LES MISERABLES fic
(I wrote this fic as a christmas gift to myself)
Title: Fate, I Guess
Fandom: Les Misérables (book/musical blend, I guess?)
Characters/Pairing: E/R
Word Count: 6,110
Notes: 1: this is reincarnation fic/modern AU inspired by this gifset. 2: therefore the names are different, mainly because I find it really weird when characters that are supposed to be in the modern era have historic names? And it's reincarnation fic in my mind so they wouldn't have the same names anyway. That's a personal thing, but I went with it. 3: Turns out, as I plotted these modern names, that the way that I naturally would linguistically and phonetically modernize Enjolras and Grantaire was to go with Aaron Everett (the long A sound) and George Radley (the grand R). Which awkwardly mirrors the names of the actors in the upcoming movie? Oops. Let's all keep in mind this isn't RPF though, okay?
Summary: He doesn't think much at all about Aaron Everett, and then, all of the sudden, he does. (aka, Enjolras and Grantaire as modern college students, reincarnated and fated to have a real love/hate relationship)
-----
He wakes up with a blinding hangover headache, the sun in his face, the feeling of bruised ribs, and someone in his bed. He can feel the weight of them; feel their presence through his dreams.
A pretty basic Friday morning, all in all.
He rolls out of bed and his stomach turns over, churning into his chest. His mouth tastes foul, and the rising bile doesn't help. On the way to the bathroom, he trips over a stack of unread books and turns back towards his bed.
His heart plummets into his chest, both stomping out his nausea and also making it somehow so much worse. It's one type of nausea replaced with another and the final outcome is the same. He wants to puke or die or both.
It's the Adonis. The beautiful, perfect, flawless Adonis from his Revolutionary Literature course is sleeping in his bed. With his shirt off. Aaron Everett is in. his. bed. And his arms look amazing.
Aaron Everett who is president of that weird Third Party political group on campus, and who is fucking stunning, and who always scoffs in class and is really snobby and self-righteous and unbelievably attractive.
Aaron groans a little and shifts in his sleep, and in a fit of panic, George runs out of the room. He flings himself into the bathroom and shuts the door, draping himself over the toilet and waiting for the vomit to arrive. It doesn't, miraculously, and after a few slow breaths, George pulls himself up and perches on the seat.
His head is still pounding, and he has a class in fourty-five minutes which he should probably attend.
Still feeling sick, his stomach churning, his head pounding and reeling all at once, he turns on the shower and peels off his boxers and t-shirt and starts to put together the pieces of what exactly happened.
The warm water helps him remember, as he washes off the grime of two or three days.
Before this semester, he had only seen Aaron Everett-- every girl’s wet dream, the guy every fraternity wants to claim as their own-- from a distance at rallies and the occasional opera studio. And yes, he was beautiful, but so what? Aaron Everett was beautiful, but also stuck up and prudish. So who cared that his hair was the most perfect, shining shade of gold? Who cared that his passion for class equality set a small fire in George's chest that he had never felt before? Who cared that there was something about Aaron that George found unbearable, and unbearably appealing?
George is working his way through an English degree slowly but steadily, attending only ever other class, preferring to fill his life with experiences instead. He knows the best bars, clubs and restaurants in town, knows where to get the best books and best clothes, and has never received higher than a B in any class. He drinks too much to keep track of requirements, but for some inexplicable reason the professors like him enough that they sign him into whatever courses he wants. And then someone points out to him that he's missing a 180-level topics course, and he needs one to graduate.
So he signs up for Revolutionary Literature and on the first day, there's stupid fucking Aaron Everett sitting in the corner flicking his pen and looking bored with his hair perfectly combed. He's obviously there because he needs to fulfill a Gen Ed requirement, because if there's one thing George knows about Aaron, it's that he's studying political science.
George sits diagonally from Aaron, not near him, not across from him, not quite behind him, so he doesn't have to always be looking at those eyes or those shoulders.
They read Animal Farm and The Moon is a Harsh Mistress and The Scarlett Pimpernel, Rob Roy and Oroonoko. Aaron doesn't speak much in class, but when he does his thoughts emerge fully formed. He never stutters or second guesses himself. Aaron is eloquent nearly to the point of sounding rehearsed-- his voice is always even and calm, his syntax and diction precise and engaging. He is a natural public speaker, and George can't help but listen closely to every rare word he allows to slip. He sits across the room and keeps Aaron in his peripheral vision, in spite of himself. He sleeps in class with his head on his arms, or his mind wanders off to something else, but he always listens attentively to Aaron's thoughts on the Marxist metaphor or inherent stupidity of a false dandyism. His attendance in a class has never been so high. He doesn't care for the books much, but he likes the way Aaron perks up at the discussion of revolutionary ideals and the way passion burns in his eyes with idealism and radical ideas. More than his beautiful face, his ideas are beautiful and his passions enthralling. On those rare occasions that he really gets going on a tear, speaking with fiery abandon of rebellion and bravery and fool-hardy actions, George lifts his head off his arms and stares and finds himself quite, quite lost.
The semester is drawing to a close, and Aaron has never said more than four words directly to him, and those only said in debate and with disdain. Knowing it's silly to feel disheartened by this, especially because George doesn't care about Aaron's opinion of him, or Aaron at all, George shifts seats in the last two weeks of class, displacing a frustrating sophomore who is too romantic for his own good. This new seat places him directly across from Aaron, and now they are forced to look at each other.
When Aaron notices this, he nearly rolls his eyes. It's like he finds everything about George distasteful, from his looks to his clothes to his thoughts to his posture. But it does mean that Aaron has noticed him.
Their final book of the semester is Les Misérables, or a two-hundred page excerpt from it. Just the bits about the uprising, to George's immense relief. When he bought his copy at the bookstore, he had been horrified at the idea of reading that brick of a novel.
He read it though, for some reason more thoroughly than he had read anything else that semester, and he is moved by the foolish actions of the young men on the barricade, moved by their idealism and hopes and idiotic romanticization of martyrdom.
"Mr. Radley," their professor says one morning when George is especially hungover in class, "Would you care to read a bit aloud?" Read what bit? For a moment, he panics, and then decides merely to read his favorite bit. With a little effort, George finds the right page and starts to read. The words slip over his tongue easily, unlike any other time he's been asked to read anything. For once he does not stutter, he does not stumble. He reads.
"'...I need someone for the Barriere du Maine. I haven't got anyone spare.'
'What about me?' said Grantaire. 'I'm here.'
'You?'
'Me.'
'You, indoctrinate republicans! You, warm cold feet in the name of principles!'"
He reads with precision, with verve. For a moment he thinks he could be a decent actor if given the chance. From across the room, Aaron is watching-- his face looks calm and cool, but there's a strange twinge of interest in his eyes.
He likes this passage because it gives him hope. Even the most worthless of men can try in the face of disdain.
"'Why not?'," George continues reading, keeping his eyes on the page and away from the blue glare coming from across the room. "'Can it really be that you're good for something?'
'Well, I have a vague ambition to be,' said Grantaire."
The name feels familiar on his tounge. He took German classes in high school, yet the French names and phrases he finds easy to pronounce.
"'You don't believe in anything.'
'I believe in you.'"
He looks up and finds that Aaron is looking at him, his gaze intense and his eyes wide. The rest of his face is frighteningly blank. It is unavoidable; their eyes meet. There's no lightning strike or anything, of course not, that sort of melodramatic bullshit only happens in movies and books-- books like Les Misérables. But something happens in that moment, some sharp understanding passes through and between them.
