Chapter Text
The February wind bit furiously at his face as Enjolras made his way across the quad towards Main School. As he dug his hands deeper into his coat pocket, he was reminded of a similar February day two years before and his mind suddenly became full of crumbling piers and fish and chips on the beach. He hardly noticed his name being called and it was only when he turned to pull open the door that he noticed Combeferre walking quickly behind him.
“There you are,” he smiled in greeting. “You said you wanted to go through the agenda for next week’s student council meeting.” Enjolras held the door for his friend as the pair of them entered the school, heading towards the library.
This was Enjolras’s life: student council meetings, prefect meetings, senior school meetings. At weekends he volunteered at the Children’s Hospice. The rest of his time was devoted to studying for his four A Levels which he intended to pass well in the summer in order to earn his place at UCL next October.
The young man who walked amiably by his side had gone a long way to making the last seventeen months bearable. Combeferre was a steady, loyal presence. His peaceful influence calmed Enjolras’s naturally hot temper. They seemed to be able to communicate without speech. Combeferre never asked Enjolras to explain anything and yet he felt compelled to tell him everything. It would have been a very lonely time without his guiding hand.
They were not entirely surprised to be accosted in the corridor by one of the office secretaries.
“The Head Teacher wishes to see you, Enjolras.” This wasn’t unheard of. As one of the senior prefects he was often called to meetings with the Head. Combeferre shrugged, said he would meet up with him later and bid him farewell.
On opening the study door, he was surprised to find his mother in the room with the Head Teacher. He instantly reinforced his defences, preparing for the worst.
“Enjolras,” the Head greeted him with faux regard, as though they were old friends. “Come on in and sit down.”
At eighteen, Enjolras was much better at controlling his expressions. He kept a neutral, guarded tone while at the same time taking in the forced relaxed stance of his teacher and the hunched shoulders of his mother. The Head cleared his throat and indicated for his mother to continue.
“We received a call at lunch time from the police,” she started. Her eyes bore an ancient sadness in them that he hadn’t seen for some time. He swallowed, feeling an old sinking feeling in his stomach.
“Grantaire’s mother died this morning.”
He gave himself a moment to let that news sink in. He remembered a kindly smile, a soft hand squeezing his. He remembered a scream.
The Head Teacher’s cough roused him from his reverie. He reached up to tug his hair, a familiar habit he hadn’t quite managed to lose.
“We understand this may be… upsetting for you,” the Head said quite kindly. Enjolras resisted the temptation to snort. It was likely the Head Teacher remembered just as well as he did what had happened at school the last time a teacher had tried to talk about Grantaire in front of him.
“If you wish, you can take a few days to spend time with your family.”
Enjolras opened his mouth to protest; his life was far too busy to be taking time off right now. But on reflection he thought better of it. He wasn’t sure how he felt. He needed to process and evaluate before he could make a decision. Internally he smiled; Combeferre would be proud of him. He stood up to go.
“Thank you for letting me know,” he nodded to the Head Teacher and turned to his mother who had also risen from her chair.
“I’ll see you at home?” Despite the inflection at the end of the sentence, she understood that it wasn’t really a question. She reached forward to squeeze his arm above the elbow. He permitted a twitch of his lips to betray the smallest of smiles on one side, a smile just for her, before his face closed again and he walked from the room.
+
He caught up with Combeferre outside the library. At the sight of his tranquil countenance, already Enjolras felt better, felt more human. It had only been ten minutes since they had last spoken and yet he felt as though a great shift had taken place.
At his approach, a shadow crossed Combeferre’s face.
“Is everything well?” It was uncanny how Ferre was able to read him so well, able to tell by the set of his shoulders, the placement of his feet, that he was not his usual self. Casting a glance up and down the corridor, he pulled his friend to one side.
“Do you remember what I told you, about what happened to me?” His friend nodded, his expression unchanging, waiting for Enjolras to elaborate. Enjolras sucked in a breath.
“Grantaire’s mother died.” Combeferre was not one for overreactions. He reached forward a hand to his friend’s shoulder and sighed in a gesture of warm compassion and Enjolras was grateful.
“I’m going to go home.” He said at last.
“Of course.” He patted Enjolras’s shoulder once, before removing his hand and fixing him with a singular expression. “Let me know when you get there.”
Only later, when Enjolras thought back over his friend’s words, did he wonder whether that extraordinary man had known then, had known even before Enjolras.
+
Out in the car park, Enjolras threw his bag into the passenger seat of his car and closed the door. He buckled his seat belt and went to turn the ignition but before he did his eye fell on the glove compartment. He leaned forward, opened it up and pulled out a folder. Inside this folder was an old envelope with a Sheffield postmark. The contents showed signs of having been opened and closed, folded and refolded, a number of times. He stared absently at the envelope for a few moments before returning it to the folder, which he subsequently cast onto the passenger seat by his bag.
