Despite what he thought, Enjolras refused to believe Grantaire was meant for that "Fate" either. But he'd likely get another rant about how he had nothing to live for and it wasn't worth it and he couldn't do that. Not then. Not when he didn't need a reminder that in the end, he wasn't enough to keep Grantaire in his own head.
Enjolras shrugged as Grantaire defended their littlest friend. "I didn't think he'd up and burn the place down, 'Taire. That doesn't mean he shouldn't have been taking care of himself." He didn't have it in him to say that what bothered Enjolras the most was the drinking. Gavroche was a kid from the streets of 1832 Paris. Drinking meant little to him, especially when the majority of his friends were older students. But Enjolras knew what it could lead to, now more than ever as he looked over the man beside him. It wouldn't do for Gavroche to follow that path and he planned to nip it in the bud now.
"You've tried in a forest designed to kill you," Enjolras reasoned. "With little access to fresh water. We'll get you settled into your bed, get you some tea maybe if you're up to it. Then we'll see about sleep." Determination had settled in.