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He knew immediately that something was wrong.
The fingers of his right hand tried to tighten around another hand that wasn't there anymore. Merely his memory made him think he could feel warmth lingering. Grantaire opened his eyes.
Blinding white walls surrounded him.
No, not walls. Walls didn't sway gently in the wind.
Before he could reach a conclusion about what the walls were made of, they were drawn aside. A woman stepped through the gap. She wore a white smock, that was stained with blood and… other things Grantaire didn't really want to think about too closely. He didn't like the look she was giving him.
«Hello. How are you feeling?», she asked.
Good question. How was he feeling?
I don't feel anything, he wanted to say, because he really didn't. Am I dead, he wondered. Why does my hand feel empty?
What he finally settled on was «Where am I?»
The woman sat down by his side. He was on a bed. Why was he on a bed? She was giving him that look again! She took his hand between hers. This feels wrong, Grantaire thought. She didn't grip his hand tightly enough and her fingers were too steady.
«You are in one of the safe places, that were chosen for emergencies like this.»
Emergencies. What emergencies? He was fine.
«That big fellow almost brought you to a hospital. Lord knows where he went now.», she continued.
All of this meant nothing to Grantaire. Was this all just one giant hangover? He was forgetting something, he knew it.
«Why am I here?», he asked.
The woman smiled but it was off somehow. Something wasn't right.
«Don't you remember?» Grantaire closed his eyes in the naïve hope to maybe remember better, but nothing resurfaced.
Well, something did.
The haze that fogged up his mind lifted a bit and he became acutely aware of the fact that his chest hurt. Clumsily he lifted the hand that was not in the woman's to touch the tender spots.
«What is this?», he demanded.
The woman also caught his other hand.
«You mustn't move. You have been unconscious for almost three days. If you move too fast your wounds will open again.»
Grantaire took a deep breath. Something must be terribly wrong.
«What happened?», he asked and god damnit was this all he could do, ask one stupid question after the other?
«You were shot. Several times.»
Grantaire felt as if someone had slapped him across the face. Irrationally he mused that he wouldn't feel it right now because he was apparently high on some kind of medicine that made him not feel the pain because he was…
shot.
The woman on his bedside was talking about how he was lucky to be alive and that probably the high alcohol concentration in his blood saved him from certain death, but he didn't understand anything she was saying, because he…
was shot.
He was shot.
He heard the triggers being pulled again and in his nose was the scent of burning gunpowder. There was a scalding pain in his memory, across his entire body. He remembered that he fell and he remembered who held his hand.
«Where's Enjolras?», he growled.
The woman was apparently talking about something else when he interrupted, but she didn't point out his impoliteness. There was that look again.
Grantaire wanted to peel her face off.
«Where is he?», he repeated.
In his head it was a threat but as soon as it left his lips it was a plea.
The woman sighed and shook her head.
«We didn't want to tell you yet, but…»
She kept silent for a few seconds and Grantaire started contemplating making her talk.
«We are so sorry. You are the only one…»
She didn't finish her sentence.
Grantaire blinked once before the meaning of it all came crashing down on him.
«No one…?», he choked out.
The woman slowly shook her head.
Grantaire closed his eyes. How could he deal with this? What could he do? It must be a mistake. Surely they made a mistake and everyone was just waiting for him to heal up.
«We are very sorry. We did our best, but they were just too badly hurt and-»
He didn't listen. He felt like the entire universe tried to fit itself into his chest. He felt like there was nothing at all. He closed his eyes harder. Maybe if he forced himself to sleep everything would solve itself. He felt tears rolling down his face. It was strange, he didn't think he was crying but there they were. For a second he asked himself why that was, before the pain crushed him again.
Eventually the woman left and Grantaire was in that constant state of half-sleep, half-wakefulness and whole-despair.
He didn't know how much time had passed before the woman returned.
«I wish we had medicine against that kind of pain», she said. She took his hand again and sat with him. Grantaire hated her with all of his heart and wished she'd never leave.
After a few days (according to the woman, whose name was Caroline) Grantaire felt… not better but less sore. He could move around a bit on his own if he didn't overdo it.
Only his grief had even grown. Once a day had passed and none of his friends had shown up Grantaire had started to realize that maybe this was it. This was the story of how he failed at everything, even dying next to the only thing he'd ever believed in.
The guilt he felt over the fact that he survived while other men, more worthy men, had died weighed heavy on him. He wondered how he could go on like this. What a cruel trick destiny had played on him!
