Enjolras believes that Grantaire is incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying not because he's an alcoholic nuisance but because he's a robot (or automaton or android or whatever you want to call him. A machine.), and those are the main reasons he thinks robots are inferior. He genuinely does not think of robots as sentient beings, but rather cleverly programed metal things that have no feelings.
Grantaire, of course, has robot feelings that are very real, and are getting hurt, because he is falling in love with a man who thinks that his every thought was predetermined and programmed, and not actually him at all.
And in the end, Enjolras realizes that robot or not, Grantaire is capable of feeling and willing and living and falls in love with him right back.
Enjolras should have known.
He was bound to be brought to such a grim conclusion ultimately, the real confusion was from how he had overlooked the glaringly outright element until such a present date.
But now the metaphorical theatre mask had been whisked away, the scowling, flickering eyes of pure pearly white beaming through his cranium, the mysterious, unknown creature once hidden behind whirring and screeching, escalating above him in a churn of blinded fury.
This was the realisation, the exposition.
The sun had long died, the long-lost flowing and deep-set tracks of the blazing chariot still present across the cityline, streaking through clouds of wallowed grey and wispy pink. The rest of the atmosphere was splattered with swamps of molten blues and inky-like blacks, sky-height whirlpools swallowing the fleeting, glinting stars, dancing dragons and writhing snakes embellished across the heavens. Paris was resting, the smoke quelled and engines burbling in contentment, having recently feasted upon a smaller town. Occasional rumbles shuddered throughout the tiers, minor tremors, gigantic steel jaws clenched and withdrawn, dragged into the gut, the entire capital sinking down upon its tremendous wheels and locomotive, lobster-like, claws. The moon had yet to take to the skies, plunging the lower slums and back streets into a devouring darkness, soot-coated, shifting and breathing plates of alloyed bronze rising as the intimidating walls of a prison, almost cage-like. The bottom classes resided with cramped houses packed together along coiling alleys, lined with suffocating gas-lamps, dim, azure flames struggling to remain lit. The upper levels habited in much more open and luxurious gardens, bathed in artificial light, the divine heaven almost invisible to the dwellers of the working rank. Pistons fumed, girders swung and clicked across the giga deck, cable-like roots diving out and under the steel flooring scutes, bursting forth into an explosive fountain-like structure, stretching towards the stars. The brilliant construction, wrung with wire and cords, over-sized gears creaking in a steady clockwork motion, served as the communication port of the metropolis. The Eiffel Tower, erected from scrap and castaway pig irons, the central piece of the traction city.
The inhabitants of Paris were struck through with diversity, poverty a disease and wealth a bestowed honor. The depleted masses found work as the could, incapable of affording an apprenticeship. Gut-Farmers, Furnace-Workers, the very slaves of the Engineering Guild, stamped out as the elite through a tog-shaped tattoo, drawn onto the forehead. Such peasants were expected to live as rats, unseen and unheard, yet, still the infamous plague of Paris. Each of the classes rarely came into contact, the elevators ran through separate tubes, the stairways chained off. If an instance was to occur, the poor bowed their heads, removed their caps in the honor of the rich, a simple smile, if anything. Yet the hatred brewed, an unspoken spell cast over the under-cabins, hate-filled eyes turned upwards to the stern.
From this odium blossomed the will for change, the stirring eagle of revolution stretching its wings, primed to take flight.
And, yet, the black-engulfed night reigned on.
Much of the city was resting, those unconcerned to such abstract matters sleeping in the wake of arrogance. Sentry drones cast and cut as ravens, harbouring observant crimson eyes, grazing the rooftops, leather tendons snapping in the silence. The moon had yet to take to the foggy skies, casting the backstreets of Paris into a devouring darkness, the twisting alleys erupting to singular forked square, erupting spontaneously into light, colour and music. The Musain, a tilted inn, the home and nest of the people, the Abaisse, shucked into a corner of the deck. Hear the famed group assembled, the outcasts of society, those who rebelled against the cruelly-bent law. I could attempt to replicate the wondrous descriptions written by the almighty Hugo, but such an endeavour appears rather pointless. Excuse me, I'll rebuild and repair the fourth wall later.
