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Light filtered through the minuscule crack in the curtains. That bit of sunlight hit his eyes, prompting him to drowsily awaken. It must have been around midday and the air felt stuffy and heavy. The smell of gunpowder and dust felt intoxicating and suffocating. Suffocating felt like a good word to describe his current feeling, as if a blanket covered his head the night before.
His hand was closed over a bottle of brandy, eyes focusing his current ambience. The room he was in was a broad liquor ship with several bottles shattered and smelling of alcohol. His head ached tremendously, the smell of gunpowder, alcohol, and heavy sawdust serving only to make it worse.
“That’s the last time I’m drinking and fainting,” Grantaire lied out loud.
With slight tension in his body, aching as if he’d gotten beaten for hours at a time, he pushed with his hands to stand up. Getting up, he tumbled over a chair, almost collapsing, his bottle of brandy still held tightly. Running his fingers through his dark mop of hair, he listened to his surroundings. Sounds of men’s commands, multiple shots from bayonets, screams of pain and agony could be heard from outside.
It appeared Enjolras’ revolution failed.
Grantaire couldn’t help but fell a constriction in his chest. He told them, every one of these rage-ridden, energetic schoolboys and workers it wasn’t going to work. It was futile, it was pointless, it was fatal to try. “We’ll rally the people, we’ll call them to arms, we’ll bring them in line,” he could hear Enjolras’ voice, the utter confidence embedded in it, the words he’d announce would encite any man fortunate enough to hear it.
Grantaire wished he could be one of those men. Wished he could have the confidence and hope of those men, dying one by one. Instead, he was here, full of drink, self-loathing, and bitterness.
Above him, he heard the sounds of steps and the floorboard seemed to slightly sink. Distorted, with a headache for the ages, the depressed brunette staggered up the stairs in the liquor store and stumbled through an alley to find the national guard, bayonets aimed at-
He immediately recognized those blonde curls, clear blue eyes clearer than glass. The brunette could see the defeat in his eyes. Eyes, used to wild and assured now slump and empty.
Why you, out of all people? My heart was dark, cold and hollow. I could’ve just drowned in my cynicism and self-loathing, why did you have to light a fire in the empty vassal I call a heart?
“VIVE LA RÉPUBLIQUE! I’m one of them.”
His headache appeared to be less intense in hindsight, his legs walked by themselves, closer to the beautiful man Grantaire kept trying to ignore. Every day, he would preach about revolution, how the rich have to answer for their greed, how the people should rise against this totalitarian government. All Grantaire did was drink, and with complete cynicism he’d tell his jokes. He mocked their intentions; he’d get the whole pub laughing. Laughing while Grantaire drank to try and ignore the tense feeling in his chest, his lungs when Enjolras would get close to tell him to stop.
When he stood beside the puzzled blond, he just looked at him and whispered, “permets-tu?”
All Enjolras did was nod, holding tightly Grantaire’s hand. When the guard shot their weapons, he didn’t feel the bullets, nor the brandy slowly breaking his brain, but the warm feeling in his hand, his fingers interlocking with his.