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He was presumptuous, yet not conceited. There was an air about him that was somewhat reminiscent of a sardonic gambler, a wisher of the edge, a man whose want for feeling led him to extremes of vices in an effort to feel all and nothing at once. This was evident in his diction, the glint of his eye as he challenged Enjolras to a duel of words which would fury and fire them both. It was noticeable in the fumes that clung to his sleeves, the smoke that licked his hair and left it seedy, the stench of absinthe on his breath. It was everything and nothing about Grantaire that sent Enjolras spinning.
Beneath the callous surface was more of a masterpiece of fine art, a tantalising swill of scorn and cynicism that hid the viscous scars of hopeful youth. He was a lion licking his wounds, clawing and snarling in defence whenever someone came too close to touching them. Enjolras knew, though he had once been loathed to admit it, that Grantaire was the most intelligent man he knew. He would have studied with the Greeks in Alexandria’s great library, would have contended with Plato and Socrates had he been born of an early time. Instead he was bred into a world that had lost its enlightenment and with it all integrity.
And yet, for all his bitter conjecture and scepticism, Grantaire was the kindest soul to have graced the earth. Less mellow than Prouvaire and Combeferre was he, yet it was as though he felt the impact of hidden blows twice as hard as the more gentle of their collective. It seemed to Enjolras that those fluttering emotions he controlled in himself were the very fuel to Grantaire’s passion and fierce love for his companions. Without them it seemed he would drown in liquor, all his talent gone to waste in a matter of moments, and it seemed that Grantaire was aware of the fact. He showed desperate kindness to the people who kept him afloat, concealed poorly by gruff responses and a shabby exterior. There was not one of their friends who could not see through his deceptive appearance to look upon the honest love that manifested from their companionship.
Even they, however, did not see as far into the vaults of Grantaire’s heart as Enjolras did. They did not get to wake up beside him, watch the sunlight fleck across the stubbled cheeks, hear the ragged hicks in his sleeping breath. No one but he had the inane pleasure of being able to trace the muscle lines of the boxer’s skin, kiss and nibble at collar bone and tease a moan from dampened lips. These delights were his alone to revel in, and Grantaire did the same in kind – teeth and tongue brought urgent whimpers and heady gasps. These were the prizes he could elicit from Enjolras, the acknowledgement that yes, liberty may have his mind and verse, but Grantaire had his skin, his eyes, his hair, his nails, his whispers, his kisses, his heart.
Though they may have been fundamentally different, the obverse of the other, the idealist and the cynical, Enjolras did not doubt that he would love Grantaire until the day he died. And Grantaire, when with Enjolras, could feel the rise and fall of empires in his chest.