Author's note: Enjolras and Grantaire are not mine. They belong first to Mr. Victor Hugo and second to Boublil and Schonberg. This story, however, is mine and anyone who plagiarizes it or any of my work will be shot. This story is dedicated to Mr. Stephen Tewksbury, possibly the best Enjolras ever. Vive Enjolras.
As Enjolras strode briskly out the door of Le Musain's back room, Grantaire called out to him, "Demi-god, my demi-god, where might you be going?"
Enjolras ignored him, as usual, so Grantaire got up, staggered slightly, and followed his idol out of the café.
When Enjolras became aware that the drunkard was following him, he quickened his pace. Grantaire kept up, doggedly. Enjolras began to grow exasperated. He spun around to face Grantaire.
"What do you want, winecask?"
"To look at you," came the drunkard's placid reply.
"Well stop it. People will think you're in love." Enjolras kept walking. Grantaire did the same and began musing.
"In love with you, Apollo. A good idea, but no. I doubt I've got the strength to love anymore. I wonder what it is, though. The name escapes me." He caught up with Enjolras and threw an arm around his shoulder.
"Come on, I know a place with the best white wine." Enjolras shook Grantaire off and turned on him.
"Stop it, now. Go back to Musain and drink yourself into a stupor. Forget about me and stop making fools out of both of us."
"You've done that quite well yourself, Apollo," Grantaire said gently.
Everyone in the street was staring at them. A flower girl plucked a green carnation from her basket and threw it at Grantaire's feet. Enjolras saw it and flushed. He grabbed Grantaire's arm and dragged him firmly away, calling over his shoulder, "Forgive my friend, he's drunk."
Grantaire let himself be led. He was happy; Enjolras had called him his friend, that was enough.
Enjolras pulled him into a café. It was, incidentally, the Barriére du Combat, of white wine fame. He pushed Grantaire into a chair and sat down opposite him, waving the waiter away.
"Pourquoi," he said simply. "Why?"
"My dear boy," Grantaire said kindly. "How many hours do you have?"
"None. Why do you do this to me? You say that I'm your demi-god. Well, when a demi-god tells you to be quiet, shouldn't you be quiet?"
"Yes."
"And when a demi-god asks you to believe, shouldn't you believe?"
"Yes."
"And when he tells you to stop drinking, you should stop." This was not a question.
"Yes."
"Then why don't you?"
"Because I haven't got the strength."
"Nonsense, you're as strong as the rest of us," Enjolras said with finality.
"Mental strength, spiritual, if you will. That's what you give me. Just to live, I need you, much less to do what else you require of me. The absinthe helps, it really does. You should try it sometime."
That was the wrong thing to say. Enjolras stood up and looked down, like an eagle at Grantaire. The pose, perfect for what he was about to say, was instictive, rather than deliberate, but it worked: the drunkard quailed under his gaze.
"Maybe I will, someday, and when I do I'll be just as wretched as you are. Worse, I'll be what I used to be, which is you ten times over. Is that what you want, Grantaire? To see your demi-god reduced to what you are now? I pulled myself out of it and you can't. I despise you, Grantaire, because you are what I once was, and because you will never be what I am."
Enjolras stalked out of the café. Grantaire slumped in his seat. He called the waiter over and ordered a bottle of wine. When it came, he sank into it. When it was gone, he wept. Grantaire had just discovered that his angel was not perfect.