Most people who knew Nicolas Grantaire would have said he was a lonely man. He could be seen alone at the Café Musain until very late in the night, clinging onto his wine bottle and pouring himself just another glass for the sake of the good old times. Yes, Grantaire was definitely a lonely man – but that didn't mean he was alone.

Grantaire was doomed. Completely and utterly doomed. Wherever he went, a ghost would follow – the ghost of something he couldn't run away from, the ghost of something that was seen as a capital sin by the people around him. He was a man, no better or worse than any other man, with his flaws and traits and virtues, but what made him different was the feeling that had started nibbling on his heart at the age of fifteen, making his insides rot with pain and turn him into a devious drinker.

And what might this feeling be? Well, as every other man, Grantaire had fallen in love. He, the failed attempt of a stoic, the slurry drunkard, was deeply in love with someone who would never love him in return. For he did not love someone like his friend's mistresses, not even a grisette like Marius's friend Éponine – no, Grantaire's love was seen as the worst, cruellest of loves. He was in love with another man, and that man went by the name of Alexandre Enjolras.

Of course, many things had changed ever since he had first met Enjolras. Back then he had been just a shaggy, small teenager who had recently lost his father, whilst Enjolras was the epitome of everything Grantaire wished to be – a strong, courageous boy who was starting to grow fond of political ideas that did not please his parents too much. Grantaire saw him for the first time when he moved into his uncle's house, as Enjolras and his parents lived next door. Soon enough he met Combeferre, Courfeyrac and the rest of the then-teenagers who would one day become the Amis de l'ABC.

During those first months, Grantaire started growing extraordinarily fond of the blond-haired teenager who was now his neighbour. He would peer through his bedroom window for hours, wishing his grey, stormy eyes – a reflection of his rather disturbed soul – would meet Enjolras's clear blue orbs, which Grantaire liked to think of as shiny, pure waterdrops.

Of course, it was too late to go back when he realized that he had fallen in love with his revolutionary friend.

The years went by and their relationship became colder as Enjolras's ideals strengthened. Grantaire found a way to drown his sorrows in alcohol, in a desperate attempt to lessen the bereaving that was, and is, to love and not be loved in return. He sought ways to let Enjolras know how he felt, spent nights wide awake wondering if he would go to Hell for feeling what he felt. After all, that was what everyone said – men and women are ought to marry and breed, whilst men should keep their relationship to strict friendship.

And yet, Grantaire couldn't help but stare at Enjolras's thick red lips, longing to leap forward and kiss them.

June 6th, 1832.

Now he is alone in the dead of the night. Everyone is asleep, even little Gavroche who has cuddled between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Jehan and Joly are sleeping close to each other – too close to each other, Grantaire notes, but he decides not to judge. After all, tonight is likely to be the last night of their lives – his friends might as well enjoy it.

He takes a short sip from his wine bottle. Ah, his beloved wine. How he wishes he could have fallen in love with a bottle of vin d'Alsace instead of Enjolras. He closes his eyes for a second and tries to imagine a peaceful life with a lovely wife, perhaps a couple of children making him smile. But he can not.

He silently wonders where Enjolras is. He peers around him and is not able to find him between all of the sleeping bodies – what is more, he is not able to spot a single golden hair of his in the whole barricade. His brow furrowed, he decides to take a look inside the wine shop.

At first it all looks fine. The room is as silent as always, with the summer wind creaking through the wooden windows and the moonlight gloomily illuminating the floor. He peers around and thinks of returning to his seat near the barricade, but then hears a soft whimper coming from a corner of the room. He narrows his eyes, squinting in an attempt to find something in the midst of the darkness engulfing him. When he spots a torn red jacket, he feels how his heart drops.

'Enjolras?'

And there is no answer. Well, nothing that Grantaire did not expect. Enjolras never answers him straightaway – he always massages his temples and closes his eyes for a second, as if Grantaire was just a sore pain on the neck.

'Enjolras, I am not going to disturb you,' he says softly. 'I will leave if you do not wish me here.'

He waits for a second, and can't help but feel his heart sinking when there is no answer again. He knows he is probably the last person Enjolras wishes to see, and yet something inside him longs for the leader of the rebellion to walk towards him and simply embrace him with his strong arms.

When he is about to walk back outside, a voice croaks, 'No. Don't leave.'

Grantaire is surprised by the voice. It does not sound like Enjolras – it is broken, worn out, like an old man's. And yet he knows it's him – Grantaire would recognize that voice anywhere. He feels how a smile tugs on the corners of his mouth as he slowly turns back and slumps towards Enjolras.

Once he finds him in the middle of the darkness of the wine shop, he realizes his cracked voice is a reflection of his physical appearance. His forehead is smeared in dry blood – blood of their fellow revolutionaries who have been wounded or killed that afternoon. His hands are muddy and raspy, his knuckles gnarled and his once spotless clothes ragged and full of dirt. His expression is of sheer tiredness, and his twenty-two years of age would have easily be mistaken for almost thirty, as he looks as aged as ever.

'Goodnight, Grantaire,' he slurs.

Grantaire's eyebrows rise. Enjolras's voice gives him away – he is currently intoxicated by the alcohol Grantaire is used to. The now sober drunkard places a hand on Enjolras's shoulder and whispers, 'Are you okay, Apollo?'

