Kisses to whoever catches the Sherlock reference! x

"Grantaire, put that bottle down!" Enjolras exclaimed angrily, snatching the bottle out of the winecask's hand. "You've had enough for tonight. It's time for you to go home."

"Lighten up, Enj! It's a Friday night. Have a glass of wine, loosen up those tense shoulders of yours." Courfeyrac chimed in, handing his friend a glass. Enjolras scowled at it in response. Nobody seemed to notice the way his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach up and take the glass — as if it took a great deal of discipline to not snatch it out of his hand.

"Suit yourself." Grantaire said, taking the alcohol from Courfeyrac's hand. "To our fearless leader!" He mocked.

"To our fearless leader," Courfeyrac agreed, tapping his glass against Grantaire's. Enjolras rolled his eyes and took in a deep breath.

"What've you got up your ass today, eh, Enj? Usually you wait for me to say something rational before you make your token argument." Grantaire said after he had downed half his glass in a relatively unclassy manner.

"Shut up, you drunken idiot." Was the only response he could muster.

But instead of playing it off as just Enjolras being an ass as usual, Grantaire's gaze hardened. "I haven't done anything wrong. Don't you tell me to shut up." He snapped.

"Stop talking, Grantaire, you lower the IQ of the whole street."

"That's it," retorted the angry man, "I'm out of here." And he stormed out of the café.

Enjolras sighed. "Come on, Courf, let's go."

"That wasn't cool, man." He said curtly, and left. Enjolras was now the only one left in the café, save the waitress impatient to close up. He returned to his apartment alone.

When he walked in the door, he didn't bother to lock it behind him. His mind was set on one thing and one thing only, and that thing was located three steps away, under the sink. He reached back and grabbed the neck of the bottle with a shaking hand. It steadied him ever so slightly.

It's hard being a leader. It's hard having everyone look up to you, thinking you're some kind of perfection incarnate made of marble and whose words they would carve into stones. Being someone whom everyone looks up to, you can never waver in your perfection — not in front of them, at least. You have to keep up your front of flawlessness, because to waver in this is to force those who love you to give up the only thing they have ever believed in, and how could you ever live with yourself after that? So you go on, letting everyone be fooled into thinking you're a god among men, because you're too ashamed to tell them otherwise.

—

It takes him all of half an hour to down the vodka in it's entirety, and an hour later he's already thrown it all up. He's too far gone to feel anything at this point — only the cool of the toilet bowl on his cheek and his ragged breathing. He doesn't even hear the knock on the door, or it creaking open and footsteps entering the house.

"Enjolras," A tentative voice calls, "Are you home?"

He remains silent. The footsteps make their way around the apartment, and he shrinks away from the light when the door behind him opens.

He hears a gasp. "Holy shit, man, are you alright?" Comes the startled voice of Grantaire. The cabinets fly open and the sink starts running, and before he can register what's happening his mouth is being blotted with a damp washcloth — not that he can really feel his face.

There is an arm around his waist and he is lifted slowly. "'Taire?" He slurs, "Is that you?"

He shushes his friend. "You're okay. I'm here. I've gotcha." He assures him.

"I don't… I.. just…" He babbles incoherently.

"Hush, Enj, it's alright." He half-carries, half-drags the limp man to his bed and gently sets him down.

The inebriated leader starts to shake. Grantaire puts a blanket around him, sits so that his thigh is pressed up against Enjolras's arm, and puts his warm hand on the side of his friend's sweat-coated face. "What's going on?" he utters in a broken whisper, "What's going on, 'Taire? What's going on?"

Grantaire's heart breaks at the pitiful sight of his perfect leader reduced to a trembling shell of a human on the bed. The thumb on Enjolras's cheek moves in slow, light circles. "Shh, shh, you're fine, everything's fine. I'm here for you, I'll take care of you. You're gonna be alright, I promise."

It looks like Enjolras's mouth is trying to form words, but there isn't any sound coming out, until he manages to produce one: "Why?"

"I wanted to apologize for today. Now hush, you idiot, and calm down." He says in a low, soothing voice.

Enjolras closes his mouth, but his lips are still quivering. "Thank you" is all he can manage to mutter before his eyes close and he leans into Grantaire's thigh. He stays there all night, bravely watching over his leader until he wakes.