Enjolras was stone as Joly pressed a cloth saturated with alcohol against his temple. The only outward indication of discomfort came as quick breath through his teeth and a clench of the fingers around the bedpost. He was sitting upon his bed, his coat removed, a tight wrapping of bandages around his torso. "To keep it still," Joly had said, but Grantaire was not convinced. Enjolras was doing himself proud now, the picture of bravery in the face of pain, but when Joly, Jehan assisting, had pulled the final bandage tight about his ribs, it had not been quite so. His chest was mottled with purple, nearer to black. The fair one's face had been tight and his breathing shallow. It had caused him pain, and Grantaire had looked away.
"It is done," said Joly, dropping the alcohol-drenched handkerchief into Jehan's waiting hands. To his credit, Jehan did not make a fuss about being asked to dispose of the bloodied cloth, but went and did so. It was only then that Grantaire realized he had not been asked to assist during the last hour's events. He sighed and crossed the room to stand next to Joly. As though his presence had been noted for the first time, Joly eyed the him. "Come then, Grantaire. Draw back the blankets, won't you?" Grantaire did as he was told, pulling back a simple bedspread to allow Enjolras to get beneath them with ease. "You are very lucky. Marius's punch deflected the blow to your head. It's a bruise, mostly." Enjolras did not speak until Jehan rejoined them.
"So it is you who are my guardian tonight, Jehan?"
Grantaire thought perhaps it would be easier if he cut his heart out and threw it on the floor to flatten it cruelly with his foot. It would spare Enjolras and everyone else the trouble. The poet? Fah! As though Jean Prouvaire could ever dream of being capable of protecting anyone. Leave off to your poems, Grantaire thought bitterly, and leave a man's duty to a man.
Jehan, oblivious to the animosity, smiled. "So it would seem. Since you cannot seem to take care of yourself alone, I must do it for you."
"And so he must." Joly was capable, sometimes, of being stern. He was wiping his hands clean with another handkerchief, mindful to remove every particle of blood from himself. No doubt he would be washing the night through. "Your ribs are cracked. But there is no irreparable damage, as far as I can tell. Keep still and they will heal. Your head as well. That should be all right in a matter of days. A week or so should see you able to move about. Let Jehan do as much as he can for you."
"One week?" Enjolras raised an eyebrow.
"Or so. The fracture will not be gone, but the healing will have started by then."
"And the Café?"
"The Café?"
"The Café Musain. We meet again officially in three days."
"I would advise against it."
"There is much yet to be done. We've nowhere near the reports we need. No news from Rue du Bacque. No report from Notre Dame. I cannot sit idly by."
"Then we will come here." Jehan said.
"The reports are coming from all across Paris, brought by messengers who have instruction to go to the Café Musain." Enjolras was working himself slowly into a state of righteous indignation. That was a dangerous attitude for someone in need of rest. It was one of fervor, one of action; already, Enjolras was pushing himself slowly up with one arm, as though it was his submissive reclining that was bringing on Joly's argument. All color drained from his face. Pain was carved into every inch.
In a burst of feeling, Grantaire said, "I will bring him. Carefully of course. I shall be as a glazier carrying a church window."
"You?" said Jehan.
"Me. Do you not trust me, Jehan?"
"That is not what--"
"I know what you meant. But I will do it all the same." Grantaire paused, holding his breath. "If Enjolras will permit it."
Enjolras was silent. His blue gaze danced across the room, slowly, recovering strength, before it lifted to meet Grantaire's eyes. " It is not safe. It is not pleasant. I am becoming known; my enemies recognize my face now as well as my words. What reason have you, wine cask, for your effort?" It was spoken as a matter of flippant curiosity.
Grantaire did not answer, because he did not know. His loyalty to Enjolras came from a depth inside of himself that he could not fathom. Or rather, he did not want to fathom. As long as his veneration was superficial, Grantaire did not want to concern himself with the actions that veneration implied. If he followed Enjolras in thought, sooner or later, he would be forced to follow him in action. Grantaire would be obliged by consience to fight for something. So he chose not to understand his own desires. The skeptic lowered his gaze in defeat.
As though the gesture was expected, Enjolras turned his face back to Joly. "Send Bahorel that day. He will do it." Enjolras eased himself back against the pillow. His face was pale against his golden locks.
"I have only one thing to offer you for the pain, my friend." Said Joly. From his bag, he pulled a short-necked bottle, not marked by a label, but marked by the tell-tale smell that came from it as Joly popped out the cork.
"Alchohol?" Taking the bottle from Joly, Jehan smelled it and made a face. "Not medicinal."
Grantaire sniffed the bottle and laughed. "Whiskey." The mere idea of Enjolras drinking whiskey, a drink for poor drunkards like himself, was supremely amusing. He could see its purpose. Whiskey was guaranteed to bring that dull feeling on quickly.
Enjolras shook his head.
Joly would not be swayed. He took the bottle back from Grantaire. "One swallow, Enjolras. You can sleep. It will dull the pain."
"And my senses."
Grantaire expected a demanding reply from the medical student; he was disappointed. Jehan instead stepped forward, took the bottle gently from Joly's grasp, kneeling by the bed so he was face to face with the defiant Enjolras. He wore an expression of extreme worry, with a string of compassion behind it. "Enjolras, please." Apollo turned his head to meet Jehan's eyes. "One swallow. I am bound to your side this night, and I cannot abide your suffering. I cannot." His voice was demanding and fiery. "You are my friend, Enjolras. Take the whiskey."