Which was why he left the make-shift-hospital as soon as he could maneuver around more or less coherently. He stumbled out of the backdoor and tried to pin down his location. It turned out that he was only a few hundred meters away from the Musain. He turned the idea over a few times in his head. Where could he go? There was nothing for him at his tiny apartment and there sure as hell was nothing for him in a stinking hospital bed. In the café however…
There might be a trace of his friends. He slowly made his way up the street. Maybe if he pretended he didn't already let go all of his hope he could convince himself Les Amis would be having one of their meetings. Half a smile formed on his lips but died down again as soon as the saw the sad remains of their barricade.
Just a few pieces of wood, hidden away in corners because nobody knew what to do with them, holes in the walls where bullets pierced through them and… splatters of blood nobody cared to wipe off. Grantaires gaze wandered up to the Musain.
There were blood stains right beneath the window Enjolras and he stood behind. He wondered briefly how they might have landed there, but decided not to dwell on the question too long.
He entered the building.
The ground floor was destroyed. Apparently nobody bothered to clean or tidy up, so there was still a horrible chaos of chairs and tables. The stairs leading to the first floor were where they always were, now taunting Grantaire. Everything was eerily quiet. Noone was singing, no glasses were shattered, no buzz of conversation. Just the wood squeaking softly as Grantaire climbed the stairs. He told himself that he was going slowly because he wanted to not open his wounds again, not because he was scared of what he might find.
Silence welcomed him and destroyed every last hope he had about someone else being alive. Grantaire wanted to scream at himself, to hit his head against the walls for even thinking for a second that someone would be here. Nothing was here, just the tables they'd forgotten or were too heavy to use for the barricade. A few chairs and that was it. No living soul was here. No one. Just him.
He was the only one left.
In a sudden burst of despair he began to raid all the cupboards and secret hiding places. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. A message, a letter, some kind of proof that there were people coming here almost every night. There were people here, laughing, drinking, planning, living. They did exist!
No matter what Grantaire was hoping for, all he found was a stack of bottles. Some were empty but there were a few that were still almost full.
«Well, they won't be for much longer», Grantaire mumbled to himself.
He had been strictly forbidden to drink by Caroline, but he was certain there was a loophole where he didn't have to heed advise when he exceeded a limit on misery.
He tucked himself away in a dark corner from where he stared at the window. Did Enjolras die at once or did he struggle for a while? Did he die in hospital? How long did he hold his hand? Did he even know…
He interrupted himself with a gulp of wine. The effect came more quickly than before, his vision becoming a bit hazy. He didn't care. He let his head sink back against the wall. The wood gave way a bit.
Grantaire turned around. Ah, yes, he remembered. They'd hidden all kinds of weapons in the café. Apparently nobody had thought of this one. He carefully pulled out the small wooden box that was hidden by paint, to make it seem like just a piece of the wall. Inside was a pistol. Grantaire took it in his hands and turned it over. Such a small piece of machinery. And yet it could kill a man.
Magnificent.
He continued playing with it while he emptied bottle after bottle of wine, until the urge to sleep overcame him (much earlier than he was used to, but he couldn't be picky about his tolerance after such a long dry spell)
He drifted away, slightly dizzy but glad for a bit of normalcy after this nightmare that is his life.
He woke up again to someone talking. His head hurt and his chest hurt and he felt like vomiting, but he stayed where he was.
It was Marius. Grantaires heart ached, watching the boy limp through the cafe, mourning his friends by talking about them. He talked about empty tables and empty chairs and apparently remembered single episodes he'd seen play out here or there.
Grantaire contemplated calling out to Marius, telling him he was not the only survivor, he was here, too!
Only he couldn't do it. He remembered Marius talking about his girl. Now that he'd survived they might have a future. They wouldn't have any use for a useless drunkard, who couldn't even die the way he wanted. Marius deserved better. So Grantaire held his breath, waiting for Marius to leave.
He didn't have to wait long. A few minutes after Marius' departure, Grantaire grabbed the pistol and one of the bottles and heaved himself over to the window. He sat down right beneath it, so he could glance out, catching view of the sky. Then he took in the empty cafe again, recalling happy moments, recalling bad ones, recalling the pressure of Enjolras' fingers against his. He raised his bottle and called out at nobody in particular: «Here's to you!», before he spilled a considerable amour on the floor.
Quietly only audible to himself he murmured: «And here's to me.»
He raised the bottle at the same time he raised the pistol. One leaned against his lips and the other against his temple. One last gulp before the last gunshot that shall ever resound within these walls again. The bottle rolled for a bit, spilling the remaining wine onto the floor before it stopped moving.
Everything was silence at last.