Aww, thanks for the very kind comments! Despard - Grantaire is definitely more traumatized. His greatest dream has been turned into his living nightmare, and it's his fault.
Here's Part II:
Grantaire stared, frozen, as Enjolras went down, caught in Bahorel’s strong arms before he was able to hit the ground. A dim part of Grantaire’s mind was able to appreciate that Bahorel could move with surprising speed when he wanted. The rest of his mind had been cruelly yanked back to their night’s ordeal, replaying the events in harsh detail. The laughing thugs with their sick wishes and horrifying words. The nausea he had felt at hearing the leader’s demand, and the terror at what might come next. And Enjolras, on his hands and knees before him, in a position he had dreamed many times, quietly ordering Grantaire to take him. It was what he’d wanted, once. Twenty-four hours ago, if Grantaire had seen Enjolras like that and heard those words, he would have been ecstatic, transported immediately to Elysium. Now, Grantaire knew that he could never want Enjolras like that again.
The word spilled from his lips, whispered again and again, as Grantaire trembled with horror, shame and self-loathing. Consciousness back in that dark, terrifying cell, Grantaire didn’t first notice Courfeyrac next to him.
“Grantaire? Come, let me take you home. Combeferre and Bahorel are taking Enjolras back to Combeferre’s place.”
Grantaire blinked slowly, gaze focusing on Courfeyrac’s worried face.
“Come on,” Courfeyrac repeated. “He’ll be alright, I swear to you. Let’s get you home.”
Grantaire looked back at the others. Enjolras was still unconscious, held securely in Bahorel’s arms, while Combeferre had moved out of the alley to wave down a fiacre. He started as Courfeyrac’s arm snaked around his shoulder and squeezed. He continued to shake and mutter as Courfeyrac said something to Bahorel, and then fell silent as the arm about his shoulders turned him and guided him from the alley, toward his home. After an indeterminate amount of time, they reached his rooms, how Grantaire couldn’t say, and it was up to Courfeyrac to reach into Grantaire’s own pocket for the key. Once inside, Courfeyrac sat him on the couch and began to fuss around him. Parchments and stray drawing supplies were neatened, empty bottles piled together, coffee put on the stove to heat. Once seemingly satisfied about the room, Courfeyrac turned his attentions to Grantaire himself, dabbing at his bruises with a handkerchief. Grantaire submitted numbly, his mind unable to process anything but the sight of Enjolras’ still form. Finally, Courfeyrac uttered the words he’d been dreading, “What happened?”
“It was just a bit of fun. He’d been working for days on that article, you know that. Even Combeferre agreed that he needed a break! I . . . I bugged him about it, I guess. Nagged and annoyed him and drank half the Musain’s stock, until he agreed to walk me home. I was drunk by that point, but having him with me was far more intoxicating than any liquor.”
Courfeyrac snorted at that last. Of course. “Go on.”
“I just wanted him to . . . I don’t know. Not love me, I’d never expect that, not even like me. Just see that I can be good for something! The rest of you enjoy my antics and songs, right? And I really didn’t mean to hurt that bourgeois. Just show him that I do listen, sometimes! God I hate being sober! But after last night, I don’t ever want to touch the stuff again.
“When we were arrested, I wasn’t worried – you’ve bailed me out before, a night in jail isn’t too bad! And I suppose I was too drunk to be embarrassed. Enjolras was annoyed, I could sort of tell, but that wasn’t exactly new.”
Courfeyrac shook his head. “But this was new. Was it the guards? Were they the ones who hurt him?”
“N-No. Not the guards. Some time in the night, new drunks were thrown in. Three of them. I was asleep – or passed out – when they came. But, they went after Enjolras. And . . . and then-“
Grantaire broke off, shuddering. Enjolras’ face, dripping with blood, blue eyes cloudy and unseeing, hovered before him. Enjolras, dragged forward by his hair, the beautiful golden waves that Grantaire had admired and rhapsodized about and utterly failed to capture in paint or pastel, now wrapped around a brutal fist. The leader’s obscene grin as he halted the beating and focused on Enjolras. The images came one on top of the other, quick and swirling, and all overlaid by that voice. Maybe you should share. . .
In the barest whisper, he continued. “They wanted him. The way they leered at him. . . But then, the leader. He wanted me to do it. Fuck him.”
Courfeyrac recoiled in horrified denial, head shaking automatically. “You – you didn’t! You wouldn’t! And then they roughed him up, right? Right? That’s all. I mean, it’s Enjolras!”
Shame flooding his humble features, Grantaire shrank inward. He knew that what he had done was unforgiveable. The lowest of the low. If he hadn’t known it before, Courfeyrac’s withdrawal hammered the point home. How could Enjolras ever look at him again? How could he look at himself? And the others. Joly and Bossuet would never again see him as their old drinking companion. Gentle Jehan and fiery Bahorel would both be furious. And Combeferre would kill him once he found out, Grantaire was certain about that. And he would deserve it. Yes, justice meted out by Enjolras’ closest friend and protector. It was fitting. And in this moment, Grantaire wanted it. But Courfeyrac was staring at him still with stricken eyes, needing an answer. Waiting for him to affirm that the worst that had happened was Enjolras being beaten a bit. As if that was the greatest horror in the world. Twenty-four hours ago, Grantaire might have thought the same. Now he knew better. Courfeyrac must have read the truth, for he inhaled abruptly and averted his gaze.
Suddenly desperate, Grantaire grabbed for Courfeyrac’s hand, words tumbling out in a confused babble, “I didn’t want to! I would die before hurting him, you must believe that! But they threatened to kill him, kill us both and then violate his body! And they would do it, I know their type. The leader, he had a knife. I don’t know how. Pressed it to his throat, then ordered me to rape him. I couldn’t let him die! Enjolras told me to! I didn’t want to!”
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Courfeyrac slowly nodded, “All right. I. . .I understand.” Another deep breath, “You did the right thing, Grantaire. Probably saved his life. And Enjolras will see that.”
Grantaire bowed his head, sobbing now. Somehow, Courfeyrac’s forgiveness cut deeper than his disgust. “But it was my fault that his life was endangered. My fault that he was hurt and violated. He should never have been there in the first place. Never been with me. I’m so, so sorry! Enjolras. . .” His tears intensified.
Courfeyrac gripped his shoulders, “You were both violated. I see that now. The shame attached to this act is not yours to bear! Enjolras knows that. Rest now, Capital R. Come on.”
Grantaire resisted as Courfeyrac tried to push him back onto the couch. “But Enjolras! He’s, he’s hurt and – “
Courfeyrac cut him off, “Enjolras is being well cared for. I’ll go check on him after you’re asleep, if it will set your mind at ease. Please, sleep. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, and you need rest.”
Tears still slipping down his cheeks, Grantaire subsided. “Check on him, please. Make sure he’s ok. I tried not to hurt him, physically I mean, but make sure.”
Soothingly, “I will. And then I’ll be back to tell you. In the meantime, would you like me to call one of the others to stay with you? Joly, perhaps? He could also look you over and check your bruises.”
Finally overcome by the day’s ordeal, Grantaire shook his head wearily and curled up on the couch. “No, but thank you. I’d rather be alone for a bit.”
“All right, then. Sleep.” Courfeyrac watched Grantaire drift off, Enjolras’ name still on his lips. Shaking his head, heartsick over what had happened to his friends, he slipped out of the apartment and hailed a fiacre on the street.