New Fic! Illusion - Les Misérables
Title: Illusion
Pairing: Courfeyrac & Grantaire Bro!Otp, vague allusions to unrequited Enjolras/Grantaire (because it wouldn't be a Les Mis fic if it didn't)
Rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I am fully aware I'm probably making Victor Hugo spin in his gave (Mais il me pardonnera, j'en suis sûre!)
Warnings: Allusions to off-screen non-con, angst. No really, lots of angst. Modern AU! Also not Beta'd.
Summary: Grantaire staggering home drunk at three am may be a common event. But this evening wasn't like the others, thankfully Courfeyrac is there to pick up the pieces.
Author's note: This is going to be part of an eventual series - but since the idea wouldn't leave me alone, so I ended up writting it as a stand-alone so start with. The rape/non-con is entierly off-screen - this fic deals with the aftermath.
The title is taken from a heartbreaking VNV Nation song - Illusion
Finally, not beta-ed, all mistakes are mine (but if anyone wants to volunteer, I won't say no).
Read on AO3 or follow the fake cut -
I know its hard to tell how mixed up you feel
Hoping what you need is behind every door
Each time you get hurt I don't want you to change
Cuz everyone has hopes you're human after all
VNV Nation, Illusion
Courfeyrac glared balefully at the steady green glowing numbers on his alarm clock cheerfully telling him it was three am. He had just been drifting off into what was likely to be an awesome dream involving him, and Jadzia Dax, possibly Ezri Dax too, he was still undecided, before some inconsiderate git of a housemate woke him up by loudly tripping over the inevitable pile of shoes by the front door and knocking over the coat stand. Bastard.
He winced as said housemate stumbled up the stairs with an exaggerated, drunken, care, which inevitably made every move considerably louder than it should have been, and silently prayed that he didn't knock anything breakable over on the way up. Like his head.
Courfeyrac really didn't need any guesses as to who it was - the rest of his housemates, well Jehan, were either safely asleep or not due to be back home tonight, curse Bahorel and Marius and their girlfriend having ways. He supposed he should be grateful that Grantaire was at least attempting stealth and not actively trying to sing as had previously happened on at least one memorable occasion.
Of course, three am on a Saturday night wasn't exactly unreasonable. Hell, Courfeyrac would probably have been staggering in with him if he hadn't been feeling like complete, I just want to curl up and play computer games, levels of shit. He also wasn't exactly feeling forgiving either since he'd actually been looking forward to tonight, the big Gay-Friendly (TM) campus events were usually a good chance to meet some pretty gay boy without any of the bitchy bullshit that came from going along to any of the regular LGBT Society events (apparently 'not fussy' wasn't a valid sexual orientation, which was kinda hilarious for an society which claimed to have 'B' in its name). So instead of pulling tonight as originally planned, he'd ended up playing computer games until 2 in the morning with Jehan (who refused to go to gay club nights on the principle that the cheesy music was liable to make his ear's bleed, bless his pretentiously gothy little heart). Fun, yes, but not quite what he'd had planned for the night.
Courfeyrac had, foolishly, chosen the bedroom right next door to the bathroom when they'd been dividing up rooms last year. At the time it had seemed like a logical choice. Minimal distance to move when waking up in the night with a full bladder was, to his view, an optimum situation to be in. He had since learnt to regret it since he could also hear the sounds of everyone else using the bloody thing in the middle of the night. Case in point, Grantaire.
The sound of retching was, if not inevitable, then certainly not unexpected and Courfeyrac couldn't help but feel a small twinge of sympathy, even if the other man had brought the pain on himself. Grantaire was generally an experienced enough drinker, the term 'functional alcoholic' would probably be appropriate but generally avoided by all, that he usually managed avoided the point where he ended actually throwing up. Which meant tonight had either been a particularly good night, or a particularly bad one (or the music really was so bad that alcohol became the only survival option - Courfeyrac wasn't willing to discount that option yet).
Courfeyrac briefly wondered if he should get up and check on him, since he obviously wasn't getting any more sleep tonight, but that would involve getting out of bed, and even he wasn't feeling quite that charitable.
After an interminable amount of time, the retching finally stopped, eliciting a quiet hallelujah and a fervent prayer to a god he definitely didn't believe in that maybe, just maybe, Grantaire would stagger off to bed now and he could get some goddamn sleep. It was not to be, and Courfeyrac positively groaned when he heard the shower start, letting his head drop back to his pillow with a thump.
