29(Hi guys! Thanks for the response on the previous chapter. There have been some developments in my life lately and it inspired me to continue writing this. Mostly to deal with some bad news of a close friend. I hope you'll appreciate it.)
"Enjolras?"
"Enjolras, please, please, open the door? I can't... You can't keep hiding in there... It's not fair..."
"Enjolras, please? You can't do this to me. You're not the only one who lost him! You can't... I can't... I promised him... Please, Enjolras? Please don't make me break my promise..."
"Please... Will you please let me in?"
Enjolras closed his eyes and rolled over on his stomach. He pulled a cushion of the couch over his head in an attempt to block out Courfeyrac's desperate pleas. He didn't want to hear him; he didn't want to listen. It was too hard and it came too close. It was easier to pretend nothing had changed when he didn't allow himself to acknowledge that there was anything different.
"Enjolras! You are not the only one who misses him. He was my friend too! And I promised him... I p-promised him I'd look out for you... Please...? We haven't seen you since the funeral... You have to let us in. Please let me in? God... I can't lose you too..."
Enjolras squeezed his eyes more tightly closed in an attempt to block out Courfeyracs angry words and clenched his teeth. It was awful to hear his friend break down in sobs. Right in front of his door. If he had a heart to break, it would've easily been broken by now. But his heart was already smashed into a million pieces and there was nothing left to break. He couldn't make himself stand up and open the door. He was too exhausted. Both physically and mentally. He didn't have the strength anymore.
"You're doing the exact thing he didn't want you to do, you know! You're shutting yourself off. You promised him you wouldn't do that! He'd be disappointed. Enjolras... Enjolras, please? Please, let me in... Please? We don't even have to talk... just... j-just let me in. I need you."
Courfeyrac kept up his pleading monologue for another twenty minutes or so. Then he ended it abruptly with a slam against the door and a muffled, frustrated 'God I hate you sometimes, you can be so selfish.'
Enjolras listened how his friend's footsteps died away. He knew he was hurting Courfeyrac and he also knew how worried everyone was about him. But he couldn't make himself care. He felt hollow and empty. Nothing mattered to him anymore. All he wanted to do was lie here on the couch or in Combeferre's bed and slowly waste away. He had lost his purpose in life and he couldn't care enough to find it again. And he knew that Courfeyrac was right and that he was probably being selfish. He knew that he was doing the opposite of what Combeferre had asked him to do only a few days before he died. But Enjolras was just too tired to even try. He had given up the moment his best friend blew out his last breath.
He didn't even cry anymore. All tears had dried up and it felt as if his body was too weak to produce any new ones. But that didn't matter either. Because why would he want to keep on crying? Crying didn't make things any better. Nothing did. So he might as well lie there and stare into the distance until exhaustion took over and forced him into sleep. And then when he'd wake up, the whole process would start over. It was fine that way. Enjolras couldn't even remember what it was like when he actually had a life to live.
Of course there was this voice inside his head that chastised him for throwing his life away like this. That voice was always angry and judgemental. It snarled at him and mocked and scoffed at him. It yelled at him. It accused him of being an awful friend, of defying his best friend's dying wish. It wondered what Combeferre had done to deserve such disrespect after his death. It told him he was neglecting Courfeyrac and the other Amis, who were grieving just as much as he was. It shouted at him that he was a selfish, arrogant, spoiled brat.
Sometimes that voice would become very strong and at times like that, Enjolras curled away in the corner of the living room and sat there with his eyes closed and nails digging into his skin until he was able to force it out of his head again. Hurting himself always helped.
Sometimes he wondered if the voice belonged to Combeferre. Sometimes it sounded like his father.
However, no matter how powerful the voice could get, it never got the overhand. And the stricter or angrier it would be, the further Enjolras drew into himself. He hid himself away until he was nothing but a mere shell of what he once was. An empty vessel that looked like him but lacked its inner spirit. His soul had left the building.
Enjolras chuckled to himself when he came to that conclusion. He laughed so hard and so loudly, some might even call it maniacal. But it just seemed so funny, so ridiculous. The way he was living his life now in comparison to a month ago. If someone had told him a month ago his live would be the way it was now he would have never believed it. He would have never thought it would come this far.
With a small groan Enjolras lifted himself up from the couch and stumbled his way into Combeferre's bedroom. The bed wasn't made. It hadn't been made since the first night Enjolras returned home alone. He let himself fall down on the soft mattress and buried his head into the pillow. If he tried hard enough, he could still smell Combeferre. And if he tried really hard, he could pretend his friend was still lying next to him. One arm curled around his chest, just like he had done so many times in their lives.
Enjolras wormed his arm underneath his body and pulled his phone out of his pocket. He ignored the dozen missed calls and messages from his friends and dialed the number he knew by heart. He pressed the phone against his ear and smiled when he heard that familiar, gentle voice.
"Hello! You've reached Etienne Combeferre. Unfortunately, I can't answer my phone right now. But if you leave a message, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a good day, bye."
