"Of gods and Fears"


"Your staring, Apollo."

Enjolras turned to see Grantaire standing behind him. He hadn't noticed that he'd been staring out the window for as long as he had. Of course it would catch the drunkard's attention. Anything caught his attention when it came to him. It was an irritation at best and something that caused him to want to throttle him at worst. "Please leave," he murmured.

"Who are you really, Apollo?"

"What on earth is that suppose to mean?"

Grantaire smiled the smile of one who had had one too many drinks. Or in his case, several. "You have a past, or did you drop from heaven."

"Go away until your sober."

"I'm never sober."

"So never come back."

"Answer me," Grantaire pushed. "Please."

"My father is rich. A Loyalist, to say the least. He hates me."

"I doubt that."

"You'd be surprised."

"Even my folks never have hated me."

Enjolras glared. "They're the only ones."

"You're too cruel."

"And you're drunk."

"Why does he hate you?"

"The same reason that Marius doesn't talk to his grandfather. We're rebels, Grantaire. Hated by Loyalist, hated by the king, if he knows we exist. We are hated people. What do you think of that?"

Grantaire watched his blond friend turn his attention back to the window. "There'll be a war?"

"There'll be a battle."

"Are you afraid?"

Enjolras' eyes narrowed only slightly. "A little," he murmured very quietly. "But that doesn't matter."

"Can I join?"

"You won't be sober."

"Probably not, but I'll be at your side, and that's all that counts."