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Surprising none, Grantaire sat once again at the Corinthe with absinthe in his hand, a few friends gathered nearby to rest before the inevitable revolution. In a half-drunk (though rather coherent) stupor, he pontificated of a golden-haired leader who, to the unfamiliar ear, sounded as if he was of a deity’s kin rather than man’s.
“I have certainly compared our dear leader to marble statues in both demeanor and appearance at least once before to you magnificent lot,” Grantaire began. Jehan, who was nearby alongside Bousset, lifted his glass in acknowledgement.
“However, I do not believe I have mentioned how these statues, were any to be carved, would and could never do him justice. Their stoicism may match that of his cold demeanor, as statues do not tend to have a lack of such, but his beauty, which is beyond measure, is also beyond the ability of any human hand to capture in stone. The degree to which he deserves this devoted laud is incalculable— I can only sing so many praises with my words, but a lowly mortal must try.”
Bahorel and Joly settled at a table next to Jehan as Grantaire continued, “His eyes shine with a fervor that a being of stone would never be able to capture, his face, expressions, words, and entire being alight with passion when correctly prompted. It is the kind of face men would— and have —followed into battle, followed anywhere, as they would a king.”
Grantaire’s eyes began to cloud over as their leader’s face began refamiliarizing itself in his mind’s eye, “Certainly the handsomest face this side of the Atlantic, the voice of an angel— nay, several —from the Almighty’s finest choir. He himself, Phoebus Apollo of the flaming chariot, eyes as bright as the sun on the most glorious summer’s day, sparkling with delight, pinning and burning anything caught in its gaze”
“One could stare at those eyes, at that shimmering hair for hours, melt in the reflections spread from its golden halo. To be granted the time and space to do such, to stare unabashedly until my retinas have been scarred over, unable to see anything except his splendor, would be an honor. Alas, he would not have me, not if I offered all my earthly possessions and myself in my entirety,” Grantaire finished, pausing to sip from his bottle.
At the brief silence, Courfeyrac caught Grantaire’s gaze and crossed the room with a smile, “Please, do continue to wax your praising adorations, and I can relay them to Enjolras in time. Perhaps he will object less fervently to your ardor if I serve as the liaison.”
“This is not adoration or ardor, my friend, this is religious devotion,” Grantaire said, “I am only paying my god the respects which are due.”
“With all due respect, Grand R, it sounds very much like one in love,” replied Jehan.
“Nonsense,” Grantaire scoffed, “I would surely know, if I was in love. I’ve certainly been struck with such emotional fervor before. As it is, any sentiments that I bear towards our chief are certainly compelled by something beyond reason, but they cannot— and have not —been some romantic entanglement of fleshly desire.”
“I hope you are aware that romantic entanglements and fleshly desires are capable of being independent of one another, ” Courfeyrac commented, bemused.
Grantaire hardly took a moment to consider, “Perhaps it is so, Courfeyrac, but in my personal experience, they tend to be associated more frequently than they are estranged.”
Jehan and Courfeyrac appeared to share an unreadable look before allowing Grantaire to continue at his own leisure. Not long after, the subject in question strode in, eventually accusing Grantaire of being incapable of a great many things, not the least of which was living. Almost immediately, Grantaire collapsed on a table, where a battle commenced around him soon after.
Grantaire jolted awake from his stupor with the concrete knowledge that he would never do so again. Immediately struck awake, any previous intoxication wiped away in the span of this single moment, he rose to his feet, quickly assessing the fallen bodies strewn around the wine-shop.
Standing allowed him an open line of sight across the room as he gazed beyond the billiard table at the scene before him; an angelic insurrectionist cornered by militia soldiers, and the door to his left. A choice, it appeared, that hardly seemed like a choice at all.
Sealing his fate, he stepped forward and spoke, “Long live the Republic! I’m one of them.”
For the last time while Grantaire was still breathing, all attention in the room was drawn to him. Apollo was not one to disappoint, his head held high and a rifle clutched in his arms, with an ever-so-faint aureola surrounding him. It could have been a trick of the light, or of the imagination, but it lit up this little corner of Paris all the same. The chief would go down with pride and honor; such had always been determined and would always be so.
Grantaire dropped his gaze and glanced around at the soldiers with their guns held high before beginning to push past them, another “Long live the Republic!” falling from his mouth.
He felt the weight of the sun’s gaze pierce him as he came to a stop in front of the soldiers’ fatal muzzles, heart still pounding in his chest, blood roaring in his ears.
“Finish both of us at one blow,” he dared to ask. The soldiers levelled their rifles more evenly in response.
Grantaire dragged his eyes up to meet his god’s gaze, and gave him the power to forever change the course of a life, “Do you permit it?”
For a moment, it was silent. His heart had calmed, all bodies trembled, but were still, and any echoes from beyond this corner ceased to reach them. A fleeting curiosity preceded the moment of understanding that passed across the celestial blond’s face when their eyes met.
Finally, his angel seemed to learn that Grantaire would rather die with him than live a thousand lifetimes without.
The press of his hand into Grantaire’s felt like the sun, beginning to burn away at the fringes of his frayed existence before a single shot had dared fire, yet grounding him in the reality of life for the very first time.
An unconscious smile worked its way across Grantaire’s face, and a soldier’s eyes narrowed, hands tightening around his rifle. It occurred to him that the opinions of these men at whose hands he was soon to die mattered very little indeed.
With the crack of twelve gunshots, as a strike of lightning, the realization came.
Oh. I suppose Jehan wasn’t mistaken.
In the final split-seconds before life finally slipped out of Grantaire’s fingers, he squeezed the hand threaded through his, for the first and last time, and moved his gaze to focus on Enjolras.
And then he fell.