It's been more than a week now since Enjolras has seen Grantaire. He hasn't been able to get a word in with Joly, and it's beginning to become an issue. Joly and Courfeyrac have taken to drinking silently during meetings, Jehan joining them on occasion before slipping back into the rest of the group, a somber air filling what was once so lively.

There's a stirring in the city, with the rising heat the people are becoming more agitated. Fights are breaking out in the market place between beggars and guardsmen, whispers of descent grow louder and bolder, moving out of the shadows. An anticipation has grown like a bubble, ready to pop at any moment, and on top of it all, General Lemarc has fallen ill.

Now is the time the people need them most. They cannot allow themselves to become defeated or idle. Even as he tells them so, Enjolras can feel his own hollowness creeping up on him. The time to rise is nearly here, so why can he not do what he must?

Grantaire's empty chair mocks him from afar. How is it that the absence of a man, that never believed in the cause in the first place, can be what causes such a disruption? How is it his absence is more of a disruption than his disruptions? Enjolras knows his anger is displaced, but he can't help feeling like, purposeful or not, Grantaire had managed to befriend them all, and then betray them in the hour of need.

A nagging voice tells Enjolras that this anger is just the cover for something else, something he refuses to acknowledge, but, fittingly, he refuses to acknowledge that voice also. If he cannot bring grantaire back, he will at least find him and hold him accountable.

As the meeting ends Enjolras struggles to fight through the crowd, trying his best to reach Joly's table before he slips away once more. By the time the crowd has cleared, Joly and Courfeyrac are gone, bottles abandoned. Enjolras curses, hitting one of them off the table where it cracks against the floor, empty.

If he can't get word from Joly or Courfeyrac, or even Jehan, then he will have to see Grantaire for himself. Propriety and politeness be damned.

Grantaire hasn't let anyone in for three days. Joly came calling every morning and night, sometimes bringing along Courfeyrac, Jehan, Feuilly, even Combeferre and Bahorel at one point. But he just couldn't bring himself to open the door. Many times it would have been a miracle if he could stand. They would often leave after a while, satisfied that he was alive once they could hear him groan or cough. Joly was nearly frantic to get Grantaire to eat something, but Grantaire simply couldn't bring himself to try. He wasn't hungry, and he hadn't been for days.

He had stopped wondering if he looked well enough to try and go out. The only mirror in his apartment was now in shards under his bed. He couldn't stand to see himself like this, weak, pale, shaking. He was becoming rather gaunt now too, he could tell, his trousers no longer fitting as they should. The entire situation felt so hopeless.

The fever had begun to let up in the past couple of days, though the cough remained, Grantaire was now able to keep it under some level of control. It was easier to lie awake and wait for the break to come, so at least he could keep his sheets from being ruined by the terrible sweating. He would lay awake for hours, listening to the rattle of his lungs and trying to pretend he was somewhere else, doing anything else. The game had gotten old fast, but it was all he could do.

Sometimes, if he were lucky, he could open his window at night and hear the music from a pub next door. It was punctuated by cries and laughter that made him think of his own friends, sparking a strong loneliness in him that would move him to paint, even if they were only lines of muddled color, each one was a friend. This one is Bahorel's laugh, he would tell himself, and this, Joly's coat. This line here is Combeferre and Courfeyrac, joking as friends do at Marius' expense. Here Feuilly shares a song. He could not bring himself to paint Enjolras, not in this strange abstract way, no. Enjolras was art, and the painted imitations Grantaire could form when he was well barely captured him, to paint him now would be an insult.

The pub next door has grown quiet now, and Grantaire again lay awake, his body shuddering with each breath like the last leaves of Autumn in winters first wicked breeze.

He starts when a knock sounds at the door, but he only groans in response, hoping Joly would hear and go away. It is early for him to come calling. He normally came an hour later, stopping by his apartment to get food and medicine in hopes Grantaire would open the door for him.

"Grantaire I need to speak with you." Enjolras' voice rings through the door, commanding even though muffled.

Grantaire sits up suddenly, his head pounding horribly in response. He ignores it, staring in horror at the door. Why was Enjolras here? He can't open the door, not like this, especially not for Enjolras. What would he think of him? Pale and shaking, barely able to stand? Would he be as disgusted as Grantaire himself? Worse?

He covers his mouth with a hand, willing himself to be quiet, for Enjolras to believe no one was there to answer and go away.

"Grantaire, I know you're in there, just open the door."

Grantaire doesn't respond, only watches the door with wide eyes, his breath hitching in fear.

Enjolras sighs, wondering what on earth he could have done, what any of them could have done, to cause Grantaire to hide away like this. It didn't make any sense.

"Grantaire? Open the door, please."

Still no response.

Grantaire holds his hand over his mouth to try and silence the sobs that come tearing up his throat. He wants so badly to do as Enjolras asks, but he can't. Frustrated tears fall hot down his cheeks. He's in pain, he's tired, he's scared. It's all too much, and now this?

He rises slowly, taking a few tentative steps toward the door. His muscles ache from even these simple movements, adding to his frustration. His fingers brush the doorknob, but he can't turn it.

The knock sounds again, this time louder, more urgent.

Grantaire jerks his hand back, not trusting himself to hold back when he's so close. He turns his back to the door.

"Fine Grantaire." Enjolras sounds irritated, defeated, "Don't open it. If you don't want to come back you can just say so, instead of hiding like a coward in there. I'm not here for myself, I'm here for my friends. You're not the only person you're affecting right now. Think about Joly and Courfeyrac. They miss you. What about them?"

Grantaire can hardly hold back the sobs that wrack his frame. He wants so badly to open the door, to scream at Enjolras that he never wanted any of this. He doesn't want to hurt anybody, but he's barely alive and he can't bring himself to mocked by him again. Not now. Not like this. He wants to tell enjolras to stop talking to a corpse and go do whatever it is he thinks will save this wretched place.

"Yeah. I don't know what I expected." Enjolras is quieter now, the fight gone from his voice, "Goodbye, Grantaire."

On his way out enjolras can swear he hears sobbing, but it could just be a trick of the wind. He marches back to the cafe, cursing himself for having tried to make sense out of Grantaire at all. Perhaps he really wasn't the kind and gentle soul that he had convinced himself lay underneath his drunken facade. Perhaps it was as Grantaire said, he's convinced himself that his beliefs are fact again.