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Grantaire was a psychic.
He saw things. Heard things. Knew things that no human should. He hated it. He hated every moment. Every sorrow he predicted and felt.
When his gift first emerged he cried for hours because he knew that puppy he saw that morning wouldn’t make it. He knew his parents better than ever now and it scared him that he knew his father would act like that. He was terrified that he knew things wouldn’t go right. He couldn’t control his powers and that terrified him more. He saw everything he didn’t want to. He was only eight then and he was still afraid now, ten years later.
Sometimes what he predicted was good. He knew his childhood friend would achieve his goals and that the nice old lady would see her son again when he returned from the seas. He knew that family of birds would live. His small good fortunes were less common. Mostly, he saw despair. It made him sick. It made him hate being around living things. He predicted he’d probably be an alcoholic. He was. Drink was his only companion for a long time, along with his paintings, which gave him just enough profit to get by. He often painted the fortunes of people who he met. His art was usually macabre, but so beautiful.
Whenever he slept it gave him more horrible subjects to paint. He stopped sleeping all that often.
Grantaire hated that he knew the Les Amis would die. He knew, from the moment he met their golden leader that they were destined for a horrible, bloody demise. Their lives would be cut short when they were hardly even adults. Lives wasted in pursuit of a dream they couldn’t attain. Instinct told Grantaire to stay away, good god do not get attached. Do not befriend the boys with the sad souls. The old souls that perished over and over in the name of a dream that was unobtainable.
Grantaire could see that this wasn’t their first time on Earth. Some were very old souls. Enjorlas was the oldest, the center of it all, he was the sun. He encouraged them and led them with such fiery passion and inadvertently was at the center when they perished in every lifetime. He always died last, tragically. He wondered if the man remembered. Grantaire could see this wasn’t the end. The lads were caught in a vicious cycle. He saw fire and blood and guns and screams whenever he was around Enjolras. He felt physical pain. He always had a bit more drink than usual whenever Feuilly dragged him to a meeting.
Feuilly: He was so kind and passionate. One of the Amis he was closest to, including Bahorel. Those two were the first he met. It was sometime a number of months ago when the three met in a bar close to the Musain. Feuilly was amusing and Bahorel was well, intimidating. The three fell into easy conversation and something about the sorrowful cynic made Feuilly instantly attach. Grantaire saw this odd willingness of course, and begrudgingly let Feuilly drag him to his first meeting.
The scene he was greeted with instantly triggered a horrid reaction. Grantaire saw the weight of bloody fates. Those were always the most painful. He heard the voices of ghosts, screams and pleads. Scared boys dying. He felt dizzy(Though that could have been because he was drunk, too), and wished he hadn’t come immediately. His heart pounded and his lungs ached in a familiar terrible way. Then he saw the most beautiful man he’d ever laid eyes on and he knew he should walk out then and there, never to return. Halfway through a passionate speech and raving about some bullshit belief about the ineffectiveness of monarchies and the necessity for revolution.
He didn’t leave though. This incarnation of the god Apollo had his own gift, he could tell. He felt drawn to him immediately, and felt he couldn’t leave.
The speech stopped as the three stumbled in and the angry god turned his attention to them. “Feuilly, who is this?” God his voice was beautiful too. Firm, and eloquent, a noble’s voice. What he wouldn’t give to hear that voice beside him at night….
“Grantaire.” The cynic waved and attempted to stay upright with all the effort a drunk man could muster.
“Enjolras.” Enjolras sighed as he walked closed and wrinkled his nose in disgust at the strong stench of alcohol. “All three of you are drunk, and late.”
“I may be drunk but you are beautiful and I can’t believe Apollo is a pompous sounding rich French boy.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean seriously, your accent is ridiculous. Fitting for a ridiculous dream.”
Immediately the rest of the members in the room knew this couldn’t end well. It didn’t take a psychic to see that.
“My accent is not ridiculous! Neither is my dream! Who do you think you are? A drunkard who looks like he hasn’t bathed in weeks, judging me?” It didn’t take a scholar to see that this new guy was a mess.
“Sorry we can’t all be born with a silver spoon, your exalted majesty. My bad.”
“The status I was born to is hardly relevant! The work I do is. I’m helping the people.”