It's only a heartbeat long-- it can't be longer than that because no one else in the class coughs or giggles or does anything other than twirl their pens and take notes-- but it feels like a lifetime.
George scratches his head and turns back to the book. He clears his throat and keeps reading. He reads another whole page and no one stops him. A few of the girls in class are starting to stare at him with something like admiration in their eyes. That’s new.
"And, going over to Enjolras, he whispered in his ear: 'Don't worry.'"
"Thank you, Mr. Radley," their professor says, finally stopping him. "That's enough."
Class ends soon after that. Aaron takes one more wide-eyed look at George, and then makes a mad-- yet somehow dignified-- dash out of the room. It takes George's hazy mind a moment to catch up and then he makes a run for it himself. He's not entirely sure why he feels the desperate need to run after him, but for the first time he really wants to talk to Aaron Everett.
He runs, in his black jeans and his boots and his leather jacket and unshaven face and slouchy hat, he runs. Still a little drunk from the previous night, wavering and hardly keeping himself aright, he runs. He runs, calling, "Aaron! Aaron, wait up!" after the most beautiful man he's ever seen in dark blue jeans and sperrys and a sweater over a collared shirt and a too, too precise haircut. The man is so well put together it should be disgusting, but he suddenly loves everything about him.
He runs after the Adonis with the slightly crooked mouth, and finally catches up to him. Aaron slows his gait politely, but the look in his eyes says, 'Please get away from me.'
But George knows, knows, they shared something in class. He saw how Aaron looked up at him from across the room. He knows that their eyes met and they both understood somehow, that those two in the book, those poor, dead, stupid bastards... Somehow that was them.
"Hey," George says, huffing a little because he smokes too much and drinks too much, and so now he simultaneously wants to collapse onto the ground and also vomit. "Hey, can I buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink."
"Not ever?"
"Certainly not at 11:30 in the morning."
"Oh, right," George says with a laugh. His head is fuzzy; maybe he's not that hungover, but rather mostly still drunk from last night. Aaron looks at him with stern, cold eyes, like he's waiting for more. "How about later then? Can I buy you a drink tonight?"
Aaron stares at him for a long, long moment. "Sure."
They walk together a bit more.
"Why did you choose that passage?" Aaron asks quietly as they walk past the library.
"Uhm," George says, unsure how to start. "I don't know. I liked it. I like them."
"Who?"
"You know."
"Yeah," Aaron idly uncuffs and recuffs his sleeves. "I do."
"I like the moment where Grantaire decides to prove himself and Enjolras gives him the chance."
"But he disappoints him a page later. He lets him down."
"No one's perfect, Aaron." It's the first time George has said his name. Aaron almost startles at the sound of it and they stop walking. George scratches his head, pushing his hat back and pulling it forward, back into place. "I don't know, man, I think you've got to give people a chance even if you know it won't work out. And like, I think..." Feeling unbearably uncomfortable, he looks at everything but the young man standing next to him. "I think Enjolras really wants to believe that this time it'll be different and Grantaire will pull through. I mean, I think he wants to be wrong about Grantaire.... and he is, isn't he? In the end?"
Aaron stands still, thinking. He's like a statue.
"No," he says eventually, slowly and with purpose. He looks right into George's eyes. "He's not wrong about him at all."
With that, Aaron starts walking again. Again, it takes a moment, but George puppys along soon after, having to jog a little to catch up. The conversation seems over. Aaron has crushed it under his decisive heel.
"So," George says when he's finally in stride with Aaron again. "Tonight?"
"Tonight?"
"To buy you that drink? Meet me at the Plumes at ten?"
Aaron seems to hesitate now. "Ten?" He runs his fingers through his hair, somehow managing not to disturb a single strand. "Alright."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"It'll be fun. I won't let you down."
Aaron shrugs, unconvinced, and they go their separate ways. George watches him go and when Aaron looks back over his shoulder, he waves.
To steel his courage, he does a shot or two (or three) before leaving the house.
The Plumes is not his favorite bar in town, not by a long shot, but it's the nicest one, and it's one of only two where Aaron and his friends are occasionally seen. Well, it's one of only two at which Aaron is ever seen, as his friends frequent a far wider selection of establishments. George has even spent a few fun evenings with them, rubbing shoulders and drinking and laughing. In general, Aaron's friends seemed like more fun than Aaron himself. But, either way, the Plumes it is. It's dark and slick and there's a dance floor, and it's all a bit too clean for George's general taste-- but he has friends in every bar, and there was no reason not to pick a bar that Aaron might like.
Aaron arrives at half past ten, looking sheepish and embarrassed, like he can't believe that he showed up at all, though being late clearly doesn't bother him. George brightens at the sight of him, and immediately orders a round of shots and a pair of drinks. His intention is to get Aaron drunk enough to dance, and maybe drunk enough that the smug, disdainful look will disappear from his face.
His plan only half works. By 11:00 they're three drinks in and on the dance floor, where Aaron looks mildly miserable and uncomfortable. "Come on," George sighs, pulling at Aaron's sleeves and collar, "come on, dance. Have some fun with me."
They are not on an equal footing. But then, almost no one is ever on level with George when it comes to drinking; drinking is where his real talent lies. But Aaron is drunk, certainly drunk enough to sway a little to the music, his aversions to fun and happiness slightly loosened.
"I don't think I'm interested in your type of fun," Aaron says with hesitance. In any other instance, George thinks he would be spitting venom with that sentence. There's something in his eyes that looks almost scared and George laughs.
"You should be, it's great." He laughs again and pulls Aaron close to him. They sway together, and a nervous smirk cracks the marble of Aaron's face. "It's great, great fun."
"Let me go," Aaron says, but he doesn't make a move to pull away.
"No, I shant. You're too pretty. You're so so pretty. You're the prettiest man I've ever seen. You're gorgeous. You're too pretty to ever let you out of my sight." He drops his head onto Aaron's shoulder, laughing against his neck. He’s no right to behave like this, but he feels comfortable doing it anyway. They hardly know each other, but nothing feels more right than to have his head on Aaron’s shoulder.
"Stop that."
"You're a god." With the grace of a professional drunkard, George spins the pair of them, lifting his head to catch the surprised look in Aaron's eyes. "You're... you're Enjolras."
"No, I'm not," is the quiet reply.
"You are to me," George says, and presses his lips to Aaron's. "Now you're my Apollo," he mumbles against Aaron's mouth.
"Stop."
"My Enjolras."
"Stop," Aaron says, silencing George's words with his own firm press of lips and tongue. They kiss, right there on the dancefloor, and somehow that leads them back to George's apartment, where they strip off their clothes, collapse into bed and just sleep.
When he gets out of the shower, he's almost sure that Aaron will be gone. He'll have woken up and realized where he was and left, George thinks. It's the only logical thing. There's a beer still sitting on his bathroom counter, and George takes a swig of it to settle his headache. It's flat and half skunked, but he drinks it anyway. Somehow he doesn't think he can face the sight of his empty bed without a little fortitude. Then he puts back on his dirty clothes and brushes his teeth.
But his bed isn't empty when he gets there.
Aaron is still in it, still shirtless, but now he's awake. He sees George step into the room, his hair wet and still dripping (his curls never dry like they should), and he smiles of all things.
"You're still here," George says before he can think of something cleverer and less buffoonish to say.
"Of course."
"Oh."
"You look a lot better."
"I do?"
"Cleaner. Fresher. Less like a dead body thrown in a river."
"Right."
"You should drink less."