Enjolras had expected nothing unusual from the night, dark and cramped, another evening laying in restless wait of the rekindling flame to burst forth, the time to take arms. The leader surveyed the scene before him, eyes heavy with lack of sleep, hands indly resting upon his favoured maps, absent-mindedly rolling a quill between his long fingers. Combeferre, the engineer, clothed in oiled fall-fronts and waistcoat, ripped shirt and apron hinting towards his profession, was seated to his right, leaning forth in deep concentration. His paws were wrought with thick leather gloves, thrown outwards in conversation with Courfeyrac, a loyal Furnace Worker. The glinting surface of the dandy's arm brace twinkled in the corner of Enjolras' optics, a distracting flash. The brace was built by Combeferre, required through the rough labour of shovelling coal. It consisted of four rings, the widest and thickest together close to the elbow, three bars, lining the muscle, ended with two identical equally-spaced cuffs at the wrist, leather belts secured it in place towards the back of the joint. Courfeyrac had, with the aid of his undoubted charm, had persuaded Feuilly, the artist, into engraving the pig-iron with stylised-flowers. Jehan had once elaborated to the symbolic properties of the carved bouquet, but it had been long forgotten. The said pair had found residence in the corner of the small room, engaged in debate with L'aigle and Joly, argumentally the highest couple of the group. Medical workers were hard to come by, and L'aigle worked as a historian, one of the hardest masterships to attain. With that said, little respect came to the bald-headed man, his little work degraded beyond proportion. Bahorel lingered nearby, flexing his mechanically-enhanced muscles, producing static through striking the steel of his encased fist. Enjolras sighed with a great swell of his chest, carefully removing his blood-red jacket, stripping down to shirt and waistcoat in the simulated heat produced from the pipes rushing through the walls and combined body heat of the cluster. Nought, as he had foretold.
The revolutionary ran his hand through his hair, digits knotting with the wild curls, as his keen eyes shifted to Grantaire. The cynic could often be seen belting out some slurred drinking song, or engaged in a pointless row with his fellows. But upon the evening, he had slowed to standstill, withdraw to his bottle, alone. That image, as Enjolras thought as he recalled the striking memory, should have given it all away, lifted the cloth. Yet, it was the later events that brought the controversy to light.
It happened with an almighty swiftness, fate's quick bite. Maybe Grantaire had drawn anger from another source, Bahorel was simply the trigger. It was possible that rowdiness of his fellows, or maybe the tedious boredom, even the depressing outlook of the traction city had brought his drunken spirits down. It was hard to decipher, as was the act itself, hardly noticed by most.
Bahorel had tripped, grown drowsy with the night, whether on purpose or pushed manually was unknown, a succeeded in jolting Grantaire in some fashion. The drunkard's murky bottle had been knocked from his grasp, shattering by his boots. The scenario had only escalated from there.
The decided match was almost barbaric, brought into existence through tumbled words and the provoking crowd. Bahorel, the enhanced fighter, facing up to Grantaire, a heavy-set yet leanly muscled drunkard who found it hard to keep upright upon most wine-fueled nights. The two circled one another, snarling obscenities, paws brought to their jaws. Enjolras had long lost interest, returning to a encyclopedia-type tome, awaiting the departure of his colleagues. He barely even noticed the fight had begun, deaf to the roaring and jeering. Deaf, until he heard it.
It was a horrific noise, the ripping of a cloth mixed with the tearing of sinews, a fleshy rip, silencing the group. Enjolras head snapped up, optics torn from his book in a moment of alertness. Bahorel had lunged forth, bronze claws sinking into Grantaire's forearm, the ruddy skin exposed by his rolled up sleeves, dragging through his thick hide. Enjolras was now staring at the cynic, slouched against a wall, pushed there by the fighter, wound covered by his palm, clenched like a vice around his limb. Blood dripped down, seeping from between his fingers, yet, something was not correct with this image. The blood, Grantaire's blood, was not red. Joly, the medic, approached the wounded form, but instead of seeking his help, Grantaire paled drastically, muttered a few unintelligible words, and fled. In his act of escape, Enjolras could have sworn he saw the slightest glimpse of bronze, a flash, but a view nonetheless.
And there Enjolras remained, staring at the door, unbelieving. It was only when Combeferre appeared at his side, that he was prompted to find Grantaire, whether for comfort or investigation, he was unsure.
