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Even after the 28th morning waking up without him is just as painful as the first time.
He was a painter, and before, Enjolras never realized that he was seeing in shades of gray. When he entered his life and stole his heart away with those self-depricating smiles and his laugh that made you feel like all your troubles were gone, Enjolras saw in color for the first time. He noticed how green the trees were, how blue the sky was in the autumn, how words had a taste and colors had a feeling. No longer was it just mental registry, the sky is blue, the grass is green, the leaves are orange and yellow, no, the sky was the color of his heart soaring, the grass was the color of wet hair and fingers as they laid in the grass. The leaves were the color of a kiss before class started. Grantaire took Enjolras's color-by-number life and made it into something more genuine.
But now as he rolls over in bed, feeling the cold of the sheets beside him, he looks up out the window and sees nothing but a stormy sky. The sounds of the city are static again, a constant white noise in his head, and despite this, despite all the noise, his life feels too quiet.
He's on a schedule nowadays: Wake up, eat, go to class, eat, go to class, forget to eat, go to work, go home, homework, go to bed. Enjolras leaves no room for extra activities, besides the meetings at Musain on Wednesdays. But he never stays much longer after he's done addressing business and closes the official part of the meeting-- he may stay a few minutes to say hello to friends, offer them smiles that feel empty, and laugh, though it feels hollow. He watches the world go by in grayscale, does what needs to be done like a clock-work, knows he'll crash and burn eventually, but it's okay, isn't it? He's lived without color before, and he can do it again. So he repeats it to himself like a mantra. "This too shall pass." "This too shall pass."
It's not as if Grantaire is dead, but Enjolras is still suffering. Because he knows, somewhere out there, there's someone else pressing kisses to the skeptic's neck and holding his hand, someone telling him he's beautiful and perfect, someone better than Enjolras. Despite the harsh words that were said upon parting, he can't bring himself to hate him. But this too shall pass. This too shall pass.
Courfeyrac sometimes mentions to Enjolras how Grantaire is doing, and the news is usually positive. Courfeyrac tells him because he knows that Enjolras would break if he didn't know that Grantaire was at least okay. Courfeyrac knows that Enjolras would be worse off than this if he never heard anything about Grantaire's life, because he stopped going to meetings, and avoided seeing Enjolras were he could.
Courfeyrac also knows that Grantaire is not unscathed, that he hurts, too, that he still needs a misses Enjolras as much as Enjolras needs and misses him. But "at least he's got a new boyfriend."
Enjolras's heart may break when he hears that Grantaire is doing perfectly fine without him, that he's found someone new who's better than Enjolras, but he's happy to hear that Grantaire is happy, truly he is. Because this too shall pass. This too shall pass, anyways.
This too shall pass. This too shall pass. He repeats it, repeats it, repeats, but it begins to mean nothing. And maybe it's necessary, maybe it's fate that he'll bend and bend and say he's okay, and eventually break.
And so one morning, when he wakes up before the sun, and remembers that his sheets are still cold and empty (again), he curls in on himself and tries to contain the tears that he's been fighting for so long. Tears that he said he wouldn't shed again after the first morning, and despite it, despite the fact that this is the 90th morning he's woken up cold alone, he finally lets go and lets himself cry. He holds himself as his frame shakes with each breath, and tries to stitch and dress the wounds on his heart before he can get up and be a clockwork again. But he doesn't want to be a clockwork again. Maybe he wants to see in color again. Maybe he wants to replace that bitter taste he's had in his mouth since the day those words left Grantaire's mouth. He's tired of cold sheets and grayscale, tired of having to wind himself up each morning so he can march his way through the day like a toy soldier. He's tired of a schedule and tired of not being to laugh wholeheartedly.
When he misses class that day, Combeferre practically breaks into his apartment to find Enjolras wrapped in blankets and fast asleep, his eyes swollen and red, nose and cheeks raw. He sighs, and calls Courfeyrac.
---
Enjolras wakes to a soft knock at the door. He groans, untangling himself from the mess of sheets and blankets he's wrapped in, and stumbles to the door, somehow managing to get a pair of pants on in the process.
"Hey--" He freezes mid-yawn, staring incredulously at the man standing on his doorstep.
Grantaire's hair and jacket are wet from the rain outside, and his hands are shoved in his pocket. He flushes. This whole situation is very cliche.
"Uh, hey."
"Hey..."
"Can I come in?"
Enjolras shakes himself, stepping aside. "Um, yes. Of course, come in."
Grantaire steps in cautiously, and Enjolras's heart is racing.
"Combeferre said you weren't doing too well."
Enjolras's mouth hardens into a line.
"It's not uncommon."
Grantaire winces for a second. Enjolras sighs. "Sorry."
"It's fine."
"What brings you?"
Grantaire pauses for a long moment, before saying, "Marcel and I broke up. He said my heart wasn't there. He said he wasn't what I wanted and what I was looking for," he softly exhales, as if nervous. "This feel like a romantic drama, my god. He said I was still fixated on you. And I suppose he was right."
Enjolras is starinng blankly, and surely, he's dreaming. Grantaire just shrugs, fighting a smirk.
"So here I am."
Enjolras feels a small smile creeping onto his face.
"Here you are. Do you want a towel?"
"That'd be nice." Grantaire is smiling now, too, though it's really only a ghost of a smile, haunting around the corners of his (soft, pink, wonderful, Enjolras thinks) lips.
When Enjolras comes back with a towel, he wraps it around the artist (he's shed his jacket now, and he smells like cigarettes and paint and sweat, mixed with a hint of vanilla. Enjolras loves it.) Grantaire's arms close around him, gently, and suddenly Enjolras's insides are all sky blue and soft pink and vibrant orange, overflowing a rainbow of happy feelings.
The world seems a little less grayscale.
(And it's all thanks to Grantaire)