He put the car into gear and pulled out of the gates. He hardly noticed when he turned his car in the opposite direction to home. By the time he realised that he was headed towards the motorway he decided that he really didn’t care. He joined the M25 and followed signs for the North and the M1.
Common sense kicked in as he passed Toddington and he ended up pulling into the services. Turning the engine off, he rubbed at his forehead with his hands before picking up his phone and dialling Combeferre’s number. He answered after two rings.
“Enjolras?”
“What am I doing, Ferre?” His usually confident and certain voice had given way to hesitation and doubt. He had just driven for over an hour without any clear plan in his mind.
“Given that it was just gone two o’clock when you left, I would guess you’re at a service station on the M1,” Ferre replied in a very calm voice, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Enjolras blinked, unable to think of a response. From the other end of the phone he heard his friend sigh. He could imagine that Ferre had just taken off his glasses and was now patiently rubbing his eyelids with a thumb and forefinger.
“In the wider scheme of things,” he continued, “you are doing something you should have done long ago. You are going to Sheffield to see your friend, to offer your support and to get some very important answers to some fundamental questions.” There was another pause of silence. “Does that help?”
“Yes,” agreed Enjolras. That was exactly what he was doing and that was exactly what he needed to hear.
“Thanks,” he said gruffly. He heard a soft chortle down the phone.
“As I said, let me know when you get there.” Combeferre disconnected the call.
+
There were two stages to Enjolras’s life; Before R and After R. The time Before R had consisted of fifteen years of boredom, followed by seven months of extreme emotion; a heady mix of euphoria and terror. He had tasted more of life in those months with Aire by his side than at any time before or since.
After R was the last twenty-two months. It had been a slow closing of doors, a healing of wounds.
After receiving the letter of thanks from Aire’s grandmother, he had written back to her almost immediately. In his letter he thanked her for her kindness and had asked her to pass on his best wishes to her grandson. He had carefully and pointedly enclosed his address with the letter, even though her letter had come first so she obviously already knew where he lived. Then he had waited. He waited six months.
In December he sent a Christmas card, addressed to R and his grandparents. He received no reply.
The weight of disappointment sat on him heavily. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong, why R had shut him out. He retreated into himself, his heart well and truly broken.
He had done all he could to block it out. He had thrown himself into his school work, his volunteering work and his groups and responsibilities. He filled the R shaped silence.
Now, driving up the M1, edging closer and closer to Sheffield, he felt as though that scab had been ripped off, revealing the wound beneath. Combeferre was right; he should have done this a long time ago.
+
It took him just over another two hours to make the journey. When he got off the motorway he stopped at a petrol station for something sugary and to tap the address into his GPS. Eventually his car pulled up outside a well-presented detached house in a pretty suburb. In the darkness, Enjolras could make out a blue front door, and a lamp was lit in one of the front rooms.
This was a terrible idea. This was the worst idea Enjolras had ever had. He had just driven for over three hours to a place he had never been before to see someone who, for all he knew, was about to slam that blue front door in his face. Maybe they didn’t even live here anymore. It was entirely plausible that in the last two years they could have moved house. Perhaps Aire had chosen not to live with these relatives and was somewhere else entirely.
He gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring straight ahead into his own reflection in the windscreen, muttering how stupid he was over and over again.
He was jolted back to reality by a soft tap on his driver side window. Looking up he saw it was a lady in her mid-sixties. She was smiling at him through the window.
“Enjolras, In’t it?” She had a lovely soft Yorkshire accent, somewhat muted by the glass. Looking at her with big eyes he nodded slowly. This must be Elsa Griffiths.
“Come in, lad, I’m making a brew.”
+
Five minutes later he was inside the house, sat at an old wooden table in a gloriously homey kitchen, full of open brick work and the scent of proper cooking.
“I’m not sure what I’m doing here.” He confessed. Elsa smiled broadly at him.
“You’re here to see my grandson, I’ll be bound. I hoped you’d come.” Enjolras reflected that this was the second person today who seemed to know him better than himself.
“He’s out with his granddad right now. Men need a drink after the day they’ve had.” He observed the soft sadness that crossed her eyes for a moment and he remembered what had prompted this long journey in the first place. Grantaire may have lost his mother, but this lovely warm woman in front of him had lost her daughter.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely. She nodded, thanking him. A heavy silence fell over them.
“Will he want to see me?” He felt a kinship with this woman. He felt sure she wouldn’t lie to him, nor would she sugar coat her response. She would tell him straight.
“Aye, of course! Why ever would you think not, my lad?”
“Well, he never answered my letter to you. Or my Christmas card.” It sounded petty to say it like that. He saw her crinkle her face in confusion.
“Well he told me he wrote you, wrote you at least three times.” This was news to Enjolras. A little spark, one he’d long since snuffed out and suppressed, suddenly guttered into life in his chest. He also felt vaguely nauseous. Could this whole horrible situation be the fault of Royal Mail?