He must have dozed off at some point despite the noise, because the next time Courfeyrac opened his eyes it was four am... and the shower was still running.
Fuck.
He listened out in vain for any sounds of movement from the bathroom but the only thing he could hear was the sound of the water hitting the tiles. Shit, shit, shit, he really was too tired to deal with this bullshit. If Grantaire had fallen asleep in the shower and drowned, Courfeyrac would never forgive him.
Pulling himself out of bed with a grimace as the cold air hit his skin, he padded towards the closed door.
“Grantaire,” he called softy, knocking lightly on the bathroom door and hoping for some, any, sort of reply. He tries again, louder this time. “Hey, R. You in there?”
Nothing.
“Ok, fair warning, I'm coming in now. So if you're naked or wanking off, it's totally not my fault,” he called quietly, even though Jehan generally slept like the dead and was unlikely to wake for anything less than a herd of buffalo charging through the house.
Courfeyrac was glad, and not for the first time, that the lock on the bathroom had long since gone to meet its maker. Their landlord, of course, had attended to its replacement with exactly the same enthusiasm of all the other repairs required in the house, which is to say, not at all.
Although not quiet the drowned body a small part of him had genuinely feared seeing , the sight that greeted him did little to alleviate Courfeyrac's worry. Grantaire was huddled under the pitiful excuse of a stream that the so-called Power Shower pumped out. His skin was turning pink from too-hot water, his hands moving rhythmically up and down his arms as if trying to clean himself whilst he stared blankly ahead, lost in his own mind and clearly oblivious that Courfeyrac had even entered the room.
Courfeyrac couldn't help but let out a groan of disappointment, not at Grantaire per se, but more at whatever circumstances had left him in this state. He'd been doing so well lately, dammit!
The improvement after getting out of the downright toxic environment of halls in his first year, not to mention breaking up with his equally toxic boyfriend, had been noticeable. They'd even finally got the health centre on campus to take his depression seriously and prescribe him some decent medication. Albeit only following a rather impassioned campaign by Enjolras about them not taking mental health issues among students seriously, which had left Grantaire both furious, embarrassed and touched all at once. He'd cut back on the drinking to a point that he was sitting distinctly more on the functional than the alcoholic side of things, although his drinking was still a topic firmly off-limits even to his oldest friend. He was even managing to make most of the, admittedly few, contact hours he had, heading confidently towards a solid 2.2 (even in Enjolras was determined he could pull a high 2.1 or first if he actually tried).
“Ok R, let's get you to bed shall we,” Courfeyrac told the huddled man as cheerfully, as he had countless times before. He reached over him to turn off the spray, wincing at the far too hot water briefly hit his cool skin.
Grantaire must have registered the movement above him because suddenly he was scrambling away from him, pushing himself into the corner of the shower cubicle with a look of utter panic on his face.
Shit, this was way worse than he had thought. Courfeyrac paused, frozen, slightly at a loss at how to deal with a panicked and obviously traumatised Grantaire, who was looking at him without a glimmer of recognition.
Doing the only thing he could think of, he crouched down carefully by his friend, making sure not to make any sudden or threatening movements. He had no idea where Grantaire was at the moment in his head, but somehow he doubted it was anywhere nice or safe.
“Hey R, its me, Courfeyrac, you're home now, you're safe,” he said soothingly, carefully reaching out towards him, keeping his hands visible at all times. At bit like approaching a wounded animal, he thought, the analogy perhaps a bit to apt to be comfortable. “Please come back to me, you're kinda scaring me right now.” The last was a whisper, almost a plea.
“Courf?” Grantaire started to uncurl himself slightly as his eyes seemed to focus and take in his surroundings.
“The one and only,” Courfeyrac gave him a forced smile, “I know my face may not exactly be the prettiest sight at this time of the morning, but I didn't think I was quite that bad.” The joke was terrible but it elicited a small smile from the trembling friend, and that's all that mattered.
“I really fucked up tonight,” Grantaire said it in a whisper, seeming to deflate and slump against the cubicle, all the panicked flight gone from his body as quickly as it had appeared.
“Whatever it was, I doubt it was as bad as the time I hit on a girl, her sister and her boyfriend all in the same night. You're home safe and we can deal with anything else in the morning. Right now, I'm more worried about suffering the wrath of Joly by letting you get hypothermia.”
