Chapter Text
⠀ ⠀Ice faintly crunched beneath the heels of the drunkard’s boots as he trod unsteadily through the sleeping city. Navigating through the darkness while intoxicated presented enough of a struggle in and of itself; the beating hail whipped along by winter winds further complicated the endeavour. Had Grantaire’s friends been present, one of them may have, with caring hand, guided him home from the Corinthe; however, at this time of year, their hearts lay elsewhere. Christmastime was owed to family, they said before dispersing back home to various towns across the south of France, and yet the only family to whom Grantaire felt he owed anything were those very same friends whose absences had left him alone on his venture to his lodgings.
⠀ ⠀ Grantaire, too, had blood relatives, alive and well. However, were it not for the monthly letter from his mother containing twenty francs and a plea for him to return home to visit at the earliest opportunity, he may have forgotten their existence altogether. She missed him dearly, she said, and had not seen his face in years. If he felt capable enough, he occasionally drafted a letter in response, even if only to prove he was still alive. It was brief, containing a new excuse as to why he could not yet return home each time.
⠀ ⠀ “... I have fallen ill…”
⠀ ⠀ “... My studies are consuming my time...”
⠀ ⠀ “... I have been afflicted with a concussion in a recent cudgeling match…”
⠀ ⠀ “But I will see you again soon.”
⠀ ⠀ It was what he claimed, time after time. No matter how many times he wrote, however, the excuses were never any more true and the promise never any less empty. It was for the best to maintain distance, he believed, for it would break his mother’s heart to see how far he had fallen – her bright little boy reduced to a good-for-nothing inebriate.
⠀ ⠀ He trudged on through the ice as he lifted the flask to his lips, relishing the flow of rum onto his tongue and the heat traveling down his throat. Void of the passion’s fire, rum was all that could warm his heart. He loathed himself for it. If his friends could conjure up the heat of passion, why was it he, alone, who could not believe? Why did he waste himself so?
⠀ ⠀ As he secured the cap back onto his flask, a small, pathetic meowing stopped him in his tracks. His boots slid forward upon the ice. He scarcely maintained his balance, but he came to a stop nonetheless, glancing around for the source of the noise – a difficult feat after sundown. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps the loneliness, or perhaps the fatigue, but he could not shake the feeling that a creature was attempting to communicate with him.
⠀ ⠀ Silence. Then:
⠀ ⠀ Meow.
⠀ ⠀ His eyes flicked to the ground, struggling to make out shapes gently illuminated by the oil lamps of the Place Saint-Michel. At the base of a lamppost lay a desolate creature: a lone kitten, trembling. It was hardly half the size of his boot, its gray and white fur drenched, retreated into itself. It was just an animal, true enough. As far as he was concerned, animals belonged to the streets; however, as he looked down upon this creature, it did not feel so. This poor wretch would surely freeze to death without intervention. Pity seized him.
⠀ ⠀ He extended his hand downward. The kitten did not flinch nor acknowledge him as the wet fur skimmed his fingertips. He reached beneath its belly to lift it up, and it did not resist him. It hardly weighed anything, smaller than the palm of his hand. It shivered violently as another gust of wind blew past.
⠀ ⠀ Stricken by a feeling of personal responsibility for this creature’s life, he gently slid it into the large pocket of his brown wool overcoat, offering protection from the unforgiving winter.
⠀ ⠀ Numb of face, Grantaire struggled against the weather for several minutes more before he arrived at his tenement on the Rue des Grés, pushing past the doors leading to the lobby. Inside, the world was still. No wind whipped by; no hail assaulted him. Dim candles weakly lit the space surrounding him. There was not a man in sight. He breathed into the palms of his hands, trapping the warmth of his breath on his numb face, if only for a moment of relief. He continued.
⠀ ⠀The stairs, in his state, proved to be a challenge, and yet he prevailed, gradually climbing the three flights that led him to his door. His numb hands clumsily felt around for the key to his lodgings, acutely aware of the still breathing creature inside his pocket. He finally discovered, in an inner pocket, the cool iron of his key, which he withdrew. He inserted it into the lock. A hard enough twist with a thrust of his shoulder popped the door open.
⠀ ⠀ He stepped into his room. Darkness consumed the inside. The chill of winter had crept its way through the walls. If he shared this space with anyone, perhaps he would not have nights like this, arriving home so late that navigation through the space was virtually impossible. The room would not be so chilly; there would be a fire already lit, and perhaps a welcoming face inside to greet him. Alas, his roommates of the past did not fancy sharing their space with him. He was noisy, disruptive, and disorderly, they said. Sometimes, he brought a grisette home, but she was always gone from his bedside when he woke. He was alone.
⠀ ⠀ He tried not to mind it, reasoning that he only ever came into his lodgings to sleep off the effects of whatever substances he had consumed. He ought to be delighted to have a space to himself. Some nights, though, his lodgings were a reflection of the way he was inside: dark, cold, and empty. He could not bear it.
⠀ ⠀ His feet shuffled inside, cautious not to stumble on one of the many messes strewn about his floor. He squinted his eyes, scarcely making out his surroundings — familiar, yes, but shrouded in dark. Upon the mantel of the fireplace lay a matchbox, from which he withdrew a single match and struck against the side. A small orange flame sparked and illuminated his immediate surroundings. He knelt, then tossed it upon the logs in his firebox. The flame caught on. Within seconds, it spread to other logs, and a steady fire took root. Its warmth radiated, offering a comfort almost like that which he had received from his family in the days before he had disgraced himself. Almost.
⠀ ⠀ Content with the light and the heat, Grantaire knelt before the fire, rubbing his hands together as feeling returned to them. Then, he remembered in a flash: he had a friend with him. He reached into his pocket and placed the wet, bony animal on the ground before the fireplace, figuring that it deserved warmth as much as he. The kitten momentarily wobbled on its legs before collapsing.
⠀ ⠀“Do not approach the light too closely, little Icarus,” he warned in a murmur, shedding his damp coat and tossing it across the filthy floor. It became one with the mess. He lay on the cool ground near the source of warmth, and although he longed for the softness of a mattress, he resolved to wait until the warmth spread to the rest of his lodgings before he retired to his bedroom.
⠀ ⠀That was until, without being conscious of it, his exhaustion overtook him. His eyelids were heavy, and he did not resist the urge to shut them. The night’s drinks weighed on him, and to return to his feet would be too much of an effort.
⠀ ⠀ As he drifted off, he forgot the crushing loneliness that plagued him — and he certainly forgot the kitten lying not two feet away from him, which he did not even have a concept of a plan to care for. He could not be bothered with second thoughts in his state; no, his impulsive decision would be the problem of tomorrow.