The other man merely snorts, 'Oh, do not call me that Grantaire. I am as mundane as all of you.'

Grantaire shrugs. 'You are not to me.'

Enjolras glances at him quizzically for a second, mumbling incoherent words as he attempts to pick up the bottle of absynthe next to him. Grantaire, who is now in his full senses, picks the bottle up before him takes it away.

'Hey!' cries Enjolras indignantly. 'That's mine.'

'No, it is not,' replies Grantaire seriously, looking at him with his stormy grey eyes starting to become watery. He gently places a hand on Enjolras's cheek and, when the Law student doesn't pull away, he whispers, 'What has happened to you, Enjolras? You are our leader. How can you just throw yourself into drinking like this?'

Enjolras snorts. 'Do you not do that every day at every hour?'

Grantaire knows that his beloved's words were meant to be hurtful, but his scarred heart knows how to take in Enjolras's scathing comments. He merely shrugs, 'I suppose I am weak. You are not – you, in fact, are the bravest man I have ever known.'

Enjolras offers his companion an amused, tipsy smile. 'How can you know? I have done nothing but scowl at you for the past seven years. Why do you care about me? You're not a Republican, you're not a Jacobin – you're nothing, Grantaire, and yet you're sitting here with me knowing that you are very likely to die in a few hours' time.'

'It is me who chooses to stay,' says Grantaire simply.

'Yes, but why?' insists Enjolras distractedly, as he tries to brush off a few crumps of bread from his vest.

Grantaire hesitates for a second. He wonders if he should tell Enjolras the truth – not just the outline of it, but the whole, sheer truth. Every single detail of it. It is simple, yet extremely complicated. He just has to pronounce three words, and yet he feels like he does not have the courage to make them spill out of his tired mouth.

He sees those shiny blue eyes gazing at him expectantly and he decides that if he does not tell him not he will probably regret it when he's dead.

'Enjolras, I – ' he glances up at the leader of the revolution, his arms now crossed. But he can't do it. 'I believe in you.'

'Oh, there goes the same old goo again,' says Enjolras, rolling his eyes in a way that makes Grantaire's chest tighten. The leader of the revolution's scowl deepens. 'You've told me you believe in me about a hundred times this week. For God's sake, I know you believe in me! But I have absolutely nothing to offer! I'm no God, I'm just a bloody boy who tried to become a hero and ended up leading his friends to their own graves – '

Grantaire does not believe it when he notices tears brimming Enjolras's eyes. Not even the most scathing insult could have inflicted more pain than seeing his beloved's desperate, angry expression.

'That is not true,' he whispers sadly, as he strokes Enjolras's cheek with his hand. 'I have been there for the last few months and I have seen how passionate you are about this. You have brought us here to change the world, and we will change it. I swear.'

Enjolras looked at Grantaire with a sad smile set across his face. The Law student did not retreat from Grantaire's soft caress, and whispered, 'You never left.'

Grantaire's brow furrowed. 'What do you mean?'

'You never left my side,' repeats Enjolras. The revolutionary gazes down, feeling how shivers come up his spine as he realizes that Grantaire's hand is on his cheek. 'After all those puns I threw at you, after all the teasing – you were always there, and still are. Why, Grantaire? I need to know.'

Grantaire tries to look up at him and finds that Enjolras's nose is now inches away from his. He gulps and tries to focus on his clear blue eyes – he now realizes that he has never been this close to those shiny orbs, and his mind involuntarily flies back to his teenage days in which he wished for his stormy, disturbed grey eyes to meet Enjolras's bright blue ones.

'I – ' come on, Grantaire. 'Well – ' Grantaire!, he scolds himself, but he can't do anything about the incoherent stuttering. He finally finds the courage to look up at Enjolras again and whispers, 'I love you.'

He immediately closes his eyes afterwards, not wanting to see Enjolras's reaction. It is ought to be barbaric, hurtful and shameless – perhaps even loud if Enjolras feels like screaming. He fears the moment his body will collapse against the floor once Enjolras has walked out of the wine shop, being left alone to cry himself to sleep for yet another night.

Instead, he feels a pair of lips gently brushing against his as a hand gently pulls him closer by his neck. At first he does not understand what is going on, but when he smells the Law student's old book and tea scent he can feel how his chest swells up in sheer joy.

However, he pulls away for a second.

'Why are you doing this, Enjolras?' he whispers.

Enjolras looks at him in the eye with the ghost of a smile on his face as he leans in, searching for Grantaire's lips yet again.

'Why do you think I let you stay in our meetings?' he whispers. 'Why do you think I always carried you home whenever you got too drunk? Why do you think I tried to keep you safe today?'

Grantaire smiles, and for a moment forgets that they are both sitting inside a cold, abandoned wineshop, only a few hours before their very likely execution.

'Well, I don't know,' says Grantaire. 'Perhaps you should tell me.'

Enjolras smiles sadly. 'You know I am no good at expressing my feelings, Grantaire.'

The sober drunkard shrugs. 'You don't have to tell me with words. You can just let me know…somehow.'

Enjolras smiles. 'That I will.'

Their lips brush together yet again and for a moment Grantaire can swear that even if he were to die at this very moment he would still be the happiest man in the world.

Most people who knew Nicolas Grantaire would have said he was a lonely man. But tonight, Grantaire is not alone. Not at all.

Written by Juno on the 2nd of March, 2013.