A/N: So I'm a little - okay fine, a LOT - obsessed with Les Miserables at the moment. I always have been, but with the recent movie release... well, my obsession has surfaced. So here is an E/R oneshot! Because E/R is perfect and I think is my new OTP.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I just mess around with them a bit.
He sits on his own, quietly, watching the meeting. He thinks no-one will notice the silly drunk in the corner. He isn't really drunk, but nobody would take him any more seriously if he were sober so he figures, why not act a little merry? His friends could do with some comedy among all this talk of revolution.
Enjolras is talking, as he has been for over an hour, about morale and tactics and weapons. He finds it to be quite tedious and does not bother to mask his boredom. Nobody is paying attention to him anyway; they are all facing Enjolras, captured and held by his words. He hasn't been listening for all of the discussion but he understands that the group think they can actually win without all becoming martyrs.
How foolish.
He doesn't believe it – not in the slightest. A dead revolutionary is better than a live one, he thinks. A martyr inflames a cause more than words or fighting ever could, he thinks. Death is often a cause and excuse for anarchy, he thinks. Of course, that is all he does. He does not often offer his melancholy opinions aloud; he doubts they would listen if he did. Sometimes he writes on scrap pieces of paper and leaves them lying in the hope that someone – particularly Enjolras – will pick them up and ponder them. But these students do not ponder anymore, they think and then they act, damn the consequences.
He longs to be like them. To see the world like they do. To believe in something the way they do. But he can't bring himself to have such faith. Believing is dangerous, he learnt that a long time ago. It is better to be a cynic about everything, as nothing stays the same forever. Even the stars must die.
He likes the stars; they calm him and allow him to think clearly when his mind is numbed by alcohol. Stars, though they do not last forever, seem to him a pillar of stability. They are unchanging their whole lives: they burn bright and constant and then they die; fade away into nothing. When lost, one can always find their way again by looking at the stars.
He gets lost a lot.
Enjolras is shaking him. He must have fallen asleep: the sky outside is an inky black and the café is dimly lit by a few candles. It's just the two of them; everyone else has parted ways or retired for the night. He blinks slowly, unwilling to the leave the peace of his slumber behind.
"Get up. It is past midnight."
Enjolras' indifferent tone makes his chest ache slightly, as it always does. Even though he knows he will never be more than a stupid drunkard to him, he still craves some measure of warmth from his leader. It might not be his rebellion – as he has protested many times when asked to contribute – but he would find it near impossible to leave Enjolras. Like it or not, he is under his control. And to have his Apollo behave so coldly towards him for no apparent reason hurts. It hurts even though he wishes it wouldn't.
He gets up unsteadily and has to grasp hold of Enjolras' arm to stop himself from falling straight back down. Enjolras frowns but doesn't pull away; which is just as well, as he's not quite balanced yet. Once his vision stops shifting so violently, he shakes his head to get rid of some of the fog and suddenly Enjolras' disapproving face swims into complete clarity. He is the only one who can seem to make him so annoyed by just existing. He doesn't mean to offend him so. He doesn't know what he can do to stop the glares and harsh words. Well, he does. But he can't desert the drink; the drink will be with him long after Enjolras has moved on. It would be unfair to leave such a friend.
A friend, indeed. A friend that, more often than not, leaves him incapacitated at the end of the night instead of helping him find his way home. Oh, to have a friend such as that.
"Are you steady?"
He blinks blankly at Enjolras.
"Can you walk?"
He's getting more impatient at the lack of response, so he nods mutely and notices for the first time that night how heavy his head feels on top of his shoulders. It is a strange – but not at all unfamiliar – sensation.
He wants to stay with Enjolras a little longer, but he sees it is indeed after midnight, glancing at the clock on the wall. And he doubts that Enjolras would appreciate his company.
He seems oblivious to the looks full of longing. The nights he's sat in the corner at the back, surrounded by bottles, and just listened to the passion in his voice. The small smile he gives him as he shuffles out the door and into the dark street, steeling himself for the walk to his apartment.
He doesn't see.
He never will.
A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed that depressing little oneshot! Grantaire is lovely... he's brilliant to write. I just want to hug him. R + R people! x