"No thanks." He wants to go sit on the bed, or maybe change into clean boxers, but instead he remains standing in the doorway. "Maybe you should drink more."
"I don't think so." Aaron rearranges himself on the bed, looking for all purposes like he belongs there. "Come here," he says, extending a hand in offer.
Somehow it feels like a joke, a cosmic prank designed entirely to humiliate him, but nevertheless George steps forward and takes Aaron's hand. The man on the bed gives him a pull and he tumbles onto the edge of the bed.
"I don't even like you," George says, looking back towards the door. "You're stuck up and arrogant and rude."
"I don't like you either. You're a lazy, unreliable drunk."
George looks down at his hands; "I know."
His head still hurts, and there's something about the way Aaron's hair glints in the sunlight that's so infuriating. He feels inadequate in every way possible, from his scraggly three day beard to his soft belly to his pathetic personality. Even though they're in his apartment, he has this urge to leave. Stupid Aaron Everett and his perfectly clean shaven square jaw and his abs. No one has ever made George feel so awful without doing anything to him at all.
Aaron sits up in bed and settles next to George, his firm, strong shoulder brushing against George's weak, sloping one. "Can I see you again?" He says, and the quiet tenor of his voice surprises them both.
"Uh," George thinks about the collection of bottles in his kitchen, the mess of his life, and says, "You want to?"
"Sure."
"Oh. Uhm, okay then."
"Cool." He knocks their knees together. "Don't be too enthusiastic or anything."
---
They don't sit next to each other in class, after that, but they do spend time together whenever Aaron has free time (George always has free time), and eventually Aaron starts inviting him along to his political meetings and to hang out with his friends. Some of Aaron's friends he already knows, from various spots and classes, but some he's never met before. There are two Chris's in Aaron's social circle, one thin and sharp and very serious and Aaron's best friend, the other round and friendly and recognizes George right away on day one.
"We had Brit Survey together, remember?" He exclaims with a wink, tossing his arm around George's shoulders. He does not remember that, but he does remember having drinks with him at a bowling alley downtown, at least three or four times. The other Chris shakes his hand and gives Aaron a sidelong glance. Aaron shrugs and wanders over to a chair in the corner, leaving George to mingle on his own.
There's Peter and Freddie and Brad and Justin, and some others whose names George doesn't really bother to learn. Initially, he's not sure any of them like him that much, but eventually they come around to his sense of humor and that he's always the first to buy a round of drinks. They all hang out in this little hole-in-the-wall restaurant right off campus called The Epicure, and because it seems like the group of them are the only people who ever frequent the place, when they first take him there, George feels very flattered.
George takes them to hipster bars, even though Aaron doesn't drink much, and Aaron drags him to political rallies, but at least George can usually get wine in the lobby of those.
They sit together in the back of Epicure and discuss philosophy and movies until they frustrate each other into silence. They don't agree on anything; Aaron's idealistic moralizing sets George's teeth on edge, while George's lackadaisical nihilism makes Aaron want to scream. They talk about books and history and their families-- Aaron's parents and George's little brother.
They play games.
"Would you rather... be beautiful or smart?"
"Smart. Would you rather live in a glass house or a house with no windows?"
"... No windows."
"Really?"
"I need the dark to sleep. And, I mean, I could always go outside."
"Fair enough."
"Would you rather give up-- for the rest of your life, right? Forever-- give up blowjobs or cheese?"
"Blowjobs."
The answer comes so fast it surprises both of them. George laughs; "Yeah, me too."
Aaron smiles sheepishly and there's a bright twinkle in his eyes. "That's not even a good question. It’s so obvious."
---
They lay in together in George's bed, always George's bed, Aaron reading some political thing and George half asleep, with his head on Aaron's stomach. He can feel the breath going in and out of him, can hear the quiet inner workings of his body, and he smiles. "I would die for a cause," Aaron says into the air.
"That's stupid."
"No it's not." He sighs. "Besides," he adds, "what do you know? You wouldn't die for anything."
George is quiet for a moment, listening to Aaron breathe. Finally, he speaks: "That's not true."
"Oh?"
"I'd die for you," He mumbles against the firm skin of Aaron's stomach, closing his eyes and willing himself to die of embarrassment. He's too drunk for this kind of conversation. He's always too drunk.
"Now that's stupid."
---
Technically, George has a job in the campus bookstore, but he rarely shows up to work and when he does he's usually too hazy to be of much use. But he still gets discounts on his textbooks and his bosses don't mind when he steals bottled water and Tylenol.
---
There are some particularly bad nights. George always drinks, and Aaron always disapproves, and they always fight, but some nights it's worse than others. Some nights George screams about feeling judged and unloved, screams and fumes and storms while Aaron sits quietly, still and calm like marble, his jaw set and his will unbending.
But there are some good nights too, where they share a bottle of wine and sit together watching movies or reading. They laugh together on those nights, and Aaron whispers into George's hair.
---
"You guys have such a fucked up relationship," Chris says one night while they're all at a party. George is sprawled out on a couch with one foot up and a cup balanced on his chest, while Chris, Peter and Justin all sit around near-by. Aaron is across the room with Freddie, while a group of women fawn over them.
"What?"
"You don't even like each other."
George scoffs, snorting into his glass as he takes a sip; "Yes we do."
"Yeah, but.... no. You have nothing in common. You fight all the time. What even brought you together?"
George looks over a beautiful, golden Aaron. From across the room, his idol laughs at something one of the girls said, a small chuckle. He looks up, a warm glint in his eyes, and makes eye contact with George. They share a smile.
"I don't know," George says to Chris. "Fate, I guess." He keeps his eyes on Aaron. "Sometimes I feel like... I've lived this a hundred times before, all this with him. Like I've spent my whole life just waiting for him and now that he’s here… everything’s beginning.”
Chris snorts out a cruel laugh; “You’re drunk.”
George throws him a dirty look just as Aaron extricates himself from the girls and walks over to the couch. George grins up at his Apollo and swigs down the last of his drink.
"Come on, you old booze-hound," Aaron says, reaching out to pull George off the couch, "let's get you home."
"Okay, handsome, if you insist."
---
"Would you rather give up drinking..."
George snuffles against the pillow. It's been a long week of exams and paper writing, and he's drunker than he usually would be for a Sunday night; "The other one. I'd give up the other one."
"Wait until you've heard the options."
George grunts.
"Would you rather give up booze or cheese?"
There's a long pause while George considers. "Cheese."
"Would you rather give up drinking or the ability to walk?"
"Aaron, I'm tired--"
"Answer it."
"I don't want to. I'm tired and all I want to do is lie here with you and sleep. All I want is to feel your skin and dream about your mouth. I don't want to answer your stupid questions."
"Fine." Though he's frustrated as per usual, and a bit mad, Aaron allows George to nuzzle against his side, cheek resting on his ribs. George presses soft kisses to his bare chest, mumbling sweet nothings about angels and revolutions. Aaron pets his hair, running his fingers through George's unruly curls. He rubs at his ears, and traces the vertebrae down the back of his neck. He'll allow George to objectify him, because he knows that underneath all that talk of beauty, George genuinely respects him and likes him. He knows George genuinely adores him, and it is quite nice to be adored, after all.
"Would you rather give up drinking or give up me?"
But George is already asleep.
---
It's not necessarily that he drinks more after he meets Aaron, but he certainly doesn't drink less. Aaron makes him feel anxious and self-conscious and worthless, so he drinks.
