I am not Victor Hugo. If I was, Grantaire would've kicked Enjolras where it hurts by now. Hard.
Grantaire, Put the Bottle Down!
"Reality is merely an illusion –
Caused by lack of alcohol…"
- An old pun
"Qual piuma al vento/Muta d'accento — e di pensiero…"
That was the call that woke Enjolras up in the morning.
He'd been sleeping on the mattress Combeferre had propped up at the base of the barricade a few weeks ago, and would probably sleep there tonight.
"Enj", 'Ferre had said as he laid the mattress down for him, "Why don't you just sleep in the café with the rest of us?"
"No this is fine."
'Ferre smiled sadly at him. "There's no shame in wanting a decent night's sleep, Enj. It'd made you a better leader in the daytime. Why don't you just-"
"Really, 'Ferre. I'm fine."
"You're sure?"
"Sure, what better than sleeping under the stars?"
"Yeah", 'Ferre had replied sarcastically, "If it weren't for all the grape-shots and canon balls."
"I'm fine. Really. It's too stuffy in there – especially with all Capital R's drinking."
"You really shouldn't be so hard on him."
"What other way is there to keep him in line?"
"You could try talking to him?"
Enjolras had smiled as he plonked down on the mattress, pulling the thin quilt over him and rolling over.
"That would require being able to understand him."
"Huh?"
He'd smiled indulgently. "Drunk men are confusing, 'Ferre. Capital R is another language."
'Ferre had smiled. "Fine then. But you rest easy. Alright?"
"Goodnight cousin."
"Night Enj."
He wasn't feeling in such good spirits when he'd been woken in the morning by the cry of: "La Donna E Mobile!"*
He'd dragged himself off the mattress and gone round the back to get changed into his vest.
It hadn't stopped since.
"Sempre un amabile/Leggiadro viso", Grantaire sung as he danced around the Café Musain to the amusement of the other Les Amis, "In pianto o in riso, — è menzognero/È sempre misero/Chi a lei s'affida…"
Enjolras attempted to block his ears and clean his weapons at the same time. But it didn't work.
"Chi le confida — mal cauto il cuore-" Just as the leader was preparing to shout shut up someone beat him to it.
"Will you quit that racket?!" Matelote demanded.
Grantaire clapped happily at her arrival.
"Celestine, you are a beautiful monster! Welcome to my lair!"
Enjolras watched Grantaire spout some more rubbish, grabbing the grisette around the waist as he did so and spinning her around the room.
"She is a chimera! A daemon! The offspring of a stonemason from Notre Dame who fell in love with one of his gargoyles!"
Enjolras sighed, rubbing his eyes.
What next? Dante's Inferno? Or are you going to adlib some Milton?
"I'm telling you 'Ferre! We need Celly on our barricade! She is a pig! She fights like on and she eats like one! A beautiful collaboration!"
How did I meet him again? He thought to himself dully and then, with an elegant shrug of his shoulders added sarcastically, Oh yeah. I met him when he crashed my Les Amis meeting and "charmed" me with his witty repartee.
It reality, Grantaire had begged to stay and sit in on the meeting – which Enjolras had allowed, seeing as he believed in nothing and thus wouldn't blab to the National Guard. Grantaire had then, somehow and successfully, managed to get Enjolras completely tanked, and had in one way or another managed to force Enjolras to let him sign some application sheet deeming him an official member of the Les Amis de L'ABC.
Like Faust signing over his soul to the devil, more like. The devil being Grantaire, of course.
At least, that's how Enjolras remembered it.
The sound of Grantaire dancing around the Café Musain with Matelote on his shoulders dragged the revolutionary back to reality.
"Get your hands off me, Wine-Cask", Matelote exclaimed, giving Grantaire a few sharp smacks.
Enjolras, who had been rather happily standing sentry on the barricade the last half hour, turned his stern face to look meet Grantaire's eye. The angry look made Grantaire drop Matelote to the ground in an instant, cheeks red like a frightened schoolboy.
"Grantaire, put the bottle down!" he yelled from down below, "Go and sober up somewhere else! The National Guard are sniggering at us!"
And it was true.
A few artillery men were standing down the road and every so often would look up at either Grantaire's silly antics or Enjolras' inflexibility and chuckle to themselves. Right now they were betting on whether or not the leader would loose it and have a full on shouting match with the drunk – steam coming out the ears and all.
Yeah, well, one side is loosing their money today, he thought to himself bitterly.
"But-" the drunk began fearfully, and it was that fear that made Enjolras glow a little inside.
"Don't disgrace the revolution!"
This final outburst – as Enjolras hoped it would – produced a single, startling effect on Grantaire.
He looked down at his shoes a few times, mumbled a sincere apology to Matelote and then looked to his leader – completely sober, as if someone had dunked his head in a bucket of icy water.
Enjolras crossed his arms impatiently as Grantaire shuffled to the window and sat down carefully on an upturned wine barrel, placing his elbows on the windowsill.
