Grantaire jolted awake in a cold sweat, breathing heavily. The night terrors were back. He dreamt of waking to all his friends dead around him, to Enjolras cornered by soldiers, to bullets ripping the two of them apart as they fell back hand-in-hand. He got out of bed and went straight for the alcohol cupboard.
That night he spent like every other night. Pursuing a fleeting happiness. He drove fast, screamed out windows in a rush of adrenaline, danced with everyone, and drank himself into oblivion. Courfeyrac danced with him at one club before heading home to a peaceful night. Jehan joined him, and they shotgunned a joint between heavy make-out sessions. Joly and Bossuet drank and laughed with him, until they had to head home to Musichetta, though they made sure to take Grantaire's keys from him before leaving. Bahorel and he got into a bar fight against a couple of creeps, defending the honor of a girl who's drink the assholes had tried to spike. Feuilly and Combeferre were the ones to drive him home, making sure he got into bed safely and was not going to die of alcohol poisoning.
The only person he did not see was Enjolras. Ever disapproving, Enjolras never joined him in his revelry. But that was all for the better. How could Grantaire ever have fun with that solemn bastard constantly breathing down his neck?
Grantaire slipped into sleep once more, missing the feel of a hand in his own. The night terrors came again.