Most nights, Aaron comes over in the evening and they sit around and read and watch tv and George drinks. Sometimes George cooks, but mostly Aaron brings over dinner for them.
"If I didn't feed you," he asks at least once a week, "would you eat at all?"
George shrugs.
"How did you live without me?" Aaron asks with a flippant laugh.
"I don't think I did," George says when Aaron's back is turned. The words have the cadence of a joke, and it's lucky Aaron can't see how serious his eyes are.
Aaron cleans the apartment, especially once he starts spending more and more nights there. There's something about the clutter he finds comforting, all the books and half-finished paintings lying around, but he can't stand the bottles and cans sprinkled about the apartment with an inch of liquid left in them. He cleans them away, but they always reappear a day or two later. In different spots and with different labels, but they always come back.
George drinks and they sleep in his bed. More often than not, George falls asleep first, his head on Aaron's shoulder.
Aaron would complain-- he would love to complain, but there's something about the way that George fits against his side, the way his hands feel familiar, the sadness he feels in his heart whenever George asks him permission to do something... Something about all that keeps him from complaining too much. Or leaving.
---
"You have to stop drinking like this! You have to quit!"
"No! Why? Why would I do that?"
"You're a fucking alcoholic. It's a disease, George!"
"It's the only thing I'm good at!"
"It's not! It's a disease, and it's going to kill you."
"So what? Who would care?"
Aaron stops in his tracks and slams the bottle he's been emptying into the sink on to the counter. From where he's sitting, slumped against the fridge, George can tell he's angry. Angrier than he was a moment ago, angrier than perhaps George has ever seen him, and they fight quite a lot so he has a good sense of how angry Aaron can get. His shoulders are shaking.
"Fuck you," he says without turning around. "Fuck you, George. Fuck this and fuck you, I'm done." He leaves the bottle where it sits, half empty on the countertop. "Go drown yourself in liquor for all I care. You're right, who fucking cares about you?"
Aaron storms out of the house without another glance, grabbing his jacket as he strides out the door.
George, for his part, does try to go after him, but he's too drunk to stay on his feet. He stumbles and smashes his forearm on the tile floor, then crawls towards the door as best as he can.
"Aaron," he mewls. "Aaron."
He passes out on the floor of the kitchen, too tired and sad and drunk to go to bed.
When he wakes up, he's in his bed and Chris is there sitting next to him. Nice Chris, not Aaron's Best Friend in the World Chris. He's holding a bucket and there's a glass of water waiting on the bedside table.
"Hey, man," Chris says, giving George's shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"What are you doing here?" He groans, sortof wishing that they'd all just followed Aaron's example and left him to die.
"Aaron's really worried about you."
"Didn't seem like it." George buries his spinning head into his pillow.
"You hurt his feelings. He was upset last night."
"He's a statue. He doesn't have feelings."
Chris tuts; "You know that's not true."
Peeking out from his pillow, George sees the warm and genuine concern on Chris' face.
"I really fucked up, didn't I?" He asks, already knowing the answer. "Of course I fucking did. Fuck." He breaks in an instant, and is crying before he can muster the strength to stop himself. Chris rubs his back and very kindly doesn't say anything at all.
He sleeps the rest of the day, occasionally vomiting into the bucket Chris provided or, as the day progresses, stumbling to the bathroom. It's not just that he's hungover, he also feels like his entire life has ended, like he has ruined the one good thing he had going and now he might as well die because it's over. It's over with Aaron because he fucked it up. He got too drunk and then he was a dick about it. Like always.
Brad comes over around noon to relieve Chris from make-sure-George-doesn't-die watch. He makes soup and toast and they sit on the couch and eat in silence.
"He really does care about you, that's all," Brad says with a shrug as he's cleaning dishes.
"I care about him too."
"I know. That's what makes this all so frustrating. You two obviously really fucking like each other, and yet you fight and hurt each other all the time." George curls up in the corner of the couch, as if, if he tried hard enough, he could fold himself up small enough to disappear into the cushions completely."We all care about you, George, and we want you and Aaron to be happy. So stop trying to drink yourself to death, okay?"
That evening, once he's feeling a bit better, he goes over to Aaron's apartment and sits on the stoop. He waits for Aaron to come out and talk to him, and he ends up waiting for six hours. Finally, long after midnight, the door opens and Aaron comes out, looking frustrated and sad and tired.
At first he doesn't say anything, merely stands at George's side, looking down at him. George sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms around his knees, his chin perched on his arms. He doesn't quite have the heart to look up.
"I'm sorry," he groans, unable to hide his misery. "I'm so, so sorry, Aaron. I'll be better, I promise. I'll stop drinking."
"No, you won't." Aaron sits by him on the step and rubs his hands over his face.
"I'll try. I will... Please give me another chance. Please. I won't let you down again."
Aaron laughs at that, harsh and cold, the bark of a stray, hardened dog.
"Don't bother lying to me, George. It's not worth it." He sighs. "How long have you been sitting out on my porch?"
"All night."
"It's cold out here."
"Yeah."
Aaron stands; "Are you sober now?"
George hesitates before answering, because it's been so long since he was properly, really sober, he isn't quite sure this is what is feels like. "Yes."
Aaron stares at him, trying to read a lie in his face. When he doesn’t find one, he says, “Come inside."
"Really?"
"Quick, before I change my mind."
He's never been inside Aaron's apartment before. Aaron shares with Chris, and so between them the place is unnaturally tidy. Chris is in the living room, reading on the couch, as Aaron takes his hand and guides him through. As he spots George slinking past, Chris gives Aaron a stern and disbelieving look. He's never been George's biggest fan, and that Aaron has taken him back leaves Chris disappointed, it seems. But he stays silent and turns back to his book as they move past.
Aaron's bedroom is clinical. His bed is neatly made, his desk ordered and clean, his closet open but well organized. George feels like a black spot marring the whitest cheek just by standing there. They sit on Aaron's bed, crumpling the precision of the crisp sheets and thin, dark blankets.
"I'm so sorry, Aaron. I am. I'll be so much better--"
"Stop," Aaron interrupts. He kisses him on the cheek, then on the mouth. "I'd like it if you didn't die of liver failure, that's all. If you didn't give yourself alcohol poisoning. I'd like it if you ever saw anything clearly. I'd like it if I ever knew that you were genuine and yourself, and not coated in a layer of grime and alcohol and lost to inebriation. But I know I can't fix you. I can't make you change."
"How can you change the world if you can't change one man?" George asks sadly, still expecting to be shown the door at any moment, like if he keeps reminding Aaron of his many flaws, of how worthless he is in comparison with the great leader of the revolution, of how wretched a thing he is, Aaron will come to his senses and kick him out again. All this despite Aaron's hand on his thigh.
"I don't have to change the world."
"Yes, you do. And I will change," George insists; he cannot imagine Aaron without his dreams to make the world a better place. He won't stand for any compromise of Aaron's integrity. "I will. I'll try and I will."
Aaron sighs again, though the soft look in his eyes says that he appreciates the promise anyway.
With a sigh of his own, George collapses sideways onto Aaron's bed. He lays there and inhales the smell of him. Aaron gives a weak little chuckle at George's melodramatic gesture, then lays down next to him. With one arm, he pulls them close together.
They don't speak for a while.
Aaron is the first to break the silence; "I would care if you died, George. That's all. I would care."
"Thank you..." George doesn't have a lot of pride, but it's hard to say this next bit: "Can I stay? Can I have another chance? Would you allow that?"
Aaron gives a small smile and takes his hand.
"Sure," he says, and leans in for a kiss.
