The light startled him when he opened his eyes.
He'd never expected to see it again.
He blinked, and the room came into focus. The light, filtering through the bedroom curtain. The chair beside his bed. The maid, waiting in the corner of the room. For a moment, one peaceful moment, he tried to remember what had happened to him, what he was doing here.
And then the memories flooded back, hazy from the absinthe he could vaguely remember he'd drunk that night: the cries of his friends, the gunshots, the sound of the canons firing. Falling asleep, and then waking up to see Enjolras-
His vision was going black around the edges again, and just before it went entirely dark, he managed to force out a single word to the bewildered servant:
"Apollo…"
The next time he woke up, his father was standing over him with a stern expression on his face. There was a dull pain in his shoulder, and when he tentatively brought his hand to it, he found that it had been bandaged.
His father refused to answer his questions, despite the desperation in Grantaire's voice: Where was Enjolras? Did it matter? Had the leader, the one that they called Apollo, lived? What concern was it of Grantaire's?
It was only late, when his father had left, that Grantaire managed to pose a question to the maid, Marie.
"Where is he? Enjolras... Marie, do you know?"
She looked away.
"Marie!" His eyes were wide, desperate.
"I… I do not know, Monsieur. But- But I heard them say that- that you were the only one living, when they took the others away…"
She trailed off, fiddling with the hem of her apron.
No. No, Enjolras wasn't dead. He couldn't be. Grantaire's mind struggled with itself. Was it possible, in the first place, that Enjolras was killed? How could it? Grantaire had been there, had stood by his side. If he had lived, why hadn't Enjolras?
It couldn't be possible. Enjolras had to be alive.