A/N: Hello! I'm sorry that you've had to wait so long for a new post! Since I've started writing for one of my other fandoms, I found myself thinking about both stories at the same time, and it created some writer's block.
Anyway, I have read several other fics that talk about Grantaire's alcoholism in a rather poetic way, and I want to try writing something like that. At the same time, however, keep in mind that this is coming from someone who doesn't drink, so I'm going with what I've heard about it. I put the quote in the beginning of the story because I've been inspired by another author, Rebecca-in-blue, who puts quotes at the beginnings of her stories. I also was reading Othello and the quote made me think of Grantaire.
My beta is still alive, well, and beta'ing for me (either that or they're a really intelligent zombie or something…) and Microsoft Word is still in existence and downloaded, so it would be illogical to use anything else at the moment… this is one of the few times that I'm using logic for anything, okay?
Trigger Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, depression and alcoholism.
I do not own Les Misérables. If I did, I'd make sure that nobody disliked Cosette (I respect everybody's opinion, but my opinion is that she is kind and loving and that you should respect her as a character, at least.) Oh, and I don't own Othello either.
"…one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly
despise myself…"-Othello, Act II, Scene III
Grantaire felt the chill of the cool, glass bottle against his rough and calloused hands. Putting it to his lips, he swallowed the intoxicating liquid, the green fairy once again clouding his mind. The candlelight in the room swirled and blinded him, his feet twisting and stumbling as he staggered about. Height, width and depth perception were exaggerated and distorted. A golden aura surrounded Apollo.
Apollo rolled his icy blue eyes and turned away. Demons danced in the shadows, red eyes glowing. They crept toward the cynic, hissing. Their claws dug into his arms as he was dragged downwards, unable to scream…
Grantaire woke up on the floor of the Corinthe, bottle still in hand, a puddle of alcohol beneath him. His head pounded and the light burned. A tear leaked from his eye. He could smell absinthe on himself. He hated himself, absolutely despised himself for this. He allowed himself to be caught in the vicious cycle yet again. He hated the world; he hated everything.
He knew that his friends would die horrible, bloody deaths in the upcoming revolution. He hoped to die with them. He wanted the pain to stop. He wanted death more than anything. He was physically fine, but internally, he was perishing. He saw his ugliness whenever he looked in the mirror. He wanted love, but who cares about a hideous drunkard? Everybody looked at him with disgust and fathers made their daughters avoid him.
He wanted everybody to stop suffering. The starving children in the streets enraged him. The vacant, dull stares of the poor haunted him. They had no hope. For the rest of their lives, they would remain insignificant, overlooked and frowned upon. He tried to help them as much as possible, but one can only do so much.
He was sick of everything in life, and nobody noticed him sinking deeper into the black hole. He had given up. There was no hope for him.
Still, he admired the rare beauty in the world. He smiled at every child, revered the arts, and realized how beautiful human life was. Even though he didn't believe that humanity itself was good, he believed that humans could still be somewhat good.
A/N: This turned so angst-y so quickly. I feel so bad for Grantaire. He had such a hard, short life. He is one of my favorite fictional characters.
I'm writing this from Grantaire's POV, even though morally, I don't agree with him.
I'll write more when possible. –AshQueen
