Hello! Me again, how about 34 for enjoltaire? x
Alright, y'all knew I was gonna go angsty eventually, and with this song...can y'all really blame me?
34. "A Thousand Miles" by Vanessa Carlton
E/R, modern AU. Kindly refer to the tags for content warnings.
Grantaire yawned widely as he shuffled into the kitchen wrapped in a red terry cloth robe. He blinked blearily at the clock before going through the same motions he did every morning.
They were rote by now, having done this thousands of times, so much so that he almost fell back asleep as he went through his routine: slipping a paper filter in the coffee maker, pouring coffee grounds into the filter, filling the pot with water, pouring the water into the coffee maker, and, finally, hitting brew.
He stood at the kitchen sink as he waited for the familiar smell of fresh coffee to waft over him, waking him up just enough that he could finally reach out and grab the two coffee mugs from their hooks on the wall. His, a white porcelain mug that proclaimed in a fancy script, “There might be vodka in this”; Enjolras’s, a red mug boldly labeled, “First coffee, then dismantling white patriarchal power structures”.
Grantaire set his next to the coffee maker and carried Enjolras’s over to the red canisters that lined the counter, a wedding gift from Enjolras’s mother, who disapproved of both their union and their disorganized kitchen, apparently. He grabbed the second-largest one, pulling it towards himself and popping the top open with practiced ease before taking the scoop hanging from its side and scooping three heaping spoonfuls of sugar into Enjolras’s mug.
Satisfied, he returned the canister to its position before crossing to the fridge and grabbing the French vanilla flavored creamer, which he brought with him back to the counter.
By this point, the coffee maker was emitting the terrible groans and gurgles that signaled it was finally about done, and Grantaire sighed with relief as he poured first Enjolras’s mug, leaving plenty of room for creamer, and then his own, as close to the brim as he could without spilling.
With a practiced eye, he added creamer to Enjolras’s mug, stopping at the perfect point when the coffee was just turning more beige than tan. He returned the creamer to the fridge and then finally lifted both coffee mugs and carried them to the kitchen table.
He set Enjolras’s down first before slipping into the seat across the table. He blew on his coffee to cool it before taking his first sip, his eyes fluttering closed with the pure ecstasy that accompanied his first hit of caffeine.
Then the time for savoring was over, and Grantaire spent the next five minutes downing the steaming liquid as quickly as he could manage without burning his tongue.
His second cup off coffee was drained at a slightly less breakneck pace, and then Grantaire stretched and yawned. “Shower time,” he announced, picking up his coffee mug and Enjolras’s and carrying them to the sink. He set his empty mug inside before hesitating and then dumping Enjolras’s out, watching the barely still-brown liquid circle down the drain, just as he had every day for the past six months.
And just as he had every day for the past six months, he paused before leaving the kitchen, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he looked at the last good picture he had ever taken of Enjolras, stuck up on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a guillotine.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice hoarse, and he stared longingly at the picture, at Enjolras’s smile tinged with just a hint of exasperation as he had looked up at Grantaire, taking his picture for the hundredth time that day, the day they got Enjolras’s diagnosis.
It was a good picture.
Which was why he had chosen it for Enjolras’s obituary.
“I miss you,” he told the picture of Enjolras, frozen in time much the way his coffee routine now was. He hesitated, a thousand unsaid words swirling in his mind.
But in the end, he fell back on routine. “Remind me we need more creamer,” he said.
Then he went to take a shower. Alone.
- - - - - - - - - -
Some couples had a morning breakfast routine. For Enjolras and Grantaire, it was coffee.
Come rain, shine, or hectic schedules, they still made time every morning to have a cup of coffee together. Sometimes that time saw Grantaire perching on the counter in the bathroom while Enjolras gulped his cup in the shower; other times, it was the two of them in bed long past when they were supposed to get up, wrapped in blankets and each other. Some days those precious few minutes were the only time they saw each other, and they treasured it.
Even when Enjolras was out of town on business, they called or Facetimed each other to share their morning cup of coffee.
It was the one consistency in their lives that Grantaire could count on.
It was the one thing that he couldn’t bring himself to give up, even with Enjolras gone.
He knew it was silly, knew he was wasting money and coffee and whatever else, but he couldn’t imagine going to the grocery store and returning without Enjolras’s preferred brand of creamer. He couldn’t imagine not having to refill the canister of sugar ever three months because Enjolras preferred his coffee to taste disgustingly sweet.
He couldn’t imagine coming home from work to find only one coffee mug in the sink, waiting to be washed.
