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It was almost too easy to get lost in the whirlwind that was Enjolras.
And that, Grantaire supposes, was the problem in itself. Whirlwinds. Enjolras. Natural disasters being all they had in common. Somewhere in between drunken jabs and tuned-out tirades about bringing down the government, he had fallen in love.
No, not in love.
Love was for people like Marius, an endearingly awkward fellow who stumbled over his words but was as loyal as anything. Love was for people like Eponine, who gave everything she had even when it was not asked for, until she had nothing left of her own. Love was for Joly and Bossuet and Courfeyrac, who smiled liked the sun shone for them.
Grantaire was a washed up drunk who knew his way around a color wheel. The sun didn’t shine for people like him.
But Enjolras, god, the sun was made for him. If he asked, Grantaire would paint him a new sky. Perhaps, share it with him, if only he would permit it.
That’s the tragedy of it all - the goddamned irony that Grantaire never really wanted anything - anyone - until he couldn’t have it. Him.
It was unnerving, the way he could twist words until the deaf and dumb would fight for his cause. Grantaire didn’t like it. Grantaire, who never cared much about saying anything, had something to say about him.
Somewhere down the line, he began to listen. He let the words entice him and then washed the feeling away with cheap wine. But he heard. And Enjolras knew it.
Enjolras, for some reason, refused to give up on him. Said a lot about his nature - the futility of trying to fix a lost cause - the determination he had, and the disappointment that only Grantaire brought to his face.
Under his sharp lines and hollow cheeks, Grantaire could pretend to sketch a reality where such a force of nature would have mercy on him.
But it wasn’t something he deserved, the mercy. So he greeted the storm with open arms, let the branches snap at him until wounds marked his skin, tried to breathe when the wind picked up. Love and war melted into the blood of revolution and stained his hands. It wasn’t a cynic’s game, but he wasn’t so sure that was him anymore. He wasn’t sure of anything when the sun filtered through the window of the Musain and caught in Enjolras’s hair.
Love didn’t work, didn’t wait for the broken ones.
Enjolras didn’t wait for anyone.