Your heightened senses focus only on him, right in front of you. It feels like the tunnel vision you've heard so much about from accounts of first kisses, but with a lot less giddy anticipation and a lot more trepidation thrown into the mix.
The absolute stillness is disorienting. In a world where Grantaire's drunken ramblings of Grecian society and the hopelessness of the imminent student rebellion are a household noise, even Marius' lovesick laments are preferable to perfect soundlessness. You could hear a pin drop – nay, the fluttering wings of a moth that so captivates Combeferre. The heart thrumming in your chest, maybe. Yes, that.
Your musings drift to the man in front of you. Who will take care of Grantaire in his inebriation, you wonder? He suddenly grins savagely, cocking his head. Almost as though he knows the turn your thoughts have taken.
The dark eyes flicker to the corner, where an answering pair, just as dark, holds his gaze. Its owner, a girl R's age and sharing his temperament, nods once in agreement. With what? And then understanding hits you. You know then that she will coax him home as he does for her when the oblivious, bumbling fool she so masochistically adores messes with her head.
A last concerned glance at them. They match so well: the stringy chestnut locks and the tempestuous inky curls; the four-day old vest green as the absinthe bottle clutched in his hand and the potato-sack skirt the murky shade of mud; the unmistakable haggard, pallid look of alcoholism and the oldest of afflictions, unrequited love. It's a wonder they aren't siblings. Or that they have not deigned to seek each other for comfort in a manner less platonic...
As if this last thought had been spoken aloud, the viscous silence is shattered so swiftly and violently you feel as though the shards themselves are tangible.
Grantaire strides confidently to where Éponine has taken refuge. They still have not broken their silent communication by way of eye contact. Though you are certain that they have not spoken a word nor made a gesture, she comprehends his meaning and jerks to her feet robotically.
He drops to one knee and clasps her wrist. She seems to expect this and pulls it out of his grasp only to replace it with the tips of her fingers.
It is only then you realize what he is to do.
He produces a brown case the size of his palm, which he opens to reveal a silver band. Simple enough as to resemble a mere washer instead of a token of love or a promise of matrimony. It lacks any sort of jewel, which, now that you think of it, Grantaire could never afford.
None of the hope, nervousness and adoration on a proposing boy's face is reflected on Grantaire's. He looks up at her with dead, dreary eyes, unfocused and concentrated by turns, almost as though he is attempting to picture the face of one he would much rather have in front of him. You know instantly what he is imagining. Golden, riotous curls, piercing blue eyes, a marble countenance.
"Éponine, do me the honor of wedding this heap of despair so helplessly prostrate before you on the ground," he utters tonelessly but steadily, not looking away from her. It isn't a question. Neither does it feel like a command, though it is phrased as such. Nor even a jocular utterance. It is too devoid of passion to be anything other than a statement of the obvious.
Just as solemnly, Éponine holds out her hand towards his, where he slips the band onto her finger. She does not provide an affirmation to the plea; Grantaire does not probe for one. The outstretched hand now adorned with a silver band is answer enough.
She looks at him not pityingly — they are both too far gone in their relationship for any base feeling as such — but with a strange twist gracing her features you would describe as...commiserating? Befitting for the occasion, you suppose.
It is customary for newly affianced couples to share a kiss as a celebration of the wooer's victory. But this couple cares not for the upholding of custom. As custom never spared them a glance, they share between them instead an array of drink bottles laid out on the bar: vodka, beer, wine, absinthe, whiskey.
The couple fill their glasses, and tip them to each other and then to their bloodless lips in a mock toast. How they have yet to embalm their intestines you do not know.
For the first time, the true gravity of the situation strikes you hard on the head. R, affianced? And Éponine his fiancée? What has the world come to?
"I am quite sure my father will need me in the morning," Éponine blurts shortly. "He always does."
As though nothing had happened. They've had plenty of practice changing the subject with each other, you infer.
At her words, Grantaire fumbles wildly at Éponine's skirt. "No, 'Ponine. Don't go! The things he makes you do—"
"As if I need a reminder. Besides, you know as well as I that if my pretty face makes no appearance, I'll only be treated worse. I'm drunk enough as it is. Speaking of worse treatment, if he knows I've gone and gotten betrothed, he will find you and he will kill you. Or worse."
With that, Éponine slides the band off her finger and offers it to Grantaire, who conceals it in his vest.
"Get to bed, mon cher," she says mockingly, with a small smile.
He grins back, relieved at her joking. "Gladly, ma femme. Well, technically not yet, but we're good as married anyway."
Concern enters his tone. "You will be all right though? With Marius and all? Cosette won't..."
The smile slides from her face. "Yes, Grantaire," she says pointedly. "Now I'd prefer it if we nipped this in the bud."
A few moments' silence. "And you with your Apollo?"
He sighs longingly. "You know I never will. And I know you won't ever. That's why I asked. For your hand, I mean."
Éponine nods once and slides down from the barstool. She spares a glance for the counter, littered with bottle upon bottle of drink. You marvel at how unaffected they seem to be, the proof of how much alcohol is in their system right in front of your eyes.
That night, you dream of an extravagant wedding, never to be had in France's current state. The faces remain unseen, unknown.
Every night, this dream returns, no name, no face to the happy couple. The agony of not knowing their fates claws at your mind, drives you mad, until one day—
At last!
Go on, you will the images flashing in your mind. Show me what it is I've waited years to know.
You exhale in anticipation, trying to catch a glimpse of them, until you do.
The bride's stringy chestnut locks. Her brown eyes.
The bridegroom's tempestuous inky curls. His eyes on hers, a tender smile in bloom.
"Je vous présente: M. Grantaire et sa femme, Mme. Grantaire, née Thénardier!"
And through it all:
Eight bullets pin an angel's corpse to the wall. His golden curls frame his face, bowed down, and there is a sadness there. His hand, in some other life meant to hold another's, remains empty. Something is lacking in the scene.
You cannot pinpoint it.
And somewhere else, sometime else:
Once she has succeeded in putting Georges and Fantine to bed at last, and joins her husband in their bed, free from the burdensome clutches of the twins, they reminisce of the horror of the rebellion so many years ago: the students' wasted lives, her late father's brave martyrdom in rescuing him, the failure to bring about a new and better world.
He does not remember the girl who took a bullet through the back for him, who he had held in his arms, who would have died for him had a certain cynic not found her bleeding profusely and rescued her from Death's vice-like grip.