Drink and Pain

Suicidal!R (ExR if you squint!)

TheWriterToChangeTheAll

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Grantaire couldn't just put the bottle down, like Enjolras had curtly suggested. The alcohol, the drug, was his crutch; his addiction. He had to have it, and he had to have it all the time. He couldn't think straight when he was sober, as ridiculous as that sounds. To make matters worse for the drunkard, he couldn't find anything strong enough. Absinth sometimes cured his addiction for a fraction of an hour, but he would always succumb to his vices again, yearning for something stronger.

When he drank, he didn't seek out the effects of drunkenness. He wanted the burn as it went down. He wanted the raw feeling one gets when their throat is so dry from the fire that nothing can cure it. This is what Grantaire seeked, and he could never obtain that feeling for more than a fraction of a second, if that, whilst the alcohol was actually running down his esophagus.

Truthfully, Grantaire wanted the pain. He wanted the burning to remind him that he was still human. He needed that anchor to keep him grounded to the Earth, because he felt that he would surely float away without it. He loved any form of pain he could earn; a scratch, cut, or even a self-inflicted wound. He had done everything. His anchor kept him safe, and he didn't need something to remind him that he was just as vulnerable as any man at the Musain, so he drank his troubles away.

Grantaire felt pain whenever he was sober. He even hallucinated on some occasions. He couldn't be in a world where he needed a vice to stay alive. He couldn't bear the thought that a drink of wine would one day become more important than Enjolras, Jehan, or any of his friends, if it wasn't already.

So one night, in the silence and stillness of his home, he found a dull blade and brought it to the already scarred skin of his wrist. Instead of making the usual incision, neatly across as to not draw much blood, he ran it along the length of his forearm. Now, Grantaire thought he may bleed out, but he didn't care at the moment. He was high from the burning. He was surprised to see that he didn't bleed a mixture of brandy and absinth. He fell to his knees.

Bahorel flung open the door of the Cafe Musain, eyes wide and shock emanating from him, "It's Grantaire."

"What about the winesack?" Enjolras asked bitterly. His passionate monologue had been rudely interrupted with the useless topic of the resident cynic. "Did he run out of drink?"

"Enjolras, this is not a time for jests! Where is Joly?"

"Joly? Why do you need him?" Combeferre asked.

"Because you do not understand the severity of the situation!"

Enjolras made an annoyed noise, "If you would just speak of it-"

"I think Grantaire tried to end his life! Now, if you will please send Joly down from his room, we can go attempt to save it! Hurry!"

The silence lasted for a beat in the café, before Enjolras started shouting orders. Joly was to be fetched immediately, and Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were to go with Bahorel ahead of Joly. They could survey the situation and prepare things for the medical student.

Bahorel was the only one of the four who knew where Grantaire lived. It was in a dingy apartment building. Enjolras was the first to go into his actual quarters, walking into the area without caution. He didn't even look at his surroundings. Bahorel motioned to a separate room. Enjolras' body followed his motion. He walked into the room, striding with purpose.

Grantaire was sitting, already propped up against a wall. Enjolras assumed Bahorel was responsible for that, considering there was blood in a different part of the small room. His sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, and one could see the many deep gashes running the length of his forearm. There were even old scars present with the fresh cuts. Some healing incisions were also there. His eyes had dark circles underneath of them, giving Enjolras the impression he hadn't slept in days. He looked worse than usual, and that was saying something. He was just usually ragged, but right now he looked ruined. Was this really the man who constantly spoke ill of their revolutionary beliefs? Truly the same man? Enjolras could barely make out a resemblance.

Enjolras had to take several deep breaths and support himself on the door frame. Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre pushed him to the side as they immediately fell to their knees, trying to see if the drunk was responsive. Enjolras was glued to his spot. He could only stare at Grantaire's fallen form, shock and anger swirling in his thoughts. What would cause him to do this?

Joly pushed past with Jehan a moment later. "Let me through, Enjolras," he had demanded in a stony voice. He walked and shooed Courfeyrac to the side. He grabbed Grantaire's wrist, and placed another hand on his neck. No one dared move for several seconds. Joly nodded, "There is a steady, albeit faint, pulse." Joly turned to Jehan, "Will you fetch me water out of the basin?" He motioned to a different side of the room. Enjolras hadn't even noticed it in his fixation with the man on the floor.

"Yes." Jehan retrieved the water and Joly washed away the blood.

Grantaire grunted, moving one of his arms and rubbing his eyes. He looked out at the men assembled and grunted again in recognition. "What happened?"

"Relax," Combeferre urged, "You went through much."

"Much? Did I go off with some whore last night?"

"You don't remember?" Courfeyrac asked, shocked to the core.

Grantaire thought about it, paled slightly, and spoke, "A bit." He looked down at his arms and nodded, "Thought so. Anything else?"

"Isn't this enough?" Courfeyrac sighed, "Are you in pain?"

Grantaire shrugged, "Not really. My head is throbbing, if that counts."

"Surprising," Enjolras commented.