“He were dead thrilled when you sent that Christmas card. Got ever so excited, you know what men are” she chortled merrily. Enjolras found himself chuckling with her, felt the tension in his body start to ebb in her comforting presence. Then she stopped and put her head on one side.
“Is that why you stopped writing then? You didn’t get his letters?”
Before he could answer he heard the unmistakable sound of a door being opened and voices filled the hall. The warm, relaxed feeling evaporated immediately.
Oh god, he thought, I’m not ready. I’m not even nearly ready for this.
Unbidden images flashed through his mind of the last time he had seen the boy – the man – he was about to see again for the first time in two years. Scared brown eyes, the rattle as he struggled to breathe, the blood on the carpet. He rose unsteadily to his feet.
Aire’s grandfather entered the room first, a short man, mostly bald, in a green overcoat. He raised his eyes at the stranger standing at his kitchen table. Behind him came Grantaire.
“Hello love. I found Enjolras outside in his car. I invited him in to tea. Isn’t that nice?”
+
He was here, actually here, standing in front of him, alive.
Enjolras took him in. He was a bit broader in the shoulder, and his chest and waist had filled out slightly. He’d lost the softness of boyhood, his cheeks and jawbone now clean and elegant lines. The scar on his jaw was now more visible between the stubble. Enjolras was relieved to see the familiar curls poking out from underneath a beanie hat, something recognisable.
His skin was ruddy and had lost that glowing pallor. The bags under his eyes had gone too, all positive changes. Finally he met the young man’s eyes. They were the same. Enjolras sighed with a smile. They were the same soft brown eyes.
Eyes that were staring at him in complete shock.
+
It was Enjolras who broke the silence.
“Erm, hi.”
Ok, not the most memorable first words, but it was more that R had said. It was a start.
“Hi,” Aire returned and oh god his voice was different too, slightly softer than before. Enjolras wondered what differences R could see in him, if any. How much had he changed since they had last seen each other?
“Why don’t you show him your bedroom?” Elsa said brightly, pointedly ignoring the atmosphere in the kitchen. Enjolras winced as a moment of déjà vu passed through him.
He looked up at Aire, wondering what his reaction would be. The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Sure, if you want to?” Enjolras found himself nodding. Aire turned away to walk back out of the kitchen, jerking his head for the blonde to follow him. He cast a last glance at Elsa who smiled encouragingly at him, before scooting off after him.
R was waiting in the hallway, an unreadable look on his face. He seemed to be waiting outside the door that led to the cupboard under the stairs. Once Enjolras had caught up with him, he pulled it open to reveal a stair case heading down. The pair trooped down into the darkness below.
+
R’s basement room was incredible. Enjolras stared at everything around him in wonder, taking it all in. The whole basement had been converted into a mini flat for R to live in, to make his own.
In one corner was a sink unit with old paint pots on the draining board, the shelves above it filled with brushes, tins and empty water jars. To the side was an easel along with a number of canvases in various states of completion. Further in was a media station which held a TV, DVD player, CD player and games console. DVDs were stacked haphazardly to one side, while a number of CDs were stuffed into racks. There were also a couple of shelves of vinyl.
There were six floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were groaning under the weight of all the texts they contained. Additionally, most of the floor and surfaces were covered in paper, books, sketch pads and other random items of interest. In the far corner was a double bed, duvet askew as though Aire had crawled out of it not that long ago.
But what really caught Enjolras’s attention, what took his breath away, was the large collage across the back wall of photos, sketches and postcards. It was a riot of images. The postcards were of pieces of art, mementos of galleries and museums visited. He recognised R’s hand in the sketches, though his technique had obviously evolved.
The photos were of a variety of subjects. Some were of pastoral landscapes, miles and miles of idyllic rolling hills. Some were of urban landscapes, close ups of concrete, some art deco architecture, woodwork and street furniture. Some photos were of parties attended – unfamiliar faces gurning for the camera, drinks in hand.
Right in the middle of this collage, in the centre of the wall, was a photo that he had thought lost long ago. A photo of a spring day a whole life time before. A photo of two boys lying on their backs in the grass, blonde curls and brown curls, smiling up at the camera with unbridled joy and innocence.
He turned to look at Aire who was standing awkwardly on one hip in the middle of the room, chewing his thumb.
“How do you have this?” Enjolras pointed at the photo. R stepped forward, as if he needed to be reminded of which photo Enjolras could be referring to.
“The camera was in my bag. My grandparents got the film developed.” He shrugged. “Do you mind?” he raised a sardonic eyebrow, but Enjolras had turned back to the wall.
“No. I just… I thought it lost, that’s all.” He heard Aire sigh behind him.
“Enjolras, why are you here?”
Enjolras turned to him. The moment had come. He thought about what Combeferre had said. He was here to offer support, but also to get some important answers to some fundamental questions. It was strange, but having R in front of him like this, in the flesh, made all those fundamental important questions fly right out of his mind.