Even if he knew that Enjolras would never again sit at the table and drink his coffee, it gave him a moment, no matter how fleeting, of pretending like he would, of feeling like things were normal.
Grantaire didn’t think his heart could take it if he stopped.
- - - - - - - - - -
Grantaire had just taken his first sip of coffee when a knock sounded on the door, and he frowned. He wasn’t expecting company, after all, and most of his friends knew to ask him if he was up for visitors before stopping by.
He set his coffee down on the table and stood to open the door, blinking in surprise when Courfeyrac swooped in, air-kissing both his cheeks before brushing past him into the kitchen. “Hope you don’t mind us stopping by,” he called, as Combeferre gave Grantaire a somewhat bemused wave in greeting. “We just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Well, Courfeyrac wanted to, anyway,” Combeferre told Grantaire in an undertone. “I recommended we call instead, but…”
He shrugged somewhat helplessly and Grantaire managed a smile. “But he’s incorrigible,” he finished for Combeferre, following him into the kitchen. “Well, I know a little bit about what that’s like.”
Courfeyrac scowled at both of them as he plopped down at the table. “Excuse me for being worried about you,” he sniffed. “We haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t been that long,” Grantaire scoffed.
Combeferre cleared his throat. “Weeks may be a bit of an exaggeration,” he allowed. “But still, like Courfeyrac said, we wanted to check on you. Especially since there’s this public art project that came up at the last Les Amis meeting, and I thought—”
“What are you doing?” Grantaire interrupted loudly, and Combeferre blinked, confused, while Courfeyrac froze, his hand on the handle of Enjolras’s coffee mug.
“Sorry, I just…” Courfeyrac trailed off, quailing under the intensity of Grantaire’s glare, and he slowly pulled his hand away. “Were you going to drink that?”
“Of course not,” Grantaire snapped, snatching the cup of coffee and pulling it to himself, cradling it between his hands. “This is Enjolras’s coffee.”
Understanding crossed Courfeyrac’s face, followed by a look of something like pity that Grantaire had become far too acquainted with over the past six months. Grantaire quickly looked away, and thus missed the looks that Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged.
Combeferre cleared his throat before asking carefully, “You still make coffee for Enjolras?”
There wasn’t really any point in denying it, and Grantaire jerked a shrug. “Yes,” he said. “And before you ask, or insinuate I’ve finally lost it, I know he’s dead.” The words came out harsher than Grantaire intended, and Combeferre flinched, his own grief visible for just a moment. Grantaire registered it, but he didn’t have it in him to comfort Combeferre, not now, not over this. “And I know it’s a waste, and Enjolras would be disappointed in my continued personal failing to take into account my environmental footprint, but coffee was our thing. Our time. And if it gives me just one moment of feeling like he’s still here, I don’t see that as a waste.”
He said it like a challenge, and Courfeyrac shook his head. “I don’t think Enjolras would see that as a waste, either,” he said gently, hesitating before adding, “But…”
“He wouldn’t want you to live like this,” Combeferre said hollowly. “Holding onto him like this.”
Grantaire tasted bile in the back of his throat and he stood, abruptly, and carried Enjolras’s coffee mug to the sink. “Well,” he said, dumping its contents into the sink, “luckily, since he’s not here anymore, he doesn’t get an opinion.”
He turned back to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Did you need anything else?” he asked pointedly.
Combeferre frowned, and looked like he wanted to say something, but Courfeyrac shook his head, standing and tugging Combeferre up as well. “No,” he told Grantaire. “No, like I said, we just wanted to see how you were doing. And we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
He ushered Combeferre toward the door, though it looked for a minute like Combeferre might try to argue, or say something else. Grantaire trailed after them, instantly feeling guilty for how quickly this had gone wrong. He reached out and caught Courfeyrac’s arm. “Look, he started, a little awkwardly, “I’m—”
“I know,” Courfeyrac said, leaning in to give him a quick, one-armed hug. “Just know we’re here if you need us, ok?”
The problem, which they both knew, was that Grantaire needed Enjolras. And that was the one thing no one could give him.
Still, he forced a smile. “Ok,” he said.
He gave them both an awkward wave before closing the door after them and wandering back into the kitchen, looking at his own cup of coffee without any real desire to drink it. He glanced at the picture of Enjolras on the fridge and scowled. “Don’t even start with me,” he said, his voice low. “You have no idea—”
He broke off, his chest tight, and he looked away. After a long minute, he said softly, “I’m trying, ok? I’m just – I’m trying.”
The picture of Enjolras didn’t respond, and Grantaire retreated to his bedroom where he could leave all thought of coffee far behind.
