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Grantaire doesn't believe in ghost, and he simply doesn't care.
--But he does think of himself as similar as ghosts, or the concept of it.
Yes, yes, he does breath (pretty stinkingly, to be precise,) his heart is still pumping now and then, sending blood around, doing its job, thing likes that.
But he has never really felt alive.
Fine, he did, once. When he first met those blue eyes. Those clear, sharp, blue eyes, filled with something he can't really put a finger on it.
And it was those same eyes that later looks at him with such disgust.
Enjolras never hides his feeling towards Grantaire, and the glimpse of life that Grantaire had just tasted is swallowed down with the endless gulps of tasteless liquor.
He feels like he's been falling into the dark pit deeper and deeper each day he wakes up.
--And, of course, he embraces that curse with a willing heart.
Grantaire opens his eyes. The smell of gunpowder and something else hit his nose. It only takes him less than a second to realized that it's the smell of blood.
He sits up.
Everything around him is what he has had in mind for quite some time, what he has thought would happen. Still, that doesn't stop the ache in his heart.
He looks around. A lot of familiar faces. But there is no sight of the golden hair that he has dedicated his time looking at.
Grantaire stand up, his headache had gone away for a while. Then starts walking towards voices, to the stair.
There he is.
The man with golden hair is standing in the corner, surrounded by officers. No one notices the appearance of Grantaire. Enjolras is standing tall, France flag in one hand. Though he is covered with dust and blood, it couldn't change the fact that he still looks like a fine sculpture, as always.
Something bursts in Grantaire's chest.
So he shouts out, announces his being, getting attention from those officers, then walk towards Enjolras. To be beside him.
He turns his face to look at Enjolras. A lock of his golden hair is falling on his face, like a silk.
Enjolras looks back at him.
"Do you permit it?"
He asks. Gently. Because he feels like he has to ask.
There is a slight pause of nothing, maybe just a second, or less, but Grantaire feels as if it lasts for a thousand years. As if it will be eternity.
Then Enjolras smiles, and, without any answer, takes his hand.
At that moment, Grantaire knows.
He knows.
The gun fires.
--and Grantaire had never felt more alive.