"Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying."
The words were still echoing in Grantaire's head, in the empty chamber that wine made of his brain. Ingrate, he thought. This is unfair.
Because Enjolras was wrong. Grantaire did think. And at night, he would even dream.
He dreamed of burning great birds soaring in the sky, of revolutions ending in pleasure and joy instead of blood, pain and sorrow. He dreamed of himself, free of alcohol and depression, finally an equal to his friends. He dreamed he found things to believe in; that he was finally a whole human being. He dreamed that he was carving Enjolras' name into stone, into a monument to his glory, into his own skin. He dreamed that he was dying and that his blood covered Enjolras' statue in a vivid, blinding red. That he was, at long last, good for something.
In those dreams, Grantaire always felt like a different person. He did not feel the weight of his ugliness anymore, or the excruciating shame of his heavy, ungraceful body. In his dreams, Grantaire was flying up high, so very high, at Enjolras' side. He was lying in a bed next to this biblical beauty, Enjolras' naked body alight like a sun, his skin burning against Grantaire's. 'You are so handsome,' Enjolras was saying to him, for him, 'you could make a man forget about revolutions and freedom'. And then Grantaire would dream of Enjolras' hands on his body, of feeling Enjolras deep inside him, pushing straight into his soul. That was always when Grantaire woke up, rigid, then shaking with desire, raging at himself for the tears of longing he felt coming to his eyes.
More than anything, he dreamed of being accepted and loved. But that didn't happen, and it was probably his own fault, too. Grantaire knew that Enjolras expected so much more from him and that if Grantaire only would, he could be so much more. And then, maybe Enjolras could consent to love him, if only a bit. And if he only would, Grantaire would, could be such grand, glorious things.
But Grantaire could not.
So he stood up, saluted Enjolras with his worn-out cap, and, under his friends' general laughter and their leader's furious glare, he walked to centre of the room to lie down and close his eyes. He heard Enjolras raving at him, and that was music to his ears as he slipped into a drunken slumber, clutching his bottle close to his heart.
If I only would.