Title: Fate, I Guess
Fandom: Les Misérables (book/musical blend, I guess?)
Characters/Pairing: E/R
Word Count: 6,110
Notes: 1: this is reincarnation fic/modern AU inspired by this gifset. 2: therefore the names are different, mainly because I find it really weird when characters that are supposed to be in the modern era have historic names? And it's reincarnation fic in my mind so they wouldn't have the same names anyway. That's a personal thing, but I went with it. 3: Turns out, as I plotted these modern names, that the way that I naturally would linguistically and phonetically modernize Enjolras and Grantaire was to go with Aaron Everett (the long A sound) and George Radley (the grand R). Which awkwardly mirrors the names of the actors in the upcoming movie? Oops. Let's all keep in mind this isn't RPF though, okay?
Summary: He doesn't think much at all about Aaron Everett, and then, all of the sudden, he does. (aka, Enjolras and Grantaire as modern college students, reincarnated and fated to have a real love/hate relationship)
-----
He wakes up with a blinding hangover headache, the sun in his face, the feeling of bruised ribs, and someone in his bed. He can feel the weight of them; feel their presence through his dreams.
A pretty basic Friday morning, all in all.
He rolls out of bed and his stomach turns over, churning into his chest. His mouth tastes foul, and the rising bile doesn't help. On the way to the bathroom, he trips over a stack of unread books and turns back towards his bed.
His heart plummets into his chest, both stomping out his nausea and also making it somehow so much worse. It's one type of nausea replaced with another and the final outcome is the same. He wants to puke or die or both.
It's the Adonis. The beautiful, perfect, flawless Adonis from his Revolutionary Literature course is sleeping in his bed. With his shirt off. Aaron Everett is in. his. bed. And his arms look amazing.
Aaron Everett who is president of that weird Third Party political group on campus, and who is fucking stunning, and who always scoffs in class and is really snobby and self-righteous and unbelievably attractive.
Aaron groans a little and shifts in his sleep, and in a fit of panic, George runs out of the room. He flings himself into the bathroom and shuts the door, draping himself over the toilet and waiting for the vomit to arrive. It doesn't, miraculously, and after a few slow breaths, George pulls himself up and perches on the seat.
His head is still pounding, and he has a class in fourty-five minutes which he should probably attend.
Still feeling sick, his stomach churning, his head pounding and reeling all at once, he turns on the shower and peels off his boxers and t-shirt and starts to put together the pieces of what exactly happened.
The warm water helps him remember, as he washes off the grime of two or three days.
Before this semester, he had only seen Aaron Everett-- every girl’s wet dream, the guy every fraternity wants to claim as their own-- from a distance at rallies and the occasional opera studio. And yes, he was beautiful, but so what? Aaron Everett was beautiful, but also stuck up and prudish. So who cared that his hair was the most perfect, shining shade of gold? Who cared that his passion for class equality set a small fire in George's chest that he had never felt before? Who cared that there was something about Aaron that George found unbearable, and unbearably appealing?
George is working his way through an English degree slowly but steadily, attending only ever other class, preferring to fill his life with experiences instead. He knows the best bars, clubs and restaurants in town, knows where to get the best books and best clothes, and has never received higher than a B in any class. He drinks too much to keep track of requirements, but for some inexplicable reason the professors like him enough that they sign him into whatever courses he wants. And then someone points out to him that he's missing a 180-level topics course, and he needs one to graduate.
So he signs up for Revolutionary Literature and on the first day, there's stupid fucking Aaron Everett sitting in the corner flicking his pen and looking bored with his hair perfectly combed. He's obviously there because he needs to fulfill a Gen Ed requirement, because if there's one thing George knows about Aaron, it's that he's studying political science.
George sits diagonally from Aaron, not near him, not across from him, not quite behind him, so he doesn't have to always be looking at those eyes or those shoulders.
They read Animal Farm and The Moon is a Harsh Mistress and The Scarlett Pimpernel, Rob Roy and Oroonoko. Aaron doesn't speak much in class, but when he does his thoughts emerge fully formed. He never stutters or second guesses himself. Aaron is eloquent nearly to the point of sounding rehearsed-- his voice is always even and calm, his syntax and diction precise and engaging. He is a natural public speaker, and George can't help but listen closely to every rare word he allows to slip. He sits across the room and keeps Aaron in his peripheral vision, in spite of himself. He sleeps in class with his head on his arms, or his mind wanders off to something else, but he always listens attentively to Aaron's thoughts on the Marxist metaphor or inherent stupidity of a false dandyism. His attendance in a class has never been so high. He doesn't care for the books much, but he likes the way Aaron perks up at the discussion of revolutionary ideals and the way passion burns in his eyes with idealism and radical ideas. More than his beautiful face, his ideas are beautiful and his passions enthralling. On those rare occasions that he really gets going on a tear, speaking with fiery abandon of rebellion and bravery and fool-hardy actions, George lifts his head off his arms and stares and finds himself quite, quite lost.
The semester is drawing to a close, and Aaron has never said more than four words directly to him, and those only said in debate and with disdain. Knowing it's silly to feel disheartened by this, especially because George doesn't care about Aaron's opinion of him, or Aaron at all, George shifts seats in the last two weeks of class, displacing a frustrating sophomore who is too romantic for his own good. This new seat places him directly across from Aaron, and now they are forced to look at each other.
When Aaron notices this, he nearly rolls his eyes. It's like he finds everything about George distasteful, from his looks to his clothes to his thoughts to his posture. But it does mean that Aaron has noticed him.
Their final book of the semester is Les Misérables, or a two-hundred page excerpt from it. Just the bits about the uprising, to George's immense relief. When he bought his copy at the bookstore, he had been horrified at the idea of reading that brick of a novel.
He read it though, for some reason more thoroughly than he had read anything else that semester, and he is moved by the foolish actions of the young men on the barricade, moved by their idealism and hopes and idiotic romanticization of martyrdom.
"Mr. Radley," their professor says one morning when George is especially hungover in class, "Would you care to read a bit aloud?" Read what bit? For a moment, he panics, and then decides merely to read his favorite bit. With a little effort, George finds the right page and starts to read. The words slip over his tongue easily, unlike any other time he's been asked to read anything. For once he does not stutter, he does not stumble. He reads.
"'...I need someone for the Barriere du Maine. I haven't got anyone spare.'
'What about me?' said Grantaire. 'I'm here.'
'You?'
'Me.'
'You, indoctrinate republicans! You, warm cold feet in the name of principles!'"
He reads with precision, with verve. For a moment he thinks he could be a decent actor if given the chance. From across the room, Aaron is watching-- his face looks calm and cool, but there's a strange twinge of interest in his eyes.
He likes this passage because it gives him hope. Even the most worthless of men can try in the face of disdain.
"'Why not?'," George continues reading, keeping his eyes on the page and away from the blue glare coming from across the room. "'Can it really be that you're good for something?'
'Well, I have a vague ambition to be,' said Grantaire."
The name feels familiar on his tounge. He took German classes in high school, yet the French names and phrases he finds easy to pronounce.
"'You don't believe in anything.'
'I believe in you.'"
He looks up and finds that Aaron is looking at him, his gaze intense and his eyes wide. The rest of his face is frighteningly blank. It is unavoidable; their eyes meet. There's no lightning strike or anything, of course not, that sort of melodramatic bullshit only happens in movies and books-- books like Les Misérables. But something happens in that moment, some sharp understanding passes through and between them.
