Chapter Text
Grantaire stumbles along the streets of London, something that he isn’t unused to doing. Part of him is ashamed at the number of times he has made this same trek, though a significantly larger part isn’t bothered. That same part of him lost count of how many fingers of whiskey he had drunk hours ago. The bar was practically empty so there was no-one there to look down on him and take in the amount he was drinking.
Of course, once all the lights went out no-one was really around; all scurrying back to their hiding holes like mice. Even most of the regulars had stopped hanging around the pub, preferring to spend time with their families in the safety of their own homes; save Grantaire and about three other men - all invalided home and not willing to talk to anyone.
The three veterans never sit together or with Grantaire. When he enters at the start of the evening, Grantaire will sometimes acknowledge them with a tip of his head or a raising of his glass. Occasionally he will get a gesture in return; but never words. What words could they share regardless? These men had seen things; things that Grantaire knew they wouldn’t want to talk about and he respects that privacy – he wouldn’t know what to say in return.
Grantaire doesn’t know these mens’ stories but he is almost sure they are all the same – a bullet, or a bomb, perhaps even just their minds giving out; it’s always the same result.
The four men merely sit with a beer in front of them, focusing their full attention on the glass in their hand and Grantaire ignores the way that one of them sloshes his beer every time he raises it to his lips, his hand shaking too much to hold it steady; and the way one of them coughs like they are going to spit up one of their lungs.
He is beyond caring about it all. He cared for so long and now it just hurts. It hurts to see these men – withered and old beyond their years. Grantaire tells himself that he doesn’t care, chants it to himself like a Hail Mary, like he is reciting the Lord’s Prayer. He doesn’t care and it doesn’t hurt.
Nothing would matter soon enough anyway. His stays in prison cells for bar brawls and drunkenness; that past, the future, if there was one beyond this shithole the world had become – none of it meant anything. He had enlisted and that meant the end of everything.
No more Grantaire, no more name – just a number on a file in a cabinet in the War Office.
He was drunk when he did that too, not that any of the recruiting officers minded. This war had dragged on too long already, they needed numbers, conscription could only get them so far, and the great machine has to continue rolling ever on - the war machine that was enslaving all of Europe for a second time and showed no signs of abating in the near, or distant, future. Even Australia had come under attack this time – all the way on the other side of the world and the Commonwealth was still threatened.
One morning he simply made his way to recruiting office near his flat, after drinking near half a bottle of something he had lying around, and signed up. May as well do it himself before his number came up he figured. He didn’t think that his drinking habit could count as a mental disorder and really he didn’t attend classes enough at university to count as a student so an exemption was pretty unlikely. Then at least something in this wartime world could be left up to him and be his own choice – he couldn’t even choose how much to eat these days, the Government did that for him. Rationing is bollocks.
He tells himself every day that that was the reason he signed up at least. He tells himself that it isn’t guilt that compelled him to fill in his details and sign his name.
God, why did I miss the 20s?, Grantaire thinks to himself. The Roaring 20s. No more war, a world reborn. His natural cynicism would have told him that these good times were only fleeting and so he would have enjoyed them as much as he could while they lasted. He would have drank and danced and laughed. He was too young back then to have any understanding on what he was missing out on. Grantaire could have spent his days sleeping and his nights in extravagance.
Looking back on it now, people should have realised sooner what was coming. All Grantaire has known is war and Depression – missing the 1920s meant growing up in the 1930s; and that wasn’t really a fair trade.
Fucking Hitler and his fucking Nazis.
Looking up at the sky he can see too many stars. Without the light pollution from the city, there are an unnatural number of stars in the sky. Continuing to scan, Grantaire can see the black holes created by the blimps.
It’s an illusion, he thinks, that Jerry can’t get us because of our massive killer balloons.
The piles of rubble that littered London should have been testament to the ineffectuality of the Air Force against the Luftwaffe. Thousands of buildings lost to the bombs that had been dropped on the city for eight months with hardly a breath. People died and history was lost in the ensuing mess of bricks and concrete – but everyone was told to be brave; be brave and believe that we can ward off the German dogs.
At least the sound of the spitfires in the night was comforting to some.
Suddenly, Grantaire is on the ground. He had been staring up for too long and had tripped on the curb. He hates black outs. Picking himself up and dusting off his pant legs, he winces at the grazes on his hands and can faintly see little droplets of blood pooling where stones have pierced the pale white skin. He is fascinated for a moment by the thought of the blood – watching it seep through his skin. His mind turns to the blood flowing across the world and the waste of life, as it does so often.
It makes him feel sick to the stomach to think about all the men and boys slain by the Axis, all the widows and orphans, the children sent out of the city, the soldiers who were coming back from the war shaking and broken and empty shells of the virile men Britain sent away just like the three men at the pub every night.
Because of this Grantaire felt sick most of the time. Ironically, he drank these days to feel less sick as hangover at least was better than feeling anything else. The humour of this isn’t lost on him and he lets out a huff of a laugh.
Wiping his hands on his chest, he stumbles on, red smears across the front of his off-white shirt.
Should get used to being soaked in my own blood.
Two doors down from his flat the sirens begin to whine. Grantaire resists the urge to bang his head against the wall in frustration, thinking the better of it – his headache was already going to be impressive in the morning without adding concussion to the list of causes.
They screamed on as he fumbles in his pocket for the door key. Raids were few and far between since the end of the Blitz. Grantaire chuckled at the thought.
‘Good Lord, it was almost optimistic!’ he said out loud, not a soul around to hear nor able to hear over the wailing sirens. Any air raids is too many air raids; but the Germans have taught us to be thankful for only a few, he muses, opening the door and making a beeline through the corridor towards his own flat, before going through the struggle to dig the other key out of his pocket. He applauds himself for his speed at finding it and unlocking this second door, then heads for the bedroom and his bed.
Not even Hitler is going to keep him from sleep tonight and so he falls asleep, fully clothed and already much too sober, to the sounds of bombs exploding in the distance.
He is already out before the all-clear rang out across the battered and bruised London.