Following the announcement, the students had left in small groups, some chattering, some sombre. All but two, that was. A cynic and a drunkard he might be, but there was one thing that Grantaire believed in. Well, one person. Ah, yes, Enjolras. That golden haired Apollo with his idealistic dreams, the passion that burned so hot it threatened to consume him. Now, Grantaire was no poet, but he was an artist and that fire was something he so longed to capture. He needed it. He thrived on it. He felt that it would consume him too whether the man himself knew it or not. Only, that was the problem; He was oblivious. His thoughts caught up in politics and revolution, how would he ever notice the longing stares of a drunk. Those stares, never particularly concealed, obvious to all but their focus.
If he didn't know better, he would think Enjolras unaware of his presence that very evening; so wrapped up was he in his planning. Only, he knew. He must. For, of all the amis de l'ABC, he was hardest on Grantaire. Yes, Apollo was fully aware that Grantaire did not truly believe in his cause. Even if only because he had told him so himself when emotions ran high.
"I believe in you." Simple words. Full of a meaning that he didn't quite comprehend himself. He was lost, drowning, and this man… this man had become his air. After all, nobody loves the light like a blind man. Oh, what he wouldn't give to touch that light; he longed to run his fingers through golden curls to press his lips against that jawline. So stoic and strong, the very thing he admired, yet he wished to undo it all. Who would think it? A lonely drunk yearning for someone he could never have. That was the painful truth of it all. He could not have him, for he was married to Patria. His homeland was his love.
Exasperated by his own thoughts, Grantaire stood and made his way over the man who forever seemed to be at the forefront of them. Though he had yet to say anything, he earned a response from the simple movement.
"You're staggering and you reek of liquor. Unless you are willing to be of help I suggest you go home." He hadn't even looked up. His voice was low and commanding as ever. It almost held him where he was. Almost. Instead, he continued until he could lean against the table at which Enjolras sat.
"You don't really believe it, do you?" Better to get straight to the point. As it were, they had but a few days left; there was no sense in dallying. "The people, they wont come. You know it as well as I. You dress it up with pretty words for the others, but you needn't do it for me." Each sentence had him inching slightly closer. Trying to get a rise, as always.
"They will come." If he hadn't seen the tension in the man's shoulders he wouldn't have thought he'd had any effect at all. "Must you question so much? Is faith too much to ask of you? Ah, but to a drunk I doubt it matters." Drunk. It was practically spat at him. Harsh, cruel… righteous, even. Oh, but would this man never see. Grantaire needed the drink. He clung to the bottle like a lifeline when he had nothing else, just as he clung to Enjolras. Why, he practically worshipped him. Not that it had ever gotten him anywhere. God knew he had never even come close.
"I have faith in you. We are opposites, you and I. You keep your faith and I shall keep my bottle. All I ask is that you permit me to stay." Perhaps it was more than he should have said, but it seemed to have some effect. The resolve in Enjolras' eyes never wavered, but he kicked out the chair closest to him in invitation without another word. Obviously, he had gone back to planning without giving a second thought to the implications of those words. In his haste to move closer, he practically threw himself into the chair. A motion that didn't even draw a disapproving look from that damned marble statue of a man.
Grantaire's eyes roved over the form of the man before him, reveling in the lines of his face, the way the candlelight shone on his hair, his skin. Before he knew it he had inched closer, a hand reaching to pull Enjolras' face toward his own. Lunging into the kiss before the other might react, though 'kiss' in this sense was more a crash of lips on lips. It lasted but seconds, long enough to bring a flush to his cheeks and dilate his pupils. Bringing him as close to sobriety as he'd been in years. Enjolras simply looked at him, eyes dark. There was outrage there, but something else too. Something other that made Grantaire's pulse race.
In a swift movement Enjolras was upon him. Pulling him up from the chair to press him against the wall behind it. He waited for the strike that never came. Instead he was pinned there, unable to move, Enjolras' mouth pressed to his own in just as fierce a kiss as before. Something akin to a whimper escaped his lips as he pressed his tongue against the other mans lips. Asking permission. It was allowed, what a heady thought, a drunken dream perhaps. This must be. It couldn't be the truth, he would wake up alone of the hard floorboards of his room as always. Oh, but if only it didn't feel so real, wet heat; the taste of him, mingling with the lingering warmth of absinthe on his own tongue. He found his hands wandering of their own accord. Moving to grasp at hips, to pull Enjolras closer. Only, Enjolras pulled away. With a swift turn and not so much as a further glance, he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him. It was all Grantaire could do to stand. Panting against the wall, he stared at the door in amazement. He wasn't waking up. Did that mean… it couldn't. If it did he wasn't sure that he could bear it.
The rest of the night he spent with a bottle. He needed the drunken stupor. It lulled him to sleep and quieted his thoughts. For now, at the very least.