Chapter Text
Enjolras was in his study, the air conditioning on full blast in an attempt to combat the worst of the afternoon heat. Fully immersed in the huge pile of paperwork, he was shocked back into the room by a resounding crash, followed by a series of muffled oaths from the direction of the kitchen. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath before going to investigate, wondering what his husband had broken now.
R had been in an odd mood for a couple of months now. It had started with little gripes, a few more arguments than normal and a fair few slammed doors. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Nothing Enjolras couldn’t handle.
In January, R had gone to New York on business for three weeks, swapping the Australian summer for snow. As much as he would have liked to have gone with him, Enjolras was caught up with work and so R had travelled alone, staying with Cosette and Éponine in their neat little apartment in a fashionable part of Manhattan. Ép had stopped working as a JVJ rep about two years before, settling in the city and moving in with Cosette; while R was pleased that things had worked out for her, he missed working with her dreadfully.
Enjolras had hoped that spending some time with Cosette and Éponine would lift Aire out of his funk but it seemed to have had the opposite effect. He was grumpier than ever, withdrawing to his studio, even locking the door, keeping Enjolras out.
Enjolras had persevered with his tried and tested method of dealing with R when he got like this; a somewhat contradictory mixture of plenty of hugs and plenty of space. He was attentive and tactile but kept the chatter to a minimum to allow his husband the headspace to try and vocalise what he was feeling. But in the last two weeks or so it had become almost unbearable and Enjolras was going to have to do something about it soon.
Now, at the sound of something smashing against the kitchen floor, of his husband cursing in a hopeless and broken tone, it seemed to Enjolras the moment had finally come. He stepped out purposefully into the hallway.
He found R sitting cross-legged on the linoleum, looking at the remnants of a mug on the floor. He didn’t seem to be attempting to clear it away at all, he was just looking at it, as though trying to will it to tidy or repair itself with the power of his mind. Enjolras crouched down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Ok, love,” he said gently, ever so gently, keeping the tiredness out of his tone, in case R got the wrong idea. “Talk to me.”
Aire looked up at him. The man before him was closer to forty than thirty, his wild tangle of curls heavily peppered with grey strands, and his eyes beset with laughter lines. But those eyes were still so big, round, and as lost as they had ever been. It took all of Enjolras’s strength to maintain eye contact and not sweep him into a hug.
“You’ve been going down this path for a while now, love. I’ve tried to give you space but I think it’s time you let me in, or at least try to tell me…” Enjolras trailed off as Aire looked away from him, closing his eyes and lowering his head.
“I broke your mug,” he muttered to the floor, chewing his lip like a child in trouble.
Enjolras inspected the wreckage for the first time. Once upon a time, the fragments had been mostly black, but here and there were splashes of red. Oh.
“It’s only a mug, R,” he said softly, beginning to rub his hand comfortingly into R’s shoulder. He felt a pang of worry. He knew how Aire could be about things from their past, how he treasured little items, small yet tangible objects, relics of their shared history.
“Your Dungeon Master mug,” Aire corrected, pouting slightly.
“I know, I remember,” Enjolras smiled. “You got it for me for my birthday.”
That was from before, so many years before. Before they were even together, although only just. The memory was warm and vivid in his mind and he was grateful for it.
Silence descended upon them once more and Enjolras was practically screaming inside his own head, wishing not for the first time that he could read his husband’s mind. This was not about a broken mug. This was much bigger.
“Aire please talk to me,” he whispered, squeezing the man’s shoulder tightly. R huffed, still not looking up, chewing his lip.
“I want to go home,” he said at last.