The room was dark, the sharp stench of whiskey masking the smell of three week old garbage. Dust gathered on top of every surface possible; laundry laid in piles.
Sitting in the center of it all; was Grantaire. His curly unkempt hair was oily from his lack of showers, and bottles of beer sat around him. He stared at the wall, specifically a painting he had completed. It was his Apollo; the man he worshiped, and cared for. And loved.
Without blinking, he moved his eyes from the canvas to a pistol that lay on the table. New and unused, it's shiny black metal taunted Grantaire, beckoning him to take it in his warm hands, and spill his crimson life across the carpet.
Oh, how he wished he could end it all now. Yet, there was still a part of him that didn't want to leave the Mortal World. Was it merely the fact he wouldn't see Enjolras until he too crosses the veil? But the God he loved wouldn't miss him; no one would.
Unsure at this point, Grantaire took one of the bottles at his feet, and took a swig of the bitter drink. It flowed over his lips, burning his stomach.
Crack.
"Dammit!" He cursed, not realizing how hard he was squeezing the bottle; which shattered in his hand. His hand was cut now, bleeding a color brighter than the lips of Apollo.
How pitiful he would look now to Enjolras; all cut up. He would be looked down upon, seen as a blubbering drunk.
No matter; he was seen as that anyways.
With a now bleeding hand, Grantaire picked up the gun and pointed it to his head. Tears dampened his cheeks, as he cocked it.
"My Orpheus; if you love me, you'll save me."
And so Grantaire sat like that for hours, waiting for his finger to twitch; sending the minuscule dagger into his brain. Yet it never happened.
He dropped the gun, his hand failing from exhaustion. Grantaire made his way to the kitchen, cleaning his hand. He'd tell the other's it just got cut on glass. He'd never tell them that he isn't even worth a bullet. He was sure they already knew.