Despite the joking tone, he could see Grantaire starting to shiver as a cool air of the bathroom hit his wet skin, the heating long since gone off and the bitter cold seeping through the single glazed window. He snagged a towel off the rail as he spoke, holding it out to his obviously still very drunk friend, who just stared at it unblinking, as if he'd never seen such a thing before in his life. Ok, it was going to be one of those nights. Courfeyrac moved forward carefully, still mindful of the panicked look which had graced his friends face but moments ago, and went to wrap the towel around him, fully expecting to have to bodily lift him out the shower and into his bed. Again.
Grantaire flinched.
It stopped him dead. Grantaire had never flinched around Courefyrac before. Other people yes, when they got too close at the wrong time, or too loud, or too aggressive. But never Courfeyrac, in all the years they'd known each other. He noticed other things too, close as he was, he pink tinge from the too-hot shower fading away into pale coldness. The starts of bruises, finger marks on wrists and scattered across his chest and hips.
With a quiet, uncharacteristically calm intensity he asked, “Grantaire, what happened tonight?”
At first he thinks Grantaire isn't going to answer. The drunk stares at him, tense, as if ready to run or fight, the fuzzy, unfocused gaze giving away his level of inebriation. Then, as if all the fight left him at once, he slumps back down, looking, if possible, even smaller than he had done previously.
“I didn't want it to happen. Fuck, I don't know why it's affecting me so much, its not like its a big deal. I mean, in the grand scheme of things,” Grantaire was rambling and Courfeyrac felt at once relieved and guilty for taking advantage of his intoxication to get him talking.
If his friend had been less drunk he probably would have denied everything, cut the conversation off with a joke or a sarcastic remark or even, if he'd just tipped over into his bitter drunk phase, angry recriminations (and yes, Courfeyrac was aware it was a bad sign that he could name his friend's phases of intoxication). But once he'd got this drunk, just sober enough to communicate effectively with an almost surprising eloquence, but inebriated enough not to filter his words, he rambled. The answer to any question asked often lost in a barrage of words unless you were listening carefully to hear it.
Unwilling to interrupt him, lest he descend back in broody silence, a very real possibility at this stage of drunkness, Courfeyrac gently wrapped the towel around him and, with a silent prayer for the pyjamas he was ruining, sat down next to him in the damp shower, close enough for comfort but careful not to touch.
Grantaire barely seemed to notice him, pulling the towel closer around him for warmth as he continued his ramble. “It's not like its exactly the first time, I mean, not exactly like tonight. But its never affected me like this before. I get drunk and horny and maybe I end up having sex with people I wouldn't fuck normally. Unless one of you guys are there, because you usually stop me making really stupid decisions when drunk, even if you shouldn't bother because I'll probably do them anyway as soon as you guys aren't there.” Courfeyrac felt a small pang of guilt at that because he'd never really considered what happened when Grantaire went out without the rest of them to keep the creeps away.
“But then again, they're usually drunk as well, and lets face it, I doubt I'm exactly anyone's first choice either. I mean, can people mutually take advantage of each other? What's the accepted etiquette there - I'm sure Enjolras would know, I bet he has a chart with levels of consent and intoxication all cross-referenced so he can tell me in detail exactly how stupid I'm being. But its what university is about, getting drunk and having stupid unsafe sex with other stupid young students, otherwise Hollywood has lied to me and I want my money back. That was pretty much my plan for tonight anyway, get sightly drunk, get laid. Of course, I wasn't actually planning on getting wasted tonight, okay quite drunk maybe because the music was terrible and you weren't there to mock it with me, but you know, not that drunk. But then I started talking to this guy, and I guess must have had more than I expected. I know, not exactly a new situation for me, I'm sure you're completely shocked,” Grantaire chuckled self-deprecatingly, with more than a tinge of bitterness.
“Still, he was there and I was drunk, and we were getting it on, then two of his friends turned up and they suggested we head back to his room. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, I mean he said he had cherry vodka and the bar was closing up. Pretty fucking stupid really, but that's the story of my life isn't it?” Courfeyrac wanted to disagree with him, Grantaire may have had issues but he wasn't stupid, he just occasionally made bad life choices. But he didn't dare stop him mid-flow, not now.
“I didn't want to do it, not with all three of them, I'm not that much of a slut, no matter what some people may believe. But I was pretty out of it by then, probably couldn't have fought them even if I'd tried, so it seemed easiest to go along with it...” Grantaire trailed off as if loosing his train of thought and seemed unwilling to try and find it again. He was curled in on himself by this point, looking everywhere except at his friend. Not that he needed to continue, Courfeyrac was pretty certain he could figure out the rest.
