"Get up."
"Lemme sleep," Grantaire slurred into the table, resisting the attempt to drag him back toward reality.
"You're not that drunk. Up!" The snap was unmistakable, and the drunkard allowed his eyes to open sufficiently to discern the fuzzy image of Enjolras leaning over him and frowning.
"What d'you know about it?" he sat back in partial acquiescence, grinning tiredly at the thought of Enjolras drunk.
Enjolras ignored his question. "It's late, everyone's left. You can't sleep here."
Grantaire smiled at the thought. Of course he could sleep here, had done so several times. Enjolras wouldn't have noticed. He yawned by way of a correction. This provoked another frown; Enjolras, determined to get Grantaire out of the cafe, dragged him to his feet. In this position the cynic remained, leaning drunkenly on the revolutionary and allowing the latter to haul him ungracefully along.
* * *
There were, Grantaire supposed, worse things than to fall asleep in some grisette's house, even if you were too drunk to properly enjoy it. At least, worse things until she realized the next morning that you couldn't remember her name. But that would come later; for now, he relaxed into the kiss.
His cynicism, however, refused to take this for granted and so it plumbed his brandy-soaked memory, ignoring the danger of waking up to a hangover this presented. Disturbing answers cascaded into more disturbing answers. Grantaire disentangled himself with more haste than he had done in quite some time, and opened his eyes.
Enjolras jumped back, startled. No longer a statue, this: only a boy with tousled hair, a loosened collar and a confused expression. Grantaire gaped at him, astounded.
"Grantaire," the youth reached for him, but slowly, as if trying not to startle him.
Grantaire startled, moving a foot or so back. Enjolras had been right earlier; he wasn't that drunk. "No. Nonono." He swung his legs over the side, met the floor, and began to think of standing. Running was quickly dismissed as preferable, but physically improbable.
Enjolras' look grew layers, hurt and anger and panic under disbelief. "I thought you...I wouldn't have... All that time I thought," he whispered.
Grantaire shook his head, looked away as if the shame was his. How could he tell this boy that it was his idealism, the fire he'd thought he'd seen reflected in that perfect countenance? He could not grasp the words, only stumble to his feet in search of the door.
The rattle of the doorknob seemed to rouse Enjolras from his shock; in an instant he was at the door, his hand on Grantaire's sleeve. "Grantaire," he said in that same quiet voice he'd never used before tonight. "Please, you wouldn't...? I'm sorry..."
Grantaire turned to look at the boy with a faint pity that Enjolras recognized; he dropped his gaze, ashamed and acutely embarrassed. "No," the cynic confirmed almost gently, "I won't." With a final jerk, the door opened and Grantaire slipped into the night.