Feuilly should have known Enjolras might have ended up fighting Grantaire. Grantaire was passionate in his own right but he wasn’t engaged. He hoped to get R engaged through Enjolras. He had beliefs but just needed to care.
“The work you do is going to get you killed. I mean seriously, rebelling against the king? I could give you a one hundred page essay on why that is not going to work. Why not just jump into the Seine, it’d save you time.”
Enjolras was fuming at this point, at the mockery to his beliefs and accent.
Now, Enjolras despised violence. He only saw it as a last resort but damn did it feel good to punch that stupid drunk then and there.
For the next few months, while Grantaire attended meetings, the two never talked nor so much as looked at each other. Grantaire felt sick every meeting but he quickly became addicted to his Apollo. To their arguments and bickering and found he really enjoyed poking holes in the other’s opinions. They had an odd relationship that developed. Once Enjolras discovered R was an artist, he commissioned him for flyers. At one point they spent a number of hours discussing literature without tearing each other’s heads off.
Grantaire laid off the drink a bit and even began to sleep every other day.
For a while, things were better.
Grantaire became to admire and idolize this perfect god. He dreamt of him and couldn’t take his mind off of him for long. What surprised him most, is he believed. He believed in Enjolras.
When he was in a better mood, he pictured he and Enjolras on better terms, perhaps even involved romantically. Though he didn’t think himself worthy of a god’s love, it was a guilty fantasy.
When in his sour moods all he could picture was his lifeless body in his arms. It tore him apart. Voices haunted his dreams. He saw all of the Amis die in his sleep. It nearly broke him but he knew the real thing was coming soon when these dreams started coming nightly. He stopped sleeping again and his alcoholic soulmate took up his time.
A year passed and he and Enjolras’ rivalry had cooled off some and as the summer approached Grantaire was overtaken with unbearable sadness. All of the Amis noticed it, even Enjolras, who normally was oblivious to all other’s emotions. None knew what brought it. Joly and Combeferre tried to pull from their medical knowledge but they didn’t know what to do.
Grantaire stood in front of his newest work. It was Enjolras, beautiful, and bloodied. He wore france’s colours and was the picture of righteousness. He was dead in the painting, red coat soaked in blood and his eyes dull, devoid of their passion. Grantaire’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy from crying. It was going to happen.
When he saw the stockpile of weapons the next day as he entered the back room at the Musain his stomach dropped and his heart nearly gave out there.
There were rifles and pistols and bayonets. Firepowder and ammunition stacked in boxes.
Grantaire stared at Enjolras for moments. The rest of the world seemed to disappear around him. Enjolras was going to die. They all were going to die. Of course, he knew that from the beginning but god dammit, he didn’t want to deal with it. But these people were insufferable!
Joly and Bossuet were a delight to be around and clucked at him like mother hens, Courfeyrac was just about the best friend you could have, Combeferre was always reliable and supportive, Jehan was marvelous and fascinating, Marius was such a lovable idiot, and Feuilly and Bahorel were his best friends in the world. And Enjolras. Enjolras was perfect. He was everything. Grantaire would do anything for him. Granataire would die for him but he knew not a thing could change his golden sun’s fate.
Grantaire felt trapped. Overwhelmed. He didn’t realise he was shaking nor hyperventilating until the worried voice of Joly snapped him out of it. He blinked and stuttered. “What?” he asked in a haze.
“I asked if you were all right, R.”
“Oh- um, yes. Fine, just….withdrawals…”
Joly was suspicious but was called away to aide in preparations.
Grantaire left. He needed a drink.
He was drunk when the chaos started.
Everything was a haze as the Amis engaged the national guard, and people were shot and dying and everything crumbled around him. Enjolras was still alive, that’s all he cared about.
Execution was an awful way to die. He sobbed when Jehan fell.
He must have blacked out that night because when he awoke next he smelled blood and the sun warmed his face.
No.
He sprung up and began cursing, looking around frantically. Everyone was dead.
He saw Feuilly first. Then came Bahorel and Bossuet. Joly, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were next. They were soaked with blood and torn apart by bullets. He saw Gavroche and silently cursed the cruelty of the guards. He followed the trail of his friend’s bodies, hardly even aware of his surroundings besides the horrible aura of death and despair.
Grantaire didn’t see Enjolras in the bodies. He hoped. Then, moments later, he saw the red banner. He ran.
He was too late.
Fate couldn’t be changed.