It's only a heartbeat long-- it can't be longer than that because no one else in the class coughs or giggles or does anything other than twirl their pens and take notes-- but it feels like a lifetime.
George scratches his head and turns back to the book. He clears his throat and keeps reading. He reads another whole page and no one stops him. A few of the girls in class are starting to stare at him with something like admiration in their eyes. That’s new.
"And, going over to Enjolras, he whispered in his ear: 'Don't worry.'"
"Thank you, Mr. Radley," their professor says, finally stopping him. "That's enough."
Class ends soon after that. Aaron takes one more wide-eyed look at George, and then makes a mad-- yet somehow dignified-- dash out of the room. It takes George's hazy mind a moment to catch up and then he makes a run for it himself. He's not entirely sure why he feels the desperate need to run after him, but for the first time he really wants to talk to Aaron Everett.
He runs, in his black jeans and his boots and his leather jacket and unshaven face and slouchy hat, he runs. Still a little drunk from the previous night, wavering and hardly keeping himself aright, he runs. He runs, calling, "Aaron! Aaron, wait up!" after the most beautiful man he's ever seen in dark blue jeans and sperrys and a sweater over a collared shirt and a too, too precise haircut. The man is so well put together it should be disgusting, but he suddenly loves everything about him.
He runs after the Adonis with the slightly crooked mouth, and finally catches up to him. Aaron slows his gait politely, but the look in his eyes says, 'Please get away from me.'
But George knows, knows, they shared something in class. He saw how Aaron looked up at him from across the room. He knows that their eyes met and they both understood somehow, that those two in the book, those poor, dead, stupid bastards... Somehow that was them.
"Hey," George says, huffing a little because he smokes too much and drinks too much, and so now he simultaneously wants to collapse onto the ground and also vomit. "Hey, can I buy you a drink?"
"I don't drink."
"Not ever?"
"Certainly not at 11:30 in the morning."
"Oh, right," George says with a laugh. His head is fuzzy; maybe he's not that hungover, but rather mostly still drunk from last night. Aaron looks at him with stern, cold eyes, like he's waiting for more. "How about later then? Can I buy you a drink tonight?"
Aaron stares at him for a long, long moment. "Sure."
They walk together a bit more.
"Why did you choose that passage?" Aaron asks quietly as they walk past the library.
"Uhm," George says, unsure how to start. "I don't know. I liked it. I like them."
"Who?"
"You know."
"Yeah," Aaron idly uncuffs and recuffs his sleeves. "I do."
"I like the moment where Grantaire decides to prove himself and Enjolras gives him the chance."
"But he disappoints him a page later. He lets him down."
"No one's perfect, Aaron." It's the first time George has said his name. Aaron almost startles at the sound of it and they stop walking. George scratches his head, pushing his hat back and pulling it forward, back into place. "I don't know, man, I think you've got to give people a chance even if you know it won't work out. And like, I think..." Feeling unbearably uncomfortable, he looks at everything but the young man standing next to him. "I think Enjolras really wants to believe that this time it'll be different and Grantaire will pull through. I mean, I think he wants to be wrong about Grantaire.... and he is, isn't he? In the end?"
Aaron stands still, thinking. He's like a statue.
"No," he says eventually, slowly and with purpose. He looks right into George's eyes. "He's not wrong about him at all."
With that, Aaron starts walking again. Again, it takes a moment, but George puppys along soon after, having to jog a little to catch up. The conversation seems over. Aaron has crushed it under his decisive heel.
"So," George says when he's finally in stride with Aaron again. "Tonight?"
"Tonight?"
"To buy you that drink? Meet me at the Plumes at ten?"
Aaron seems to hesitate now. "Ten?" He runs his fingers through his hair, somehow managing not to disturb a single strand. "Alright."
"You promise?"
"Yes."
"It'll be fun. I won't let you down."
Aaron shrugs, unconvinced, and they go their separate ways. George watches him go and when Aaron looks back over his shoulder, he waves.
To steel his courage, he does a shot or two (or three) before leaving the house.
The Plumes is not his favorite bar in town, not by a long shot, but it's the nicest one, and it's one of only two where Aaron and his friends are occasionally seen. Well, it's one of only two at which Aaron is ever seen, as his friends frequent a far wider selection of establishments. George has even spent a few fun evenings with them, rubbing shoulders and drinking and laughing. In general, Aaron's friends seemed like more fun than Aaron himself. But, either way, the Plumes it is. It's dark and slick and there's a dance floor, and it's all a bit too clean for George's general taste-- but he has friends in every bar, and there was no reason not to pick a bar that Aaron might like.
Aaron arrives at half past ten, looking sheepish and embarrassed, like he can't believe that he showed up at all, though being late clearly doesn't bother him. George brightens at the sight of him, and immediately orders a round of shots and a pair of drinks. His intention is to get Aaron drunk enough to dance, and maybe drunk enough that the smug, disdainful look will disappear from his face.
His plan only half works. By 11:00 they're three drinks in and on the dance floor, where Aaron looks mildly miserable and uncomfortable. "Come on," George sighs, pulling at Aaron's sleeves and collar, "come on, dance. Have some fun with me."
They are not on an equal footing. But then, almost no one is ever on level with George when it comes to drinking; drinking is where his real talent lies. But Aaron is drunk, certainly drunk enough to sway a little to the music, his aversions to fun and happiness slightly loosened.
"I don't think I'm interested in your type of fun," Aaron says with hesitance. In any other instance, George thinks he would be spitting venom with that sentence. There's something in his eyes that looks almost scared and George laughs.
"You should be, it's great." He laughs again and pulls Aaron close to him. They sway together, and a nervous smirk cracks the marble of Aaron's face. "It's great, great fun."
"Let me go," Aaron says, but he doesn't make a move to pull away.
"No, I shant. You're too pretty. You're so so pretty. You're the prettiest man I've ever seen. You're gorgeous. You're too pretty to ever let you out of my sight." He drops his head onto Aaron's shoulder, laughing against his neck. He’s no right to behave like this, but he feels comfortable doing it anyway. They hardly know each other, but nothing feels more right than to have his head on Aaron’s shoulder.
"Stop that."
"You're a god." With the grace of a professional drunkard, George spins the pair of them, lifting his head to catch the surprised look in Aaron's eyes. "You're... you're Enjolras."
"No, I'm not," is the quiet reply.
"You are to me," George says, and presses his lips to Aaron's. "Now you're my Apollo," he mumbles against Aaron's mouth.
"Stop."
"My Enjolras."
"Stop," Aaron says, silencing George's words with his own firm press of lips and tongue. They kiss, right there on the dancefloor, and somehow that leads them back to George's apartment, where they strip off their clothes, collapse into bed and just sleep.
When he gets out of the shower, he's almost sure that Aaron will be gone. He'll have woken up and realized where he was and left, George thinks. It's the only logical thing. There's a beer still sitting on his bathroom counter, and George takes a swig of it to settle his headache. It's flat and half skunked, but he drinks it anyway. Somehow he doesn't think he can face the sight of his empty bed without a little fortitude. Then he puts back on his dirty clothes and brushes his teeth.
But his bed isn't empty when he gets there.
Aaron is still in it, still shirtless, but now he's awake. He sees George step into the room, his hair wet and still dripping (his curls never dry like they should), and he smiles of all things.
"You're still here," George says before he can think of something cleverer and less buffoonish to say.
"Of course."
"Oh."
"You look a lot better."
"I do?"
"Cleaner. Fresher. Less like a dead body thrown in a river."
"Right."
"You should drink less."
