The night fell, the sun rose, the flowers bloomed and died. Snows fell and melted, lakes froze and thawed, people were born and died. None of that meant anything to the man who lived on the Rue Saint-Martin. He rarely left the house, and on the rare occasions he was seen he always help a drink of some sort. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, and his face was a mask of sorrow and pain. No one dared to speak to him, not even the children. Sometimes the neighbors would hear sobs coming from the apartment he lived in, or even the sound of glass breaking. "It's Grantaire." they would whisper to each other.
Ten years had passed since the barricade built by the college students and workmen of france had fallen. All of the other survivors had fled, but Grantaire stayed. It was rumoured that he had a lover at the barricade. The women whispered that Grantaire spoke his lover's name in his sleep, while the children shouted that he didn't sleep. Work was offered to him, but he refused, and after a while, the men gave up.
Grantaire alone knew the truth about himself, and even sometimes he was unsure if he was real or not. Nothing seemed real anymore. He wished the bullets had killed him. He wished he was dead. At least he would be with Enjolras. There was nothing he could have done to help Enjolras's cause ten years ago, there was certainly nothing he could do now. Sometimes he wondered if Enjolras was still alive, if he had escaped the bullets. Grantaire hadn't heard or felt Enjolras fall on top of him before he fell unconscious, perhaps the man had escaped. Grantaire was pretty sure that he was capable of that. Enjolras was capable of anything, right?
The days and nights flew past without Grantaire noticing. Nothing mattered anymore. Only his memory of the smile on Enjolras's face as he shook Grantaire's hand on the second floor of that accursed cafe. Grantaire dug his nails into his arm at the thought of the place. He had thought he'd seen Marius walk into the cafe a couple of months after the barricade fell, but wasn't Marius supposed to be dead? Weren't they all supposed to be dead? Grantaire didn't know, and didn't care. All he wanted was Enjolras to come through the door with that same smile he'd had on June 6, 1832.
When the drink finally pulled Grantaire into a heavy sleep, his dreams were of Enjolras. Even then, in that mask of happiness that the drink had thrown on top of Grantaire, there was something lurking behind the shadows, something reeking of death and despair. It always came back when Grantaire woke. Enjolras would disappear and Grantaire would wake up, shouting his name and grabbing at the empty air.
Enjolras was everything Grantaire wasn't, his other half. He needed Enjolras to be able to figure out this complicated world. There was no Enjolras anymore though. The one thing that Grantaire believed in...Enjolras. He was gone now. Gone for ten years. Grantaire would never be the same, no matter how hard he tried. It was all over, wasn't it? No, it wasn't. Enjolras wouldn't have wanted it to be like this. He would have wanted Grantaire to keep trying to turn France into something good, something better than what it was now. Grantaire couldn't though. He couldn't ever do it. Not without Enjolras.
He had heard the people sing, and he'd had enough of it. The magic was gone, the light faded. Only Enjolras's voice remained, teasing at Grantaire's ears. He almost felt Enjolras's hand on his shoulder, his hand in Enjolras's hand. He could feel the haunting echoes of the revolutionary's last song in his blood. Wherever Grantaire turned there was only the empty space where Enjolras used to be. Where he would never be again.
Long ago, Grantaire had stopped wishing for Enjolras to come back. All hopes disappeared. Now everything was just numb. Let them leave, Grantaire told himself, let them die. They're useless, they won't help him come back. Nothing will come back. Without Enjolras, everything was nothing. Everything was gone.