand. Yes, his apology did seem somewhat phony, but he was scared. Fear warps the human mind in unimaginable ways, so Enjolras opted for the cavalier route to protect all of us from his emotional vomit, but one part of me wants to have heard what he would've said.

Combeferre looks perfectly satisfied with Enjolras' apology, which means that it's time for mine next, and I'm not sure that I can supply it. Both Combeferre and Enjolras are counting on me to deliver, and I fear that Enjolras' fate depends on it, but a half-assed reply is most likely the best thing I can muster. Enjolras makes things look easy, whereas I screw up even the mundane. There's an enormous gap between our articulation skills, and I'm going to be scolded by Combeferre for it. If it were my decision, I wouldn't be so underperforming, but obviously it is not my decision, so I'm stuck with the bare minimum and whatever lies below.

Combeferre, the diplomat of the occasion, turns to me, props up a brow higher upon his forehead, and awaits my response, as if I'm the kind of person to speak as clearly as Enjolras. Combeferre is better friends with the golden Apollo than he is with me, so he is less accustomed to how I function, how I cannot produce the same verve typical of his roommate. That's just how it goes, but a response is mandatory, and oftentimes life throws me into places I never wanted to be, and I am forced to trudge through them. This is just another one of those places, and at least the outcome of my hypothetical success will strengthen the bond between me and Enjolras once more.

I have no idea what I am going to say, what I should say. I'm far from adept at processing what's suitable for the situation, so all that's left for me is to destroy the meeting more than I already have, but there are no other options, so I go for it, and hope things don't end up so bad.

"Enjolras, I am truly sorry that I pester you all the time, and I may not have realized that until now, but within the short time of one half of a day, I have changed my mind, and I'm hoping to become more respectful of you, because I am cognizant that you work hard, but all I do is try to throw you off, so I will do my best to alter my stubbornness." This is going well so far; I've grabbed Combeferre's attention and, most importantly, Enjolras' attention, too, so I decide to continue. "I can understand why you yell at me so often, and I can understand that I deserve it as well. Everyone's bound to crack at some point." I'm forgetting the most imperative part, the bomb I deployed seemingly out of nowhere, the part that's most strenuous for me to share. "And I'm sorry that I dropped all that news on you about...well, you know." I buckle my vision to my lap so as to escape Enjolras' determined stare, but I still detect its interested heat pounding against my back, an example of rubatosis from the sun I call Enjolras' view.

The Corinth is silent. The bartender has retreated to the Employees Only portion of the shop, and no other patrons are here to fill the room with the hearty noises of good cheer and alcohol. It's just Combeferre, Enjolras, and I, and we're all quieted by my apology, as reneging on my words only occurs every once in a blue moon. I'm not one to say sorry, but I somehow said all that needed to be said, and that's enough to stun all three of us.

Combeferre's gaze circles the table and refrains from nearing any other people, while Enjolras' gaze is solely fixed on me, mouth halfway ajar in amazement. This only lasts for a few agonizing moments, before sobs chug out of his throat in choppy intervals, and tears soon follow out of his eyes.

Combeferre is aghast, to say the least. He finally glances up from tracing the table with his vision, and beholds a weeping Enjolras. Neither of us are familiar with this person sitting before us, and we're frankly quite frightened by what we do see. We know the Enjolras who doesn't cry, the Enjolras who can endure anything without so much as a split second of dubiety, not the Enjolras who breaks down because he made a mistake. Enjolras doesn't even make mistakes. Who is this, and why is he so distressed?

The only thing I can think to do is something Enjolras would avidly reject on any other occasion, but judging by the nature of our conversation, it's something that's needed. Hugs are so simple, but there is no describing how helpful they can be. I'm living purely on the chance that Enjolras will not shove me away like he regularly would, but maybe chance is what living is for.

Warily my arms slither around Enjolras, perhaps a bit too forcefully for his liking, but everything is shaky when you're distraught, and there's no trying to deny that I'm anything less than distraught, so I settle for what I can. I've been living on the scraps for all of my life, and while it's unfair for me to transmit such petty things to one who deserves the world, it's all I can do, and maybe it feels like the world to him.

Everyone here is ultimately amazed that I could've made such a move, but I do not regret it. There is no room for remorse when I kicked it out at the beginning of this conversation in order to lodge the angel of love. The plain truth is that I am irrevocably in love with someone much bigger than me, someone who is breaking, and all I can give is a hug, but a hug is exactly what he needs, and it is enough. That's all I've ever wanted — to be enough.

"You two have made good progress," Combeferre congratulates us, words accompanied by a genuine smile, something I've so rarely seen. "I'm proud of you both. Now it's time for phase two. We're switching roommates tonight."

Almost instinctively, and at the same exact moment, Enjolras and I whip our heads around to ogle our rogue friend. Switch roommates? We just had a falling out, and Combeferre is already trying to push us together again in a situation more intimate than we had ever experienced when we weren't scared of merely seeing each other. We may revert to our old customs of yelling at each other whenever possible. I highly doubt we can survive in an environment alone together, let alone an obligatorily, but Combeferre has labored faithfully enough, and he deserves a reprieve from trying to work out problems that aren't even his, not to mention that if he's rooming with Jehan for the night, he won't have to listen to Enjolras bitching about me or whatever he's going to say.

"Switching roommates?" Enjolras gasps, utterly appalled and as confused as I am.

"You need to learn how to interact politely with each other when there aren't people around to hold you back from a fistfight."

Yes, this is a grand thing to ask of us, when all we've done before is bicker — and that's not even when we're alone, but I have no idea what will happen when we are alone, because our friends are too scared to expose us to the opportunity — but it's obvious that Enjolras and I are both invested in rebuilding our friendship, so we tacitly accept, and Combeferre leans back, ready to relax after trudging through heaps and heaps of drama.

"Good luck," he chuckles.

Enjolras and I click eyes, and the slightest of smiles rises to my lips. For now, we have hope. Hope is all I seek.

~~~~~

A/N: I was writing a lot when the internet crashed so I couldn't upload chapters rip me

so anyway they're kind of fixed not really idk I'm doing a shitty job with this

~Dakrap

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