“Who was it? Can you identify them?” Courfeyrac could feel a sharp spike of anger coursing through him and he had to restrain to desire to go out and find the fuckers himself. He may not have been a fighter like Bahorel, but no one hurt his friends and got away with it.
Grantaire started to shake his head, “Couldn't even tell you their names, you know I don't think I actually asked. Anyway, what's the fucking point if I could. It happened, it's over.”
“Like hell is it over. They can't get away with this shit. Fuck, if necessary, we'll go to the police, make them do some real work for once.” Courfeyrac jumped up and started pacing as he spoke, he felt restless, angry, like he wanted to hit something (and he did, he really did, shame none of his preferred targets were anywhere near him right now).
That drew a bitter laugh out of the other man, “The police? Why the fuck would they get involved. I got drunk, I was stupid, I'll sleep it off and we can all forget this ever fucking happened.”
“Forget it? They fucking raped you R!”
Grantaire flinched at the word, pulling back into himself, his next words almost a whisper,“No they... I mean... I didn't say no. It's not rape if I don't say no, isn't that a thing? I was drunk, I made a poor fucking choice of bed partner, end of story.”
“You're too out of it now to even think of giving consent to anything, let alone what you must have been when it happened, of course its fucking rape!” Courfeyrac barely even paused in his pacing to look at him, too angry, astounded even that his friend would even say that, that he was trying to excuse what those bastards did to him, “Jesus fucking Christ!”
He hadn't even realised he was shouting until Jehan's sleep-slurred voice filtered down the hallway, “Courfeyrac, you ok in there?”
He glanced over at Grantaire, still huddled in the shower, towel puled tight around him and a look of pure fear on his face and the anger left him in an instant. Grantaire was frantically shaking his head, obviously unwilling for anyone else to see him like this.
“Fine Jehan, just managed to trip over some Bahorel's sports shit he left in here,” he called back. It was a common enough occurrence, Bahorel was notorious for leaving his gear all over the place, that Jehna seemed to accept it without question. Grantaire relaxed marginally as they both heard a mumbled reply from the poet which sounded suspiciously like “serves you right for borrowing Bossuet's dice” as the door to his room closed again.
There's a moment where they just looked at each other, one of those pauses in a conversation where neither side quite knows how to move forward.
“Come on, let's get you to bed.” Courfeyrac finally broke the silence, overriding the start of an apology on his friends lips. “We can talk about this in the morning, but whatever you decide, I'll be there for you. I'm your best friend, nothing going to change that, you know that right?”
Grantaire nods shakily as Courfeyrac helps him up from the shower. He staggers slightly, the alcohol and seized muscles getting to him and Courfeyrac instinctively snakes his arms around him to support him, a familiar gesture ingrained from long years of practice. It's not until he's holding Grantaire close to him that he realises what he was doing, but Grantaire is already leaning into the touch, relaxing into him with a trust that was almost heartbreaking under the circumstances.
“Can I...Can I sleep with you tonight? You don't have to if you don't want to, but I don't think its a good idea for me to be alone right now, the abyss has long since started staring back and I don't think its very happy with me.”
“As long as you promise not to steal all the covers. I swear I still remember waking up after you'd managed to sleep-appropriate my goddamn sleeping bag.”
Grantaire snorted, but there was the ghost of smile on his face, “Firstly, we were thirteen. Secondly, who said I was asleep at the time?”
Courfeyrac threw Grantaire an old t-shirt (proudly proclaiming that under no circumstances would its wearer deign to fix your computer) and some boxers once they'd made it to his room, and turned his back to give him some privacy whilst he changed his own wet clothes for something drier.
It wasn't until they were both settled in bed, that Grantaire spoke again. “Promise me you won't tell anyone. I don't think I could stand hi... them knowing. I don't want to give anyone any more reasons to despise me.”
Courfeyrac sighed, “No one is going to see you any differently because of this. They're all your friends, they'll understand.”
Grantaire choked back a bitter laugh, “we both know that's not true. I'm serious about this Courf, promise me, no one can know.”
Courfeyrac wanted to protest more, convince him that their friends wouldn't, couldn't ever, judge him for this, but he knew from experience that it wouldn't do any good. Grantaire's lack of self-esteem was only eclipsed by his stubborness. Instead, Courfeyrac held his friend close for several minutes, considering the demand. Keeping silent and letting his friend suffer in silence or reporting it and breaking his trust. Finally, as always with Grantaire, he relented. “I promise,” he whispered. He felt a deep stab of unease even as he said it however, because it was a promise he genuinely wasn't sure he could keep.
