Work Text:
Drink with me, to days gone by
Why was he here? Grantaire couldn’t quite remember. Normally he would chock that up to the liberal amount of alcohol that he drenched himself in on any given day, but tonight he was feeling quite sober. Not for lack of trying to be otherwise.
How did he get here? Why had he walked into that café that day? There were plenty of cafes in Paris after all. There were too many cafes in Paris in fact, and one always seemed to be going out of business right next to another that had just sprouted up. Fate? It would be a nice idea, except Grantaire didn’t really believe in fate.
Setting foot into a café was one thing, but joining a ragtag group of cohorts determined to change the world was another. Now what on Earth could have compelled him to join in that? Sure, his fellow compatriots – if he could be called a compatriot himself – were nice. Joly and Bossuet were great drinking partners. But you could be drinking partners with someone and not join a revolution.
Was it him? Sometimes Grantaire couldn’t tell. Sometimes he thought he might become a bona fide Jacobin, if only for the smile of Enjolras. Enjolras, who didn’t really seem to notice he existed.
Of course Grantaire usually wised up soon after those thoughts. Yet here he was. On the barricade.
Sing with me the songs we knew
Feuilly was singing an old drinking song. Grantaire had heard it first when he was quite young. Though some of the words were different than he remembered. Go figure. Nothing ever seemed to be quite like he remembered it. Even the light of the sun seemed different than he was young. Now everything seemed shadowed. Now he always remembered his apartment as darker than it was. But the house of his childhood continued to be suffused in sun.
Grantaire began singing along, not truly realizing that he was until he hit a word different than the one the others sang. He wondered if anyone was looking at him. They only looked at him when he was playing the fool. Sometimes it was on purpose, and sometimes it just happened. Grantaire didn’t really care either way.
He glanced over at a corner of the barricade, saw Gavroche playing with a bit of rope. The activity was so childish. It was peculiar to that time in someone’s life when grownups talked of silly things and the bangs and flashes of guns were much more exciting. But if there were no flashes and bangs to be found, there were always scraps of rope to make up for it.
Something in Grantaire’s chest tightened. He felt a sudden disgust for the planks of wood protecting them from the soldiers. He felt disgusted by himself. He felt disgusted that he’d not managed to keep this child away from here. He’d tried, he had. But he hadn’t tried hard enough. And to Gavroche guns were just spectacles and bullet wounds merely battle scars.
Grantaire wanted to cry very badly. Too bad he wasn’t drunk enough.
Drink with me, to days gone by
It was time for him to do something. If he didn’t do something right now he would cry. And he’d suddenly decided he didn’t want to cry. It wouldn’t do to cry. Everyone would look at him strangely. And no one would trust him with anything after this. Not that Grantaire really wanted to be trusted with anything. He’d never fired a gun. He didn’t plan on starting to now.
After all, what did he have to fire a gun for?
Grantaire stood up, noting pessimistically that his feet were quite steady. He seemed to be cursed to spend tonight far from plastered. And what if tonight was the last night? There was no point in spending your last night on Earth sober. In spending your last night on Earth getting some of the worst sleep of your life.
After all, this dirty Parisian street was hardly the most comfortable bed in the world. Had Feuilly been singing about beds? Grantaire couldn’t quite remember. His version of the song talked about beds. Who knew if everyone else’s was different. Probably.
Can it be you fear to die?
It started out alright. He was laughing, just as he always did. He was dancing just as he always did. He was winning the cheers and chuckles of his friends. That was his job. After all, what other job could be given the sad sot who wasn’t even a full Ami? Clown. That was Grantaire’s job. To be a clown.
Too bad he’d grown careless. He’d forgotten to practice. The words just slipped out of him.
Will the world remember you when you fall?
Why did he even care if anyone remembered him? It didn’t matter. He’d be dead. Nothing mattered once you were dead. Hell, nothing really mattered when you were alive either. He knew that. He lived by that. So why was he asking himself this? Why did he feel like screaming? Why did he want to cry again?
People were looking at him. Someone was reaching for him. Joly, Joly was reaching for him. Joly was looking at Grantaire like he was something fragile. Something to be pitied. The way that Grantaire sometimes looked at the rest of Les Amis, pitying them for their love for the world. Envying them.
No one envied Grantaire. Least of all himself. And yet.
Could it be your death means nothing at all?
Was he going to die? Was he going to die for something he didn’t believe in? He realized all of a sudden that he didn’t really understand death anymore than Gavroche. Grantaire didn’t want his friends to die. He didn’t want to die himself. But he didn’t really understand it.
Death didn’t happen to you. Not really. It was something you feared, but it never actually happened. He wasn’t going to die, right?
Death seemed like some cruel gift life forced upon you. And he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die on a dirty Parisian street for something he didn’t even believe in. He didn’t want to become some poor drunk bastard who met his end for no reason.