Grantaire looked up and noticed the man standing in the corner for the first time. "Well! If it isn't our resident Apollo, gracing me with his presence."

"Now it not the time for this, Grantaire. You need rest," Joly warned.

"Sarcasm is rest enough for me," Grantaire assured him, "Can I get a drink? I'm disappointingly sober."

"Good to see the normal Grantaire once more," Combeferre murmured, "No."

Grantaire pouted, but said nothing. Joly, who had been cleaning Grantaire self-inflicted wounds during this conversation, pulled white gauze out of a make-shift medical bag and began to wrap it around his forearms.

"No, really, I'm fine. I don't need you to waste your supplies on me."

"Stop this second," Enjolras growled. He was now leaning against a wall, fairly closer to the scene. "You nearly killed yourself, and whilst I'm curious as to why, this is an important endeavor. Humor us."

"Ah, the motive." Grantaire nodded solemnly, "I suppose you're all a bit curious as to just why I did this to myself." Grantaire spoke about the topic with such ease that it made Joly and Enjolras cringe. "Well, I was obviously very drunk, so I wasn't in total control of my mental faculties, mind you."

"A drunk man's thoughts are his true ones," Jehan commented, "I read that somewhere once."

"It isn't important." Grantaire clapped his hands together and tried to stand, but ended up swaying. Enjolras stuck out a hand to steady him, but Grantaire supported himself on the wall, letting out a tiny groan. "Dizzy."

"You lost a lot of blood from what I can tell," Bahorel said, looking pointedly at the basin on the other end of the room and the blood surrounding it.

"Yes," Joly agreed, "You will most definitely need rest and sobriety to recover."

"That's not going to happen," Grantaire said, standing up straighter and removing his hand from the wall, "I need alcohol."

"No-"

He shook his head forcefully. "I don't think you understand. I need alcohol to live. It's my crutch, my vice, if you will. I cannot simply quit."

"You will," Enjolras said fiercely, "If that is what it takes to keep you alive, you will stop drinking."

Grantaire narrowed his eyes, "Who are you to tell me what to do?"

"Fine! Drink yourself to death! See if I care!"

"I may just do that."

"Oh, I would not care, but others might."

Grantaire nodded, "In whatever case, it is the same as simply not loving someone one day. You can't just stop loving someone because they hurt you. You trudge on, and in any situation, I am the drunkard. It is what I do."

Joly shook his head, "Why did you do this to yourself?"

"I hallucinate when sober. Things that no man wants to see, I assure you. I needed some kind of pain to ground me. I don't know. What I do know, is that I did not intentionally try to end my life."

"Pain to ground you? What a foolish notion!" Enjolras scoffed.

"Enjolras," Combeferre snapped, "Enough." Enjolras and Combeferre looked at each other evenly for a moment, then scowled at one another. Usually, they were good friends, but not when Enjolras was acting in such unforgiving manner towards something serious.

"Please," Grantaire raised a hand, "I do not want your pity, your kind words, or your concern. I wish to sleep."

"Someone should stay with you," Joly said uncertainly.

"No! Do not waste your time, I beg. You all have things to do. Go on."

Joly gave Grantaire strict instructions to not drink and to not jeopardize himself anymore. Enjolras demanded all sharp objects from him. Grantaire sighed and gave him a pair of scissors on his nightstand. Enjolras also went to the basin and pocketed the blade that Grantaire had used last night, dried blood still on the rusted silver.

"I know you have something else hidden," Enjolras said.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and pulled a small knife from out of his pocket. Courfeyrac looked at him, eyes wide. Grantaire noticed his concerned expression.

"What? It's for emergencies!"

"Sure. 'Emergencies'."

Enjolras placed a tentative hand on Grantaire shoulder, "Do not do anything rash, Grantaire."

The other man nodded, "At your request, I will not. Although, I was not planning on it anytime soon."

Enjolras hummed in response and began to follow the others out of the door. Grantaire sat on his bed. Once the others were all gone, Enjolras turned back to Grantaire, who had his head in his hands, "What do you hallucinate about?"

Grantaire shook his head, not able to meet the man in the eye, "Death, my mother, other hells I'd rather not speak of. Why do you ask?"

Enjolras graced Grantaire with a small smile, which the drunkard did not see, "I am more concerned than I first let on." He began to leave, then turned back to Grantaire. "Your life has more value than you know."

Grantaire looked up at the revolutionary and nodded, "Thank you, Enjolras."

"I mean it." Enjolras then left Grantaire. He walked on the street in the direction of the Musain. He fingered the blade in his pocket, a grimace on his mouth.

Enjolras would never admit it, but he kept that bloody blade in his pocket until the day he died, Grantaire beside him. Now, both of their bloods were splayed on the rusty silver.

AN: Endings kill me. I make them so sad. R dying, bloody blades. Leave me in peace x.x.

Anyway, I hope you liked it! It was so difficult to describe the alcoholic effects on Grantaire, because I'm only fifteen. Minor, and all that jazz.

Thanks for reading. All feedback is appreciated.