Pairing: Courfeyrac & Grantaire Bro!Otp, vague allusions to unrequited Enjolras/Grantaire (because it wouldn't be a Les Mis fic if it didn't)
Rating: PG-13
disclaimer: I am fully aware I'm probably making Victor Hugo spin in his gave (Mais il me pardonnera, j'en suis sûre!)
Warnings: Allusions to off-screen non-con, angst. No really, lots of angst. Modern AU! Also not Beta'd.
Summary: Grantaire staggering home drunk at three am may be a common event. But this evening wasn't like the others, thankfully Courfeyrac is there to pick up the pieces.
Author's note: This is going to be part of an eventual series - but since the idea wouldn't leave me alone, so I ended up writting it as a stand-alone so start with. The rape/non-con is entierly off-screen - this fic deals with the aftermath.
The title is taken from a heartbreaking VNV Nation song - Illusion
Finally, not beta-ed, all mistakes are mine (but if anyone wants to volunteer, I won't say no).
Read on AO3 or follow the fake cut -
I know its hard to tell how mixed up you feel
Hoping what you need is behind every door
Each time you get hurt I don't want you to change
Cuz everyone has hopes you're human after all
VNV Nation, Illusion
Courfeyrac glared balefully at the steady green glowing numbers on his alarm clock cheerfully telling him it was three am. He had just been drifting off into what was likely to be an awesome dream involving him, and Jadzia Dax, possibly Ezri Dax too, he was still undecided, before some inconsiderate git of a housemate woke him up by loudly tripping over the inevitable pile of shoes by the front door and knocking over the coat stand. Bastard.
He winced as said housemate stumbled up the stairs with an exaggerated, drunken, care, which inevitably made every move considerably louder than it should have been, and silently prayed that he didn't knock anything breakable over on the way up. Like his head.
Courfeyrac really didn't need any guesses as to who it was - the rest of his housemates, well Jehan, were either safely asleep or not due to be back home tonight, curse Bahorel and Marius and their girlfriend having ways. He supposed he should be grateful that Grantaire was at least attempting stealth and not actively trying to sing as had previously happened on at least one memorable occasion.
Of course, three am on a Saturday night wasn't exactly unreasonable. Hell, Courfeyrac would probably have been staggering in with him if he hadn't been feeling like complete, I just want to curl up and play computer games, levels of shit. He also wasn't exactly feeling forgiving either since he'd actually been looking forward to tonight, the big Gay-Friendly (TM) campus events were usually a good chance to meet some pretty gay boy without any of the bitchy bullshit that came from going along to any of the regular LGBT Society events (apparently 'not fussy' wasn't a valid sexual orientation, which was kinda hilarious for an society which claimed to have 'B' in its name). So instead of pulling tonight as originally planned, he'd ended up playing computer games until 2 in the morning with Jehan (who refused to go to gay club nights on the principle that the cheesy music was liable to make his ear's bleed, bless his pretentiously gothy little heart). Fun, yes, but not quite what he'd had planned for the night.
Courfeyrac had, foolishly, chosen the bedroom right next door to the bathroom when they'd been dividing up rooms last year. At the time it had seemed like a logical choice. Minimal distance to move when waking up in the night with a full bladder was, to his view, an optimum situation to be in. He had since learnt to regret it since he could also hear the sounds of everyone else using the bloody thing in the middle of the night. Case in point, Grantaire.
The sound of retching was, if not inevitable, then certainly not unexpected and Courfeyrac couldn't help but feel a small twinge of sympathy, even if the other man had brought the pain on himself. Grantaire was generally an experienced enough drinker, the term 'functional alcoholic' would probably be appropriate but generally avoided by all, that he usually managed avoided the point where he ended actually throwing up. Which meant tonight had either been a particularly good night, or a particularly bad one (or the music really was so bad that alcohol became the only survival option - Courfeyrac wasn't willing to discount that option yet).
Courfeyrac briefly wondered if he should get up and check on him, since he obviously wasn't getting any more sleep tonight, but that would involve getting out of bed, and even he wasn't feeling quite that charitable.
After an interminable amount of time, the retching finally stopped, eliciting a quiet hallelujah and a fervent prayer to a god he definitely didn't believe in that maybe, just maybe, Grantaire would stagger off to bed now and he could get some goddamn sleep. It was not to be, and Courfeyrac positively groaned when he heard the shower start, letting his head drop back to his pillow with a thump.
He must have dozed off at some point despite the noise, because the next time Courfeyrac opened his eyes it was four am... and the shower was still running.
