He wakes when the moon is high and his head pounds as he stumbles up, glancing around to find one last person awake: "Enjolras?"
The man turns. "Grantaire," he says softly, and he pulls out a chair, an invitation. Grantaire can't tell why he wants to talk, but he'll take it. He sits and Enjolras says, "It is good to see you awake."
"What have I slept through?" says Grantaire, his mouth dry. "Did-did anyone die?"
Enjolras' glance falls and he says softly, "Bahorel and Jehan. I tried to save them, but I could not."
And the floor tumbles from under Grantaire's feet, because no, no, no, not their figher, not their poet-
And Grantaire wasn't even there to know they died until now. The word escapes through his lips on a breath. "No," he says.
Enjolras is solemn. "There was nothing that could be done," he says, and Grantaire can see his marble statue with his fists clenched and elbows solid against the table, and he's trying to keep himself together. "We're a small barricade on the streets of Paris, Grantaire. We are low on ammunition, low on men, and low on willpower. There's nothing that can be done unless the people rise tonight."
"And do you think they will?"
Enjolras' silence is enough of an answer for Grantaire. He hates to see Enjolras look so lost, so desolate, so without much of a thought he leans forwards and embraces him. "The people will rise tonight," he states as he pulls back, and to his surprise, his belief is not forced. It is real. Because while Enjolras may not believe at the moment-believe in himself, believe in the people-Grantaire believes in Enjolras. He will believe in Enjolras until the day he dies.
(Which could be tomorrow, or the next day, or any day from now until he is old and graying, a nagging thought reminds him, but if he lives to be eighty or if he dies tomorrow, he will die believing in his Apollo; he will die believing in Enjolras.)
A smile floats onto Enjolras' face for a second. It is weary; it is tired, but a smile nonetheless. "I do hope so."
"Get some rest, Enjolras," Grantaire says, and he scoots his chair away and stands-"you will need it, come morning, when we fight to liberate Paris."
Enjolras nods, standing up, and it's all awkward before Enjolras leaves first to check on his friends, and Grantaire's heart aches for Bahorel, for Jehan, for the rest of his friends and for Enjolras, who has been brought down in the hour he was supposed to soar.
He drinks the remainder of his absinthe, and sleeps till morning, where he wakes to silence.