"No thanks." He wants to go sit on the bed, or maybe change into clean boxers, but instead he remains standing in the doorway. "Maybe you should drink more."
"I don't think so." Aaron rearranges himself on the bed, looking for all purposes like he belongs there. "Come here," he says, extending a hand in offer.
Somehow it feels like a joke, a cosmic prank designed entirely to humiliate him, but nevertheless George steps forward and takes Aaron's hand. The man on the bed gives him a pull and he tumbles onto the edge of the bed.
"I don't even like you," George says, looking back towards the door. "You're stuck up and arrogant and rude."
"I don't like you either. You're a lazy, unreliable drunk."
George looks down at his hands; "I know."
His head still hurts, and there's something about the way Aaron's hair glints in the sunlight that's so infuriating. He feels inadequate in every way possible, from his scraggly three day beard to his soft belly to his pathetic personality. Even though they're in his apartment, he has this urge to leave. Stupid Aaron Everett and his perfectly clean shaven square jaw and his abs. No one has ever made George feel so awful without doing anything to him at all.
Aaron sits up in bed and settles next to George, his firm, strong shoulder brushing against George's weak, sloping one. "Can I see you again?" He says, and the quiet tenor of his voice surprises them both.
"Uh," George thinks about the collection of bottles in his kitchen, the mess of his life, and says, "You want to?"
"Sure."
"Oh. Uhm, okay then."
"Cool." He knocks their knees together. "Don't be too enthusiastic or anything."
---
They don't sit next to each other in class, after that, but they do spend time together whenever Aaron has free time (George always has free time), and eventually Aaron starts inviting him along to his political meetings and to hang out with his friends. Some of Aaron's friends he already knows, from various spots and classes, but some he's never met before. There are two Chris's in Aaron's social circle, one thin and sharp and very serious and Aaron's best friend, the other round and friendly and recognizes George right away on day one.
"We had Brit Survey together, remember?" He exclaims with a wink, tossing his arm around George's shoulders. He does not remember that, but he does remember having drinks with him at a bowling alley downtown, at least three or four times. The other Chris shakes his hand and gives Aaron a sidelong glance. Aaron shrugs and wanders over to a chair in the corner, leaving George to mingle on his own.
There's Peter and Freddie and Brad and Justin, and some others whose names George doesn't really bother to learn. Initially, he's not sure any of them like him that much, but eventually they come around to his sense of humor and that he's always the first to buy a round of drinks. They all hang out in this little hole-in-the-wall restaurant right off campus called The Epicure, and because it seems like the group of them are the only people who ever frequent the place, when they first take him there, George feels very flattered.
George takes them to hipster bars, even though Aaron doesn't drink much, and Aaron drags him to political rallies, but at least George can usually get wine in the lobby of those.
They sit together in the back of Epicure and discuss philosophy and movies until they frustrate each other into silence. They don't agree on anything; Aaron's idealistic moralizing sets George's teeth on edge, while George's lackadaisical nihilism makes Aaron want to scream. They talk about books and history and their families-- Aaron's parents and George's little brother.
They play games.
"Would you rather... be beautiful or smart?"
"Smart. Would you rather live in a glass house or a house with no windows?"
"... No windows."
"Really?"
"I need the dark to sleep. And, I mean, I could always go outside."
"Fair enough."
"Would you rather give up-- for the rest of your life, right? Forever-- give up blowjobs or cheese?"
"Blowjobs."
The answer comes so fast it surprises both of them. George laughs; "Yeah, me too."
Aaron smiles sheepishly and there's a bright twinkle in his eyes. "That's not even a good question. It’s so obvious."
---
They lay in together in George's bed, always George's bed, Aaron reading some political thing and George half asleep, with his head on Aaron's stomach. He can feel the breath going in and out of him, can hear the quiet inner workings of his body, and he smiles. "I would die for a cause," Aaron says into the air.
"That's stupid."
"No it's not." He sighs. "Besides," he adds, "what do you know? You wouldn't die for anything."
George is quiet for a moment, listening to Aaron breathe. Finally, he speaks: "That's not true."
"Oh?"
"I'd die for you," He mumbles against the firm skin of Aaron's stomach, closing his eyes and willing himself to die of embarrassment. He's too drunk for this kind of conversation. He's always too drunk.
"Now that's stupid."
---
Technically, George has a job in the campus bookstore, but he rarely shows up to work and when he does he's usually too hazy to be of much use. But he still gets discounts on his textbooks and his bosses don't mind when he steals bottled water and Tylenol.
---
There are some particularly bad nights. George always drinks, and Aaron always disapproves, and they always fight, but some nights it's worse than others. Some nights George screams about feeling judged and unloved, screams and fumes and storms while Aaron sits quietly, still and calm like marble, his jaw set and his will unbending.
But there are some good nights too, where they share a bottle of wine and sit together watching movies or reading. They laugh together on those nights, and Aaron whispers into George's hair.
---
"You guys have such a fucked up relationship," Chris says one night while they're all at a party. George is sprawled out on a couch with one foot up and a cup balanced on his chest, while Chris, Peter and Justin all sit around near-by. Aaron is across the room with Freddie, while a group of women fawn over them.
"What?"
"You don't even like each other."
George scoffs, snorting into his glass as he takes a sip; "Yes we do."
"Yeah, but.... no. You have nothing in common. You fight all the time. What even brought you together?"
George looks over a beautiful, golden Aaron. From across the room, his idol laughs at something one of the girls said, a small chuckle. He looks up, a warm glint in his eyes, and makes eye contact with George. They share a smile.
"I don't know," George says to Chris. "Fate, I guess." He keeps his eyes on Aaron. "Sometimes I feel like... I've lived this a hundred times before, all this with him. Like I've spent my whole life just waiting for him and now that he’s here… everything’s beginning.”
Chris snorts out a cruel laugh; “You’re drunk.”
George throws him a dirty look just as Aaron extricates himself from the girls and walks over to the couch. George grins up at his Apollo and swigs down the last of his drink.
"Come on, you old booze-hound," Aaron says, reaching out to pull George off the couch, "let's get you home."
"Okay, handsome, if you insist."
---
"Would you rather give up drinking..."
George snuffles against the pillow. It's been a long week of exams and paper writing, and he's drunker than he usually would be for a Sunday night; "The other one. I'd give up the other one."
"Wait until you've heard the options."
George grunts.
"Would you rather give up booze or cheese?"
There's a long pause while George considers. "Cheese."
"Would you rather give up drinking or the ability to walk?"
"Aaron, I'm tired--"
"Answer it."
"I don't want to. I'm tired and all I want to do is lie here with you and sleep. All I want is to feel your skin and dream about your mouth. I don't want to answer your stupid questions."
"Fine." Though he's frustrated as per usual, and a bit mad, Aaron allows George to nuzzle against his side, cheek resting on his ribs. George presses soft kisses to his bare chest, mumbling sweet nothings about angels and revolutions. Aaron pets his hair, running his fingers through George's unruly curls. He rubs at his ears, and traces the vertebrae down the back of his neck. He'll allow George to objectify him, because he knows that underneath all that talk of beauty, George genuinely respects him and likes him. He knows George genuinely adores him, and it is quite nice to be adored, after all.
"Would you rather give up drinking or give up me?"
But George is already asleep.
---
It's not necessarily that he drinks more after he meets Aaron, but he certainly doesn't drink less. Aaron makes him feel anxious and self-conscious and worthless, so he drinks.
