They called him Apollo, after the Greek god of the sun. And he was the sun—blond, marble-skinned, and shining with passion.
They all revolved around him like planets in orbit—after all, he was their leader. Although Combeferre had brains, and Courfeyrac had connections, he was the one who cared and defended the revolution as if it were his own child.
If he was the sun, then Grantaire was Pluto, perhaps—some dark, forgotten planet that is only despised and pitied by the sun.
Grantaire had watched him give speeches and make plans, drinking in a new, fascinating detail with each sip of his wine. Or vodka, or brandy—it didn't matter what it was, as long as it was plentiful and strong enough to block out most of the pain within.
Sometimes, when he was at his most drunk, when the fog had enveloped everything except the sun, who was the one thing in focus, sometimes a friendly arm would take his shoulders and walk him home, making sure he didn't fall down. And Grantaire would look up hopefully, trying to clear his vision, trying to imagine that the man supporting him was the only one he wished it to be.
But it never was. It was Bahorel, off to some girl, or Joly, always concerned with the hygiene and safety of those around him. So he let them walk him home, hopes dashed, the fog enveloping everything once again.
It was true, though, that Apollo had never returned the affections of one of the many girls who gazed after him. Combeferre and Courfeyrac teased him that he was in love with France itself, which he took as a compliment, offering them one of his rare grins that flashed suddenly like a ray of light through a cloudy sky.
His seeming disinterest in romance was a point of backwards hope for Grantaire, who tried to let the leader know through subtle sentences with hidden meanings just exactly how he felt and why he was there.
But he feared that Apollo thought him there only for the food and drink. He knew the driven, fearless man only thought him a lazy, scruffy bum. The harsh reality of that cut Grantaire harder than any of his father's belts ever had, so he took another drink to make the pain go away.
Whenever one of his jokes went too far, or whenever he started misbehaving, the leader could make him stop with just a few words or a scathing look. And when that happened, the only thing Grantaire could do to deal with the shame and longing inside of him was reach for another bottle to bring the numbing fog back.
And how was he to know that while he was sleeping inside, his only friends were fighting for their lives? How was he to know that when he woke at the silence and checked outside, the only people who had ever cared about him were lying in grotesque, bleeding bodies? And when he climbed the stairs, to the upper room of the store, how was he to know what nightmare awaited him there?
He saw the light shining in through the window upon the only sun he had ever known, who was surrounded by soldiers holding muskets. He announced his presence to them, but all he saw was Apollo's face.
The man was still holding the flag he had pledged his life to. He was a leader, a hero, a sun. He didn't deserve to die with a drunk like Grantaire, but Grantaire didn't know if he could handle seeing that sun, those eyes, extinguished. The last wisp of fog had vanished.
He told the soldiers his request, still not looking at them. He had eyes only for the other man, after all, it was his death Grantaire was invading.
"Permets-tu?"
Enjolras smiled at him, and Grantaire was struck by the sun. Their hands clasped, and for the first time, the former drunk felt truly happy.
The guns' report sounded.
The people mourned a long time for their young men—their sons, their true loves, their role models, their mentors—who had gone to fight for freedom and never came back. They spoke the most, though, of the leader, the flame of the rebellion. They spoke of the blond, handsome young man who had refused to ever give up. They remembered the one who had died clutching the revolution's flag in his hand.
They called him Apollo.