- - - - - - - - - -
The first few weeks after Enjolras got his diagnosis were a blur of doctors appointments, planning meetings, and every opportunity that Grantaire could seize to pretend that this wasn’t happening, that there had been some kind of mistake.
One morning, he was especially reveling in that pretense, bundled in a blanket, his head pillowed on Enjolras’s chest, Enjolras’s heartbeat loud and soothing against his ear. For the first time in awhile, they had no place to be, no one to see, and Grantaire was quite content to never leave the bed or face the world again.
Enjolras, however, had other ideas. “Are we ever going to talk about it?” he asked quietly, and Grantaire groaned, squeezing his eyes closed for a long moment before sitting up.
“Yes,” he said, avoiding Enjolras’s eyes. “Later.”
“Later when?” Enjolras asked, sitting up as well.
Grantaire pushed the blankets off and stood, grabbing his green plaid bathrobe and tossing Enjolras’s red terry cloth robe on the bed for him. “After coffee,” he said.
He headed to the kitchen, fully expecting Enjolras to stay in bed and wait for him to return with the coffee, but instead, Enjolras followed him. “Sooner or later, we are going to have to talk about it,” he reminded Grantaire, leaning against the counter and watching Grantaire getting the coffee maker ready.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Grantaire muttered as he grabbed both of their mugs.
“Sometimes I wonder,” Enjolras said evenly. “After all, denial’s not just a river in Egypt.”
Grantaire groaned at the joke, but he couldn’t quite stop the smile that crossed his face as he shook his head. “That’s terrible,” he informed Enjolras.
Enjolras just shrugged, accepting the cup of coffee Grantaire handed him. “Making terrible jokes is usually your job, but I figured someone’s gotta do it.”
Grantaire’s smile faded. “Forgive me if I haven’t really felt like making jokes lately,” he said quietly.
Wordlessly, Enjolras reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling him close and leaning in to kiss his temple. “What do you say we take these back to bed with us?” he murmured, and Grantaire tilted his head up to kiss him.
“I’d say that’s the best idea you’ve had all morning.”
They returned to the bedroom, Grantaire draining half his cup of coffee on the way, and clambered back into bed together. Grantaire opted to leave his coffee on the nightstand for the moment, instead choosing to curl up with his head on Enjolras’s chest like before.
Enjolras, for his part, had always been a better multitasker, and was content to sip his coffee while stroking Grantaire’s hair. And he even managed to find time to tell Grantaire gently, “Avoiding it isn’t going to change anything.”
Grantaire closed his eyes. “I know that,” he said. “But I still just want to hold onto things as they are for a little bit longer.”
Enjolras sighed. “I guess I can’t blame you for that.”
Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth, torn between saying what he had wanted to since that first day, when they had first found out, or staying in his bubble of denial for a little bit longer.
But since Enjolras had already popped the bubble for the day, now seemed as good a time as any for the truth to come out. “I don’t know how to live without you,” Grantaire whispered, and Enjolras’s hand stilled.
“I know,” he said, his voice a low rumble against Grantaire’s ear. “But I need you to figure it out. Because knowing you’ll be ok is the only way that I’m going to get through this.”
Grantaire almost wanted to laugh at that, but he managed not to. “But you’re not going to get through this,” he pointed out, sitting up.
Enjolras sighed again and turned to set his coffee cup down on his nightstand. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
Enjolras scowled. “Be serious.”
Grantaire managed a small, half-smile. “I am wild.”
To his surprise, Enjolras laughed at that, turning to face him. “See, and that’s what I’m going to miss most,” he said, almost a little wistfully.
Grantaired arched an eyebrow. “Me being an ass?”
“Exactly.”
For a moment, Grantaire was tempted to laugh along with him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to, not now that this particular can of worms had been opened. “But you won’t miss anything,” he said, a little sharply. “You won’t be here to miss anything.”
Enjolras’s smile faded. “Maybe miss is the wrong word,” he said. “I don’t know if you can miss something you’ll never have. But I want sixty more years of this, of you being an ass and making fun of how I drink my coffee every morning.”
Grantaire swallowed, hard. “I want that too,” he managed.
“But I mean it,” Enjolras continued steadily. “I need you to be ok.”
“Why?” Grantaire asked, a thousand verses of despair caught up in that single word.
Enjolras just shrugged. “Because you’ve always been my guide.”
Grantaire blinked. “Combeferre is the guide.”