Fuck.
He listened out in vain for any sounds of movement from the bathroom but the only thing he could hear was the sound of the water hitting the tiles. Shit, shit, shit, he really was too tired to deal with this bullshit. If Grantaire had fallen asleep in the shower and drowned, Courfeyrac would never forgive him.
Pulling himself out of bed with a grimace as the cold air hit his skin, he padded towards the closed door.
“Grantaire,” he called softy, knocking lightly on the bathroom door and hoping for some, any, sort of reply. He tries again, louder this time. “Hey, R. You in there?”
Nothing.
“Ok, fair warning, I'm coming in now. So if you're naked or wanking off, it's totally not my fault,” he called quietly, even though Jehan generally slept like the dead and was unlikely to wake for anything less than a herd of buffalo charging through the house.
Courfeyrac was glad, and not for the first time, that the lock on the bathroom had long since gone to meet its maker. Their landlord, of course, had attended to its replacement with exactly the same enthusiasm of all the other repairs required in the house, which is to say, not at all.
Although not quiet the drowned body a small part of him had genuinely feared seeing , the sight that greeted him did little to alleviate Courfeyrac's worry. Grantaire was huddled under the pitiful excuse of a stream that the so-called Power Shower pumped out. His skin was turning pink from too-hot water, his hands moving rhythmically up and down his arms as if trying to clean himself whilst he stared blankly ahead, lost in his own mind and clearly oblivious that Courfeyrac had even entered the room.
Courfeyrac couldn't help but let out a groan of disappointment, not at Grantaire per se, but more at whatever circumstances had left him in this state. He'd been doing so well lately, dammit!
The improvement after getting out of the downright toxic environment of halls in his first year, not to mention breaking up with his equally toxic boyfriend, had been noticeable. They'd even finally got the health centre on campus to take his depression seriously and prescribe him some decent medication. Albeit only following a rather impassioned campaign by Enjolras about them not taking mental health issues among students seriously, which had left Grantaire both furious, embarrassed and touched all at once. He'd cut back on the drinking to a point that he was sitting distinctly more on the functional than the alcoholic side of things, although his drinking was still a topic firmly off-limits even to his oldest friend. He was even managing to make most of the, admittedly few, contact hours he had, heading confidently towards a solid 2.2 (even in Enjolras was determined he could pull a high 2.1 or first if he actually tried).
“Ok R, let's get you to bed shall we,” Courfeyrac told the huddled man as cheerfully, as he had countless times before. He reached over him to turn off the spray, wincing at the far too hot water briefly hit his cool skin.
Grantaire must have registered the movement above him because suddenly he was scrambling away from him, pushing himself into the corner of the shower cubicle with a look of utter panic on his face.
Shit, this was way worse than he had thought. Courfeyrac paused, frozen, slightly at a loss at how to deal with a panicked and obviously traumatised Grantaire, who was looking at him without a glimmer of recognition.
Doing the only thing he could think of, he crouched down carefully by his friend, making sure not to make any sudden or threatening movements. He had no idea where Grantaire was at the moment in his head, but somehow he doubted it was anywhere nice or safe.
“Hey R, its me, Courfeyrac, you're home now, you're safe,” he said soothingly, carefully reaching out towards him, keeping his hands visible at all times. At bit like approaching a wounded animal, he thought, the analogy perhaps a bit to apt to be comfortable. “Please come back to me, you're kinda scaring me right now.” The last was a whisper, almost a plea.
“Courf?” Grantaire started to uncurl himself slightly as his eyes seemed to focus and take in his surroundings.
“The one and only,” Courfeyrac gave him a forced smile, “I know my face may not exactly be the prettiest sight at this time of the morning, but I didn't think I was quite that bad.” The joke was terrible but it elicited a small smile from the trembling friend, and that's all that mattered.
“I really fucked up tonight,” Grantaire said it in a whisper, seeming to deflate and slump against the cubicle, all the panicked flight gone from his body as quickly as it had appeared.
“Whatever it was, I doubt it was as bad as the time I hit on a girl, her sister and her boyfriend all in the same night. You're home safe and we can deal with anything else in the morning. Right now, I'm more worried about suffering the wrath of Joly by letting you get hypothermia.”