With a sad look he said, "I am truly sorry sir. I beg your apology."
Enjolras raised a critical eyebrow.
"You do not have it, Capital R."
"Please. If you won't permit me awake, could you very kindly please permit me to sleep here – until I'm sober enough to handle a gun, sir."
Enjolras was a tiny bit taken aback by Grantaire's solemn face, but recovered quickly and thought to himself, like I'd ever give you a gun. He instead glared at him sharply.
"No! Go and sleep somewhere else! This is a barricade, not a drunk tank!"
But Grantaire, still keeping a set of troubled, fond eyes fixed on Enjolras, said, "Please let me sleep here. In the café. If not until I'm sober than at least until I die."
"What could you possibly die of in the café, Capital R?" Joly, who was sitting in the loft, drawled.
"Absinthe poisoning", 'Ferre murmured from a table across the room, and earned a row of laughs from Joly and Feuilly.
Enjolras looked down at the ground, so as not to reveal the tiny quirk at the corner of his lips.
When he looked up, he saw the others staring at him expectantly, and Grantaire on the verge of a nervous breakdown due to embarrassment and shame. The drunk tried anxiously to stammer out another apology, but failed miserably and stared at Enjolras with a hopeless look.
"Go home Grantaire", Enjolras said in a softer tone of voice, feeling that he'd humiliated the drunk enough for one day. He waved him away smoothly and started, turning back to the barricade.
"Please. Let me sleep here – and die. Here. Please?" Grantaire asked gently.
A laugh sounded across the barricade at the drunk's earnestness and Enjolras joined in coldly. Then, deciding he was sick of Grantaire, regarded him with cruel, disdainful eyes and said.
"Grantaire. You're incapable of believing, thinking, willing, living and – I suspect – of dying. You are a drunk Mephistopheles."
Grantaire opened his mouth to argue.
For god's sakes!
"Go home!" Enjolras snapped, "You're not wanted here!"
"But-" he really was on the verge of tears now. Enjolras knew he was being unnecessarily – uncharacteristically, even – vindictive. But he'd had a long day and really couldn't be bothered putting up with the drunk, on top of that Bonapartist Marius Pontmercy and the lack of ammunition… And besides, pitiless, brutal, terrible, evil, cold, spiteful – weren't they the words everyone in Paris associated his name with?
"Incapable", Enjolras repeated, "You are incapable." At everything. Even drinking, seeing as he couldn't even handle the hangovers.
Suddenly, the drunk's face twisted into an angry glare.
"I believe in you", Grantaire pointed out sharply, "That's capability, is it not?"
Enjolras waited in stunned silence.
The drunk had never lashed out at him like that before.
He felt rather like he'd been torturing a little puppy for a few minutes and had suddenly and viciously been bitten on the hand.
A drunk, cynical puppy who curses articulately and carries a pocket book of Shakespeare.
"I rather think it is", Grantaire continued, looking to the other Les Amis, who stepped back a few metres, not wanting to become part of the conflict.
"Because sometimes – god damn it – I find it hard to believe you even know what you're doing!"
"Capital R…" 'Ferre warned, laying a hand on Grantaire's shoulder.
The drunk shrugged it off angrily.
Enjolras narrowed his eyes, his lip twisting in anger.
"… What's that supposed to mean?"
"You. You're just a little boy dressed up in his father's uniform!"
A silence fell over the Café Musain like a cold gust of wind, and it seemed that Grantaire was about ready to kill Enjolras.
Not that I haven't thought about killing him before, that is.
A pause.
Enjolras smiled half heartedly at Grantaire and saw him deflate.
I win.
At the indulgent, bright smile, the tension in the Café Musain immediately dispersed, and Enjolras let his shoulders slump.
If only everything were that easy.
"Go home Grantaire", he murmured and then, very quietly, "Incapable."
To that, Grantaire replied in a grave voice, "You will see, Monsieur. You will see."
With that he shouted something unintelligible about purple monkeys and flying teapots, attempted to wink at Enjolras – to which the leader gave an exasperated sigh –, gave Matelote's behind a feel as she walked past and then slammed his head down on the windowsill with a metallic CRACK!
Enjolras allowed himself a grumpy face palm and then watched calmly as Courfeyrac walked over and gave the drunk a kick.
Grantaire only responded with a sleepy grumble. Something along the lines of: Incapable. I'll show you incapable. POW! SLAP! SHIZAM!
Courfeyrac turned to Enjolras with a helpless look.
"I think you really messed him up good this time sir", he pointed out, "He's out cold."
Enjolras nodded. "No surprises there."
"On which point?" Joly called.
He sighed. Both of them.
"Do you want me to try and wake him up?" asked Courfeyrac.
He sighed and turned back to the bayonet he'd been polishing with his vest. "No."
It's no use.
He looked at the knife with a smile, watching it glint silver bright in the sun.
It never was.
The song La Donna E Mobile was composed in the 1850tees, not 1830tees – so it shouldn't exist. I just thought it'd be funny (my reasoning is so logical, eh?)