Is your life just one more lie?
He already knew that though. He already knew that this whole thing meant nothing. That it was ridiculous. That it would fail. That he should never have stepped into the god forsaken café. That he should have kept Gavroche away from here. He knew that. He knew that.
All these thoughts spung around in his head. He tasted gall in his mouth. It was all so repulsive. What had he done with his life? What happened to the light that suffused his childhood? What happened to the warmth?
Why was he shouting?
He hated these thoughts. He hated them. He didn’t want life to be worth nothing. Wasn’t that why he kept chasing a man who would never look at him, who would never trust him? Wasn’t it the hope that he might, even only by proxy, be bathed in light? The light that could only belong to those who believe in life fully. Who believed in the world, who believed in fate, who believe in their fellow men. Didn’t Grantaire want that? Even when he said he didn’t, he secretly wanted it. He coveted that light.
Enjolras was looking at him now. Why now? Why now of all times did Grantaire have to be noticed. He wasn’t playing the clown right now. He’d obviously forgotten how to. And yet Enjolras was looking at him. Staring down from his perch on the barricade.
Even in the darkness Enjolras was full of light. It emanated from him as if he were some faraway angel. Come down to rouse the people of Paris from their beds. Come down to show people into the new dawn.
But he wasn’t here for Grantaire. He never would be. Grantaire could not, it seemed, even touch that light. All he could think about was death. He didn’t believe. He wanted to, so very badly. But he didn’t.
Enjolras climbed down. Fell down. Floated down. Graceful, so graceful. Like a dancer. He reached out towards Grantaire.
Grantaire didn’t really remember lunging away. Only for a moment he thought, he knew. How could an avenger of the people touch a man who didn’t even trust in them?
He needed to clear his head. He was drunk.
Even if he still didn’t feel like he was.
Drink with me, to days gone by
Spindly arms circled themselves around Grantaire’s waist. Tried to. Gavroche was still little. His hands only made it to the pockets of Grantaire’s tattered coat.
He turned around. He looked at the kid. Grantaire had promised to himself that he’d protect Gavroche. That he’d make sure Gavroche came out of this unscathed. That Gavroche would not come out fearing and hating the world the way Grantaire did.
But now Gavroche was the one looking out for him. How funny. How strange. How topsy turvy tonight was. Grantaire let out a shaky breath. Maybe it was a sob. He wrapped his arms around Gavroche, practically engulfing the kid. Inexplicably, he felt a little better. Little people indeed. Gavroche was a good kid.
God, Grantaire didn’t want Gavroche to die. He’d give anything, to make sure Gavroche didn’t die. Gavroche was much too young to die. It would be unfair. It wouldn’t make sense. Not even in this world that didn’t have much logic in the first place.
Grantaire wasn’t really the praying type. The last time he’d gone to mass he’d dirtied his best shirt and his mother had scolded him until he’d cried.
He prayed anyways. He wanted Gavroche to live. Even if Grantaire died. Even if he had to meet what he feared, what he didn’t understand. Even if he had to, there was no reason Gavroche did too. He was just a kid after all. And wasn’t this what they were all here for? The future?
Enjolras always talked about the dawn. The new day. Grantaire could never imagine it. There was nothing beyond today. Nothing even beyond this minute, this second.
If Grantaire had to imagine the future, he figured it probably looked a lot like Gavroche. Just a kid, a thing that had to be looked out for. That had to be protected. That didn’t understand things like guns and armies and revolutions. But that still managed to make its way to them.
And you had to protect it. Even if you didn’t think you’d succeed. You at least had to try.
Grantaire fell asleep staring up at the sky, Gavroche huddled against him for worth. Parisian nights could be surprisingly cold. The clouds hung low in the sky, trapping in the damp. Grantaire imagined reaching out and pushing them away. They’d part easily, like bits of mist in his hands. They’d feel like paint brush bristles against his skin.
Somewhere next to him was Enjolras, watching. Not sleeping, or probably not sleeping anyways. Did angels need sleep? Grantaire wasn’t sure. He wanted to apologize to Enjolras. He wasn’t sure why.
The night was filled with the sounds of gentle breathing. His friends were piled up around him, also trying to find their way to dreams on the cold cobblestone of the streets of Paris. Maybe some were trying their luck on the barricade. They were all trying their luck, in one way or another.
The tune everyone had been singing earlier came to Grantaire again; he hummed it softly. Tomorrow they might die. Tonight might be their last night. What could any of them do? They were at the mercy of life. Of fate – not that Grantaire believed in that.
At least they were spending it together. At least they were not alone. At least they’d spent some good times together. Maybe that was enough. Maybe that meant something. Even if nothing else did.
Here’s to you, and here’s to me.