That was how Enjolras had found himself before Grantaire, that is how he made the discovery.
Enjolras stood in the doorway, shoulders squared and stiff, shadow thrown before him. Grantaire was huddled in the corner of the room, still clutching his arm, not daring to glance upon the face of his leader. Instead, the cynic had adopted a blank expression, drooped eyelids lazily pointed towards the floor, thick blackish curls sweeping his forehead. Rumpled, depressed, or simply a sad state of acceptance. One leg was drawn to his clavicle, the other limply outstretched, wine splattered and stained to the knees. Ill-coloured blood and alcohol had soaked through his signature jade waistcoat, shirt torn in the brawl. He had said nothing as Enjolras entered the small back-room, but the revolutionary could not help but notice the slightest flinch, fingers tightening around the cut.
Enjolras spanned the room in a few elongated strides, crouching by Grantaire, fingers brushing against his sleeve, causing the drunkard to jerk away instinctively, shying from contact.
"Let me see, I will try not to hurt you." he spoke in a soft, coo-like voice, cautiously reaching for the cynic's arm once more. Grantaire hesitated, before removing his palm and presenting his forelimb to Enjolras, who took it gently, fingers sliding beneath the fabric, pushing up the thin linen. Throughout this movement, Grantaire remained unchanged in expression, not even blinking. Enjolras continued to roll up his baggy cuffs, eventually revealing the wound. A deep slice, skin peeled to each side, fluid dripping from the edges. Where one may expect ripped muscle and bleeding veins, a gold-coloured bronze plate faced the chief, split copper wires snaking across the surface, a burst tube the source of the purpled 'blood'. He ran his thumb over the metal, Grantaire appeared not to notice, felt no pain.
Enjolras knew little of androids, the humanoid imposters created to live amongst the Breathers, but rather powered by piston and steam then heart and blood. Cold mechanics concealed beneath rubber skin, every thought programmed and pre-determined, coded to behave as human, yet they could never truly be human. To be human is to believe, to think, to will, to live, and to die. Androids were incapable of each of these actions. That was Enjolras' discriminating understanding, one yet to be changed.
And, here lay Grantaire, the cynic, the drunkard, the impossible parody of mankind. The robot.
Maybe this explained the peculiar behaviour of the man, how he was able to drink exponential quantities of alcohol, yet take no ill effects. How he could remain constant for months without the faintest hope of rest or distraction. Maybe it explained why the Combeferre's clockwork moths, programmed to be attracted towards the dancing flames of the gas lamps, commonly found residence upon his arms or shoulders, scaled wings folding neatly, smoke dwindling with a low hum, while remaining ignorant of the other members of the group. Grantaire had always appeared to delight in the company of the metallic insects, whispering to them in hushed tones, fondly chiding their imperfect flight patterns and carefully twisting the small key that replaced their antennae when the miniscule gears came to a standstill. Of course, the connection was obvious, but the explanation unknown.
Maybe it elaborated to Grantaire's cynical behaviour. Only sentient beings withheld the ability to be moved, to be filled with the determination of change and the will to take action against oppression. How could he believe when every thought was not his own, typed and programmed to his artificial consciousness. How could he think, where instead he calculated and processed data. How could he be willing, when he designed without a driven purpose, an empty shell, a blank canvas, ready to be filled. How could be live, when he was made of scrap, powered and fuelled through a furnace over a heart. How could he die, how could a soul leave his body and ascend to heaven, when he did not possess one in the first place?
Enjolras had heard of the androids, he had not expected to find one amongst his revolution.
The red-cloaked revolutionary gently replaced Grantaire's sleeve, smoothing the fabric over his plating, removing his hands. "I never wish to see your kind here again, understand?" he commanded. No response came from Grantaire, still glaring ahead, visage blank. "Understand?" a slight nod came a reply, the upward jerk of the android's chin. "Good."
Enjolras gained his feet, ran a hand through his unruly curls, and cast a final glance over the folded form of Grantaire.
And with that, he left the robot, a forgotten scrap of metal, rendered useless by the world.
Grantaire blinked, twisting his neck, flickering eyes facing the doorway, a solitary oil-coloured tear trailing down his cheek.