Enjolras waited patiently for the beep. Then he started talking to Combeferre as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had changed. He told his friend all about his day. He told him about his plans for tomorrow – even though he knew that they were all lies, because he didn't make any plans anymore. He told him about the food that he was going to prepare that evening and he told him that he had finally found the time to watch that Woody Allen movie that Combeferre always loved. That wasn't a lie. Enjolras really did watch a movie. He had turned Netflix on that morning and watched Midnight in Paris. It was Combeferre's favorite film and he always encouraged Enjolras to watch it too. Enjolras had lost count of how many times Combeferre had suggested they watch it together.
But they never did.
"I really liked it 'Ferre. You are right, it's a wonderful movie. I guess the message is that you are supposed to make the time you are living in as good as it can be instead of living in the past and dreaming of ages long gone. We can discuss it later if you want. Because even though I do agree with the message, I think one can find a lot of comfort in dreaming of other times. And I also think one can learn a lot from it. Enrich oneself, you know?"
He smiled into the phone. He had been forced to redial Combeferre's number three times already, because the voice-mail kept shutting him off. When his eyes found the clock on the wall, he realized he had been on the phone for nearly an hour. Maybe it was time to hang up. It wasn't like his friend was actually going to listen to these messages.
"Well, anyway... I guess I better hang up now 'Ferre. I don't think you're looking forward to listen to an hour of me rambling about stupid things. I... uh... I guess I'll call you again tomorrow, alright? I miss you... Bye."
The silence in the bedroom was deafening when he hung up the phone. It was an eerie sort of silence and Enjolras didn't like it at all. He suddenly felt as if the walls were closing in on him and he had to get out. Get out of this room right now.
He crawled out of the bed and dragged himself back into the living room. He briefly stopped when he passed the kitchen, wondering if he should make himself something to eat or drink, but moved along when his stomach lurched at the idea of it. He'd eat later. It wasn't as if he had anywhere to go. He hadn't shown up at work or school for weeks now. He could eat whenever he wanted. He wasn't bound to breakfast, lunch or dinner hours.
Enjolras curled up on the couch again and reached for the remote. Before he turned on the TV, he briefly looked down at himself. Here he was, sitting in his sweatpants, living off his parents' money. He had been like this for nearly a month now. As soon as Combeferre had told him the bad news, he was spiraling down. And it had only gotten worse when Combeferre passed away a week and a half ago. Somewhere deep down, he loathed what he was turning into. And he knew that Combeferre would be disappointed if he could see him. But that was the whole point, wasn't it? Combeferre wasn't there to see him anymore. He wasn't there to guide him back on the right track and he would never be there again.
Never.
And with that thought, Enjolras pulled the blanket up to his chin and selected Midnight in Paris. If he tried hard enough, he could hear Combeferre laugh next to him. If he tried really hard, he could pretend Combeferre was sitting right there on the couch. Enjolras didn't really see much of the film. He was too busy to try and imagine that his friend had never left.
Somewhere between Owen Wilson discovering the car that brought him back to the Parisian 1920s and the end of the film, Enjolras had fallen asleep. He didn't know how long he was out for, but when he woke up it was already dark out. That meant that he had been asleep for at least three hours. Three hours of blissful nothingness. No pain, no numbness, no grief. Enjolras liked being asleep.
Sometimes he wished he could stay asleep forever.
Never wake up again…
But he felt guilty for wishing it and he forced the thought out of his head as soon as it popped up again. He couldn't help it, however, that the more days he spent alone, the harder it was to block the thought out.
There was a soft knock on the door. Yet it still scared Enjolras out of his musings. He jumped a little and sat up so quickly, the room span dangerously for a few seconds. He wondered who was at his door now. Didn't they understand that he didn't want any company? That he didn't want to see anybody? He'd let them know when he was ready to talk to someone.
He listened carefully and felt a shiver run down his back when he realized that the person in front of his door had turned around and slid down to the floor. He could hear the person cry, though it sounded muffled and soft. But there was no other sound and Enjolras was ready to relax back into his couch and watch another movie.
"E… please open the door?"
Courfeyrac again. Enjolras felt his throat tighten.
"Sorry I got mad… I'm not angry anymore, will you please let me in? Please, E?"
His voice sounded so soft, barely above a whisper. And so weak, defeated. Enjolras could just picture his friend. Knew what facial expression he'd wear when he was like this. And it hurt his heart, but it didn't make him get up from the couch.
"Enjolras… You're my best friend… I need you… I'm hurting too, please? Can't we shut ourselves off together? I want to be there with you.. for you… I p-promised him… E?"
Enjolras tried to swallow past the growing lump in his throat and pulled his knees up to his chest, making himself as small as possible. Trying his hardest to block his friend out, while fighting against that angry voice in his head that was shouting at him again.
"Please open the door?"
(I think this will have another one or two chapters. Probably from different perspectives. Hope you 'liked' it. Please leave a review? Thanks!)