Despite the joking tone, he could see Grantaire starting to shiver as a cool air of the bathroom hit his wet skin, the heating long since gone off and the bitter cold seeping through the single glazed window. He snagged a towel off the rail as he spoke, holding it out to his obviously still very drunk friend, who just stared at it unblinking, as if he'd never seen such a thing before in his life. Ok, it was going to be one of those nights. Courfeyrac moved forward carefully, still mindful of the panicked look which had graced his friends face but moments ago, and went to wrap the towel around him, fully expecting to have to bodily lift him out the shower and into his bed. Again.
Grantaire flinched.
It stopped him dead. Grantaire had never flinched around Courefyrac before. Other people yes, when they got too close at the wrong time, or too loud, or too aggressive. But never Courfeyrac, in all the years they'd known each other. He noticed other things too, close as he was, he pink tinge from the too-hot shower fading away into pale coldness. The starts of bruises, finger marks on wrists and scattered across his chest and hips.
With a quiet, uncharacteristically calm intensity he asked, “Grantaire, what happened tonight?”
At first he thinks Grantaire isn't going to answer. The drunk stares at him, tense, as if ready to run or fight, the fuzzy, unfocused gaze giving away his level of inebriation. Then, as if all the fight left him at once, he slumps back down, looking, if possible, even smaller than he had done previously.
“I didn't want it to happen. Fuck, I don't know why it's affecting me so much, its not like its a big deal. I mean, in the grand scheme of things,” Grantaire was rambling and Courfeyrac felt at once relieved and guilty for taking advantage of his intoxication to get him talking.
If his friend had been less drunk he probably would have denied everything, cut the conversation off with a joke or a sarcastic remark or even, if he'd just tipped over into his bitter drunk phase, angry recriminations (and yes, Courfeyrac was aware it was a bad sign that he could name his friend's phases of intoxication). But once he'd got this drunk, just sober enough to communicate effectively with an almost surprising eloquence, but inebriated enough not to filter his words, he rambled. The answer to any question asked often lost in a barrage of words unless you were listening carefully to hear it.
Unwilling to interrupt him, lest he descend back in broody silence, a very real possibility at this stage of drunkness, Courfeyrac gently wrapped the towel around him and, with a silent prayer for the pyjamas he was ruining, sat down next to him in the damp shower, close enough for comfort but careful not to touch.
Grantaire barely seemed to notice him, pulling the towel closer around him for warmth as he continued his ramble. “It's not like its exactly the first time, I mean, not exactly like tonight. But its never affected me like this before. I get drunk and horny and maybe I end up having sex with people I wouldn't fuck normally. Unless one of you guys are there, because you usually stop me making really stupid decisions when drunk, even if you shouldn't bother because I'll probably do them anyway as soon as you guys aren't there.” Courfeyrac felt a small pang of guilt at that because he'd never really considered what happened when Grantaire went out without the rest of them to keep the creeps away.
“But then again, they're usually drunk as well, and lets face it, I doubt I'm exactly anyone's first choice either. I mean, can people mutually take advantage of each other? What's the accepted etiquette there - I'm sure Enjolras would know, I bet he has a chart with levels of consent and intoxication all cross-referenced so he can tell me in detail exactly how stupid I'm being. But its what university is about, getting drunk and having stupid unsafe sex with other stupid young students, otherwise Hollywood has lied to me and I want my money back. That was pretty much my plan for tonight anyway, get sightly drunk, get laid. Of course, I wasn't actually planning on getting wasted tonight, okay quite drunk maybe because the music was terrible and you weren't there to mock it with me, but you know, not that drunk. But then I started talking to this guy, and I guess must have had more than I expected. I know, not exactly a new situation for me, I'm sure you're completely shocked,” Grantaire chuckled self-deprecatingly, with more than a tinge of bitterness.
“Still, he was there and I was drunk, and we were getting it on, then two of his friends turned up and they suggested we head back to his room. I guess it seemed like a good idea at the time, I mean he said he had cherry vodka and the bar was closing up. Pretty fucking stupid really, but that's the story of my life isn't it?” Courfeyrac wanted to disagree with him, Grantaire may have had issues but he wasn't stupid, he just occasionally made bad life choices. But he didn't dare stop him mid-flow, not now.
“I didn't want to do it, not with all three of them, I'm not that much of a slut, no matter what some people may believe. But I was pretty out of it by then, probably couldn't have fought them even if I'd tried, so it seemed easiest to go along with it...” Grantaire trailed off as if loosing his train of thought and seemed unwilling to try and find it again. He was curled in on himself by this point, looking everywhere except at his friend. Not that he needed to continue, Courfeyrac was pretty certain he could figure out the rest.