Enjolras gave him a look. “Combeferre is the guide of the Cause,” he corrected. “You’re my guide. You’re the metric I rely on to know if I’m making a difference, or to know how much more work needs to be done.” He bit his lip. “So I need you to be ok, because then maybe this will all be ok. The fact that I’ll be dead won’t have to mean that everything I’ve tried to do will have failed.”
Grantaire shook his head slowly. “I don’t know if I can make that promise. Being ok without you…”
“I know,” Enjolras said heavily, reaching out to take his hand, twining their fingers together. “I know what I’m asking is impossible. But I want you to at least try.”
Grantaire managed a ghost of his usual smile. “Well, how can I say no to a dying man?” he asked, the joke falling painfully flat, and he attempted to steer it to safer territory. “So what do you want me to do? You want me to, what, get remarried?”
Enjolras snorted. “I don’t know if I’d go that far…” He lifted Grantaire’s hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “I don’t want you to get stuck, the way you sometimes do. Stuck in your head or in the darkness. So whatever that looks like for you to not be stuck.”
Grantaire pretended to consider it for a moment. “I’m gonna bleach the tips of my hair like it’s 1998. That’ll show you.”
“If that’s what you want to do, at least I won’t be around to have to see it,” Enjolras shot back.
“Ass.”
“Takes one to know one,” Enjolras said, just a little smugly. “But yes, something like that, something small.” He paused before suggesting, a little slyly, “Switch up your coffee order even, or something like that.”
Grantaire wrinkled his nose at the thought. “That’s an awfully big ask.”
Enjolras laughed. “For you? I know.” His smile again faded, and he squeezed Grantaire’s hand before telling him softly, “And if you do ever decide you want to, y’know, remarry…”
“Don’t,” Grantaire said, his voice tight. “Don’t even say it.”
“Grantaire—”
Grantaire just shook his head, fighting back the tears he hadn’t yet let himself cry. “Look, asking me to change the kind of coffee I drink is hard enough, ok?” he said, his voice trembling, just slightly. “So let’s not push it.”
After a long moment, Enjolras nodded. “Fine.” He paused before adding, “But I am serious about the coffee thing.”
“Over my dead body,” Grantaire grumbled.
Enjolras just laughed lightly. “No,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of Grantaire’s head. “Over mine.”
- - - - - - - - - -
Grantaire slept horribly the night after Combeferre and Courfeyrac stopped by, and so he got out of bed when the sun was just barely beginning to creep over the horizon. The kitchen looked eerie in the dim light, but he felt it fit his mood.
He went through the same motions as he did every morning, but each step of his coffee making process seemed to hurt a little more now, like a scab had been picked off a healing wound.
Or maybe it was just that he had been reminded that he hadn’t healed at all.
When the coffee was finished, he sat down across from Enjolras’s mug like usual, but he couldn’t bring himself to drink his coffee. Instead, he looked up at the refrigerator, at the man he wished more than anything was sitting across from him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I know I said I would try, but…”
He trailed off and made a face. “Don’t even think about quoting Star Wars at me. Now is not the time.” He half-smiled before glancing down at his coffee, and Enjolras’s, untouched across the table.
“Well,” he said, after a long moment. “I suppose it can’t hurt.” He reached across the table for Enjolras’s coffee, lifting it to his lips and blowing on it before giving Enjolras’s picture a look. “I’m doing this for you, you know. Because I promised I’d try.”
Then he took a sip of Enjolras’s coffee.
And almost immediately spit it back into the coffee mug. “Oh my God, that is disgusting,” he rasped, gagging at the hyper-sweet taste. “I cannot believe you drink this shit, Enjolras, holy shit.”
He paused, then corrected, “I can’t believe you used to drink this shit.”
He set the mug of coffee down on the table swallowing both against the lingering taste in his mouth and the grief he could feel welling in his chest despite his every effort to tamp it down. “And still, I would drink this every single day if you…”
He didn’t finish the thought.
He didn’t have to.
It wouldn’t make a difference anyway.
He stood to carry Enjolras’s mug of coffee to the sink, and once again stared down to watch the brown liquid swirl away. But this time, he felt something different than usual. Something a little less painful than usual.
As if maybe some real healing had started.
He glanced over his shoulder at the picture of Enjolras, and managed an actual smile. “I love you,” he said, because he did. “Even if you had the worst taste in coffee.”
He looked at the clock over the stove and debated drinking his coffee and showering, but decided against it. He had time to try to get a few more hours of sleep, and he could brew another pot of coffee after that.
And who knows – maybe he’d put a tiny bit of sugar in his coffee later.
He had tried. He was trying. And maybe later he’d find a way to try again.
