"You idiot, how can you be so stupid? How could you let it get this bad?" Grantaire screamed, glaring at the man in the mirror. "Does it feel good knowing that you lost him? Does it feel good to know that you are such a stuck-up ass, so consumed with self-loathing that you lost the one thing you've ever loved in one fucking decision?"
Grantaire pressed the sides of the sink, his knuckles turning white from the force of his grip. "You fucking bastard. You loved him, wanted him for so long, and you finally get him. What do you do? You fucking sleep with his sister, and you are fucking gay. How much more fucked up can you get?" He let out a bitter laugh, his throat feeling ten times its normal size, making it hard to breath. "Sure, you can blame it on the alcohol, it isn't like you blame everything else on it, is it? Why the fuck would this be any different?"
Flashes from the last week swam through Grantaire's mind. Grantaire spending all day with Enjolras. Enjolras subtly flirting with Grantaire. Grantaire telling Enjolras that he had loved him, and hearing Enjolras admit that he desired a relationship with Grantaire, that he craved attention from Grantaire now that he had been sober for six months.. Grantaire getting scared, becoming convinced that Enjolras must be playing with his heart. Grantaire convincing himself that Enjolras could not possibly want someone as broken as him. Grantaire getting for the first time since his hospitalization half a year previously and sleeping with Enjolras' sister. Grantaire waking up the next day in Enjolras and Vivienne's apartment, in Vivienne's bed, with Enjolras glaring at him. Enjolras telling Grantaire that he never wanted to see him again.
Grantaire punched the mirror, desperate to get the memories to go away. His one dream, his one desire, he had had it! Enjolras' love was in his hands and he just let it slip through his fingers. God, how could he ever be so stupid? He hit the mirror again, wincing as the glass cut into his knuckles. He punched harder, the broken reflection shattering as rapidly as his heart. "He-" (punch) "wanted-" (punch) "to-" (punch) "love-" (punch) "you!"
Grantaire threw himself back from the sink, his back slamming against the door as he crashed to the ground, blood streaming down his fingers. Sobs wracked Grantaire's body, his extremities shaking so violently he could cause an earthquake himself. He buried his face in his hands, not caring that he was coating his face and hair with his blood. "He loved you," Grantaire mumbled, rolling into a fetal position on the floor. "He loved you…"
Grantaire felt disgusted with himself. He had loved Enjolras for six years. Six fucking years of heartache, six years on constant longing, six years of believing that he would never get to hear the words that he so desired, six torturous years of wondering what if. Well, he finally got the answer to his what if, and what did he do? He let his fear take over and threw it all away before anything ever began.
Grantaire began to tug at his hair, letting out a scream of anguish. He pushed himself into a sitting position, his eyes flashing dangerously as he stood up, going into the kitchen. He had managed to rip out his heart in one action, why shouldn't he just finish the deed and stop the pain from ever spreading? He grabbed a bottle of vodka that he had bought last night, undoing the top and take a hefty gulp. A familiar burn scalded Grantaire's throat. It only took a few gulps before the buzz that Grantaire had restrained for so long from had returned, sending Grantaire into another fit of rage.
"You can't even go an face him now, you fucking failure," Grantaire cursed at himself as he continued to drink. "You stayed clean for him and now that you have lost him, you are on the right track to go back to your old ways."
Grantaire drained the bottle, shaking as the alcohol coursed through his veins. "Yo' donnn deser' to 'ive," Grantaire slurred as his stared at the empty bottle. "E'jolra' woul' be bettah off withou' yo' in 'is li'e." Grantaire lifted the bottle over his head and, after a moment's hesitation, brought it down upon the counter, slamming the bottle onto the marble until the bottle's plump body had been severed off from its emaciated neck, jagged teeth lining its cerulean mouth.
A macabre smile spread across Grantaire's face as he brought the bottle to his forearm. Blood began to bubble as Grantaire drug the dull glass through his flesh, the skin tearing as it struggled to resist its dance with the guillotine. Grantaire's life cried out, pleading with the alcohol to abandon its conquest, that he truly desired to live, that this was all just a drunken mistake! The alcohol ignored the plea, going deeper with every cut, making every angle perfect, just like the word it was concocting. A sharp point at A, the soft slope of P, the circular O, the meeting of the Ls. Dark red mixed with the pink blush of angry flesh, and Grantaire watched the paint coat his arm.
Grantaire looked up, hearing his name, before his world went black.