“Who was it? Can you identify them?” Courfeyrac could feel a sharp spike of anger coursing through him and he had to restrain to desire to go out and find the fuckers himself. He may not have been a fighter like Bahorel, but no one hurt his friends and got away with it.
Grantaire started to shake his head, “Couldn't even tell you their names, you know I don't think I actually asked. Anyway, what's the fucking point if I could. It happened, it's over.”
“Like hell is it over. They can't get away with this shit. Fuck, if necessary, we'll go to the police, make them do some real work for once.” Courfeyrac jumped up and started pacing as he spoke, he felt restless, angry, like he wanted to hit something (and he did, he really did, shame none of his preferred targets were anywhere near him right now).
That drew a bitter laugh out of the other man, “The police? Why the fuck would they get involved. I got drunk, I was stupid, I'll sleep it off and we can all forget this ever fucking happened.”
“Forget it? They fucking raped you R!”
Grantaire flinched at the word, pulling back into himself, his next words almost a whisper,“No they... I mean... I didn't say no. It's not rape if I don't say no, isn't that a thing? I was drunk, I made a poor fucking choice of bed partner, end of story.”
“You're too out of it now to even think of giving consent to anything, let alone what you must have been when it happened, of course its fucking rape!” Courfeyrac barely even paused in his pacing to look at him, too angry, astounded even that his friend would even say that, that he was trying to excuse what those bastards did to him, “Jesus fucking Christ!”
He hadn't even realised he was shouting until Jehan's sleep-slurred voice filtered down the hallway, “Courfeyrac, you ok in there?”
He glanced over at Grantaire, still huddled in the shower, towel puled tight around him and a look of pure fear on his face and the anger left him in an instant. Grantaire was frantically shaking his head, obviously unwilling for anyone else to see him like this.
“Fine Jehan, just managed to trip over some Bahorel's sports shit he left in here,” he called back. It was a common enough occurrence, Bahorel was notorious for leaving his gear all over the place, that Jehna seemed to accept it without question. Grantaire relaxed marginally as they both heard a mumbled reply from the poet which sounded suspiciously like “serves you right for borrowing Bossuet's dice” as the door to his room closed again.
There's a moment where they just looked at each other, one of those pauses in a conversation where neither side quite knows how to move forward.
“Come on, let's get you to bed.” Courfeyrac finally broke the silence, overriding the start of an apology on his friends lips. “We can talk about this in the morning, but whatever you decide, I'll be there for you. I'm your best friend, nothing going to change that, you know that right?”
Grantaire nods shakily as Courfeyrac helps him up from the shower. He staggers slightly, the alcohol and seized muscles getting to him and Courfeyrac instinctively snakes his arms around him to support him, a familiar gesture ingrained from long years of practice. It's not until he's holding Grantaire close to him that he realises what he was doing, but Grantaire is already leaning into the touch, relaxing into him with a trust that was almost heartbreaking under the circumstances.
“Can I...Can I sleep with you tonight? You don't have to if you don't want to, but I don't think its a good idea for me to be alone right now, the abyss has long since started staring back and I don't think its very happy with me.”
“As long as you promise not to steal all the covers. I swear I still remember waking up after you'd managed to sleep-appropriate my goddamn sleeping bag.”
Grantaire snorted, but there was the ghost of smile on his face, “Firstly, we were thirteen. Secondly, who said I was asleep at the time?”
Courfeyrac threw Grantaire an old t-shirt (proudly proclaiming that under no circumstances would its wearer deign to fix your computer) and some boxers once they'd made it to his room, and turned his back to give him some privacy whilst he changed his own wet clothes for something drier.
It wasn't until they were both settled in bed, that Grantaire spoke again. “Promise me you won't tell anyone. I don't think I could stand hi... them knowing. I don't want to give anyone any more reasons to despise me.”
Courfeyrac sighed, “No one is going to see you any differently because of this. They're all your friends, they'll understand.”
Grantaire choked back a bitter laugh, “we both know that's not true. I'm serious about this Courf, promise me, no one can know.”
Courfeyrac wanted to protest more, convince him that their friends wouldn't, couldn't ever, judge him for this, but he knew from experience that it wouldn't do any good. Grantaire's lack of self-esteem was only eclipsed by his stubborness. Instead, Courfeyrac held his friend close for several minutes, considering the demand. Keeping silent and letting his friend suffer in silence or reporting it and breaking his trust. Finally, as always with Grantaire, he relented. “I promise,” he whispered. He felt a deep stab of unease even as he said it however, because it was a promise he genuinely wasn't sure he could keep.