Most nights, Aaron comes over in the evening and they sit around and read and watch tv and George drinks. Sometimes George cooks, but mostly Aaron brings over dinner for them.
"If I didn't feed you," he asks at least once a week, "would you eat at all?"
George shrugs.
"How did you live without me?" Aaron asks with a flippant laugh.
"I don't think I did," George says when Aaron's back is turned. The words have the cadence of a joke, and it's lucky Aaron can't see how serious his eyes are.
Aaron cleans the apartment, especially once he starts spending more and more nights there. There's something about the clutter he finds comforting, all the books and half-finished paintings lying around, but he can't stand the bottles and cans sprinkled about the apartment with an inch of liquid left in them. He cleans them away, but they always reappear a day or two later. In different spots and with different labels, but they always come back.
George drinks and they sleep in his bed. More often than not, George falls asleep first, his head on Aaron's shoulder.
Aaron would complain-- he would love to complain, but there's something about the way that George fits against his side, the way his hands feel familiar, the sadness he feels in his heart whenever George asks him permission to do something... Something about all that keeps him from complaining too much. Or leaving.
---
"You have to stop drinking like this! You have to quit!"
"No! Why? Why would I do that?"
"You're a fucking alcoholic. It's a disease, George!"
"It's the only thing I'm good at!"
"It's not! It's a disease, and it's going to kill you."
"So what? Who would care?"
Aaron stops in his tracks and slams the bottle he's been emptying into the sink on to the counter. From where he's sitting, slumped against the fridge, George can tell he's angry. Angrier than he was a moment ago, angrier than perhaps George has ever seen him, and they fight quite a lot so he has a good sense of how angry Aaron can get. His shoulders are shaking.
"Fuck you," he says without turning around. "Fuck you, George. Fuck this and fuck you, I'm done." He leaves the bottle where it sits, half empty on the countertop. "Go drown yourself in liquor for all I care. You're right, who fucking cares about you?"
Aaron storms out of the house without another glance, grabbing his jacket as he strides out the door.
George, for his part, does try to go after him, but he's too drunk to stay on his feet. He stumbles and smashes his forearm on the tile floor, then crawls towards the door as best as he can.
"Aaron," he mewls. "Aaron."
He passes out on the floor of the kitchen, too tired and sad and drunk to go to bed.
When he wakes up, he's in his bed and Chris is there sitting next to him. Nice Chris, not Aaron's Best Friend in the World Chris. He's holding a bucket and there's a glass of water waiting on the bedside table.
"Hey, man," Chris says, giving George's shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"What are you doing here?" He groans, sortof wishing that they'd all just followed Aaron's example and left him to die.
"Aaron's really worried about you."
"Didn't seem like it." George buries his spinning head into his pillow.
"You hurt his feelings. He was upset last night."
"He's a statue. He doesn't have feelings."
Chris tuts; "You know that's not true."
Peeking out from his pillow, George sees the warm and genuine concern on Chris' face.
"I really fucked up, didn't I?" He asks, already knowing the answer. "Of course I fucking did. Fuck." He breaks in an instant, and is crying before he can muster the strength to stop himself. Chris rubs his back and very kindly doesn't say anything at all.
He sleeps the rest of the day, occasionally vomiting into the bucket Chris provided or, as the day progresses, stumbling to the bathroom. It's not just that he's hungover, he also feels like his entire life has ended, like he has ruined the one good thing he had going and now he might as well die because it's over. It's over with Aaron because he fucked it up. He got too drunk and then he was a dick about it. Like always.
Brad comes over around noon to relieve Chris from make-sure-George-doesn't-die watch. He makes soup and toast and they sit on the couch and eat in silence.
"He really does care about you, that's all," Brad says with a shrug as he's cleaning dishes.
"I care about him too."
"I know. That's what makes this all so frustrating. You two obviously really fucking like each other, and yet you fight and hurt each other all the time." George curls up in the corner of the couch, as if, if he tried hard enough, he could fold himself up small enough to disappear into the cushions completely."We all care about you, George, and we want you and Aaron to be happy. So stop trying to drink yourself to death, okay?"
That evening, once he's feeling a bit better, he goes over to Aaron's apartment and sits on the stoop. He waits for Aaron to come out and talk to him, and he ends up waiting for six hours. Finally, long after midnight, the door opens and Aaron comes out, looking frustrated and sad and tired.
At first he doesn't say anything, merely stands at George's side, looking down at him. George sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms around his knees, his chin perched on his arms. He doesn't quite have the heart to look up.
"I'm sorry," he groans, unable to hide his misery. "I'm so, so sorry, Aaron. I'll be better, I promise. I'll stop drinking."
"No, you won't." Aaron sits by him on the step and rubs his hands over his face.
"I'll try. I will... Please give me another chance. Please. I won't let you down again."
Aaron laughs at that, harsh and cold, the bark of a stray, hardened dog.
"Don't bother lying to me, George. It's not worth it." He sighs. "How long have you been sitting out on my porch?"
"All night."
"It's cold out here."
"Yeah."
Aaron stands; "Are you sober now?"
George hesitates before answering, because it's been so long since he was properly, really sober, he isn't quite sure this is what is feels like. "Yes."
Aaron stares at him, trying to read a lie in his face. When he doesn’t find one, he says, “Come inside."
"Really?"
"Quick, before I change my mind."
He's never been inside Aaron's apartment before. Aaron shares with Chris, and so between them the place is unnaturally tidy. Chris is in the living room, reading on the couch, as Aaron takes his hand and guides him through. As he spots George slinking past, Chris gives Aaron a stern and disbelieving look. He's never been George's biggest fan, and that Aaron has taken him back leaves Chris disappointed, it seems. But he stays silent and turns back to his book as they move past.
Aaron's bedroom is clinical. His bed is neatly made, his desk ordered and clean, his closet open but well organized. George feels like a black spot marring the whitest cheek just by standing there. They sit on Aaron's bed, crumpling the precision of the crisp sheets and thin, dark blankets.
"I'm so sorry, Aaron. I am. I'll be so much better--"
"Stop," Aaron interrupts. He kisses him on the cheek, then on the mouth. "I'd like it if you didn't die of liver failure, that's all. If you didn't give yourself alcohol poisoning. I'd like it if you ever saw anything clearly. I'd like it if I ever knew that you were genuine and yourself, and not coated in a layer of grime and alcohol and lost to inebriation. But I know I can't fix you. I can't make you change."
"How can you change the world if you can't change one man?" George asks sadly, still expecting to be shown the door at any moment, like if he keeps reminding Aaron of his many flaws, of how worthless he is in comparison with the great leader of the revolution, of how wretched a thing he is, Aaron will come to his senses and kick him out again. All this despite Aaron's hand on his thigh.
"I don't have to change the world."
"Yes, you do. And I will change," George insists; he cannot imagine Aaron without his dreams to make the world a better place. He won't stand for any compromise of Aaron's integrity. "I will. I'll try and I will."
Aaron sighs again, though the soft look in his eyes says that he appreciates the promise anyway.
With a sigh of his own, George collapses sideways onto Aaron's bed. He lays there and inhales the smell of him. Aaron gives a weak little chuckle at George's melodramatic gesture, then lays down next to him. With one arm, he pulls them close together.
They don't speak for a while.
Aaron is the first to break the silence; "I would care if you died, George. That's all. I would care."
"Thank you..." George doesn't have a lot of pride, but it's hard to say this next bit: "Can I stay? Can I have another chance? Would you allow that?"
Aaron gives a small smile and takes his hand.
"Sure," he says, and leans in for a kiss.