Enjolras was still, like the others in the room. Jehan's outburst had been powerful in its simple declaration of friendship, powerful and unexpected. Grantaire studied his demi-god's face. Was that…appreciation? Was he grateful? Grateful to be loved as more than a leader? Glad to be a friend and not a god? Was that possible? Slowly, Enjolras brought one hand up and took the bottle. It was disturbing, to see the untainted chief throw his head back and take two swallows of whiskey. The most alcohol any of the ABC had ever seen their leader drink was the casual sip of wine with dinner, or a swallow of beer to seal a deal with another group of revolutionaries. Never more than that, until now. The bottle was returned to Jehan without words. The poet took it, smiling gently, and put the whiskey into a dumbfounded Joly's hands, whose gaze flickered between Jehan and Enjolras.
The latter smiled weakly. "There. One swallow for each of you." He had deflated against the pillow, looking desperately in need of sleep.
"I'll…just leave this here." Joly put the bottle on the small table in the middle of the room, fastening his jacket, then his coat, even though it was still warm weather outside. Grantaire smiled. Afraid to catch cold, he thought. His smile faded quickly as Joly added, "But not for you, Grantaire."
"Far be it from me to steal the liquid happiness of a patient. Well, Enjolras, we'll make a tavern-rat of you yet." He said, half-sulking. Joly said his farewells and closed the door behind him. "Is the whiskey going to your head yet?"
"Grantaire." Enjolras closed his eyes.
"Yes?"
"Do you want to do me a favor?"
"Of course."
"Take that whiskey and drink yourself into silence." Jehan cast Grantaire a sympathetic look, then took up a pen and inkwell and begant to scribble something in his book.
"The abstinent one asks me to partake? But I will not." Both his companion's eyes looked up to meet his own. "I have no desire to see you hung, Monsieur Apollo, and supposing the police come? Will Jehan charm them with his poetry? No, when a man speaks to the police, it must be with a manly air. Jehan is a romantic; you are an invalid. That leaves me. Once you told me that a drunkard is no more a man than a pigeon is a swan. Tonight, I deign to be a man." Grantaire folded his arms across his breast. The look on Enjolras's face--was that interest?--both amused him and set his heart to thrumming with pride.
Perhaps it was the whiskey, but Enjolras smiled slightly before he closed his eyes once more and slept.
"When did you learn parlor tricks, Jean Prouvaire?"
"What?"
Grantaire continued. "Parlor tricks. I knew a gypsy woman once who could make her clients think whatever she wanted them too. I wasn't aware that you knew the same trick."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Whiskey, Jehan, whiskey! You convinced Enjolras to drink whiskey. So when did you learn the trick?"
Jehan put his book down. "Oh. Hardly a trick. It's only natural."
"Natural?"
"Yes. Really, Grantaire, have you no eyes?"
"Two, actually."
"Do you ever use them for anything?"
"On occaision."
"Then--never mind."
"No, no. Elaborate, poet! That's your job."
"Be serious."
"I am." Grantaire rose from his chair and began to meander about the room. A simple table with three chairs, a large window with huge black shudders, and the bed in the farthest corner. There three bookshelves, all filled with leather-bound, expensive volumes. They were the only thing in the modest dwelling that pointed to Enjolras's wealth. "Say what you meant to say."
"Grantaire, did you know that I knew Enjolras before the organization of the ABC?"
"No." He was surprised. He had known about Combeferre and Enjolras's previous association, but had not expected the militant Enjolras to be affiliated with the romantic Jean Prouvaire.
"I did. We met in school. Did you know that they require courses in literature, Grantaire?"
"Yes. I passed them. Before I stopped attending."
Jehan was smiling wistfully, his eye on nothing in particular. "I passed them, too. Enjolras was studying under the same professor. We often sat next to each other in the classroom; studied together in the evenings. We enjoyed each other's company because we were both ignorant of Paris; I had left home, and he had been forced out by a father who did not appreciate his political genius. I did well in the class because poetry was my passion. Enjolras struggled because he did not see the need for it. He preferred Malory to Tennyson, the concise to the eloquent."
"Enjolras…struggled?" It was blasphemy.
Jehan suddenly sat upright. He jabbed his quill in Grantaire's direction. "That is my point!"
"What is?"
"The reason I was able to bring Enjolras to the realization of his need for relief was because I approached him as a human being." Grantaire did not speak. Jehan, in one of his moments of masculinity, was in a fervor. "You desire him to have no flaws; I expect him to have them! You wonder why he refuses your adoration? Because he does not want it. Enjolras tires of being the revolution's Apollo. When I speak to him face to face, as a friend, not as a follower, as an equal, not a serf, he listens. He listens because at last, he is seen as Enjolras and not as a nameless incarnation of the republic." He paused, calming. "Grantaire, you cry to him, and he ignores you. I whisper and he listens. Because he knows that I am his friend. When you prove that, he will listen to you, too."
"I am not his only worshiper." Grantaire's pride was wounded, baying like a injured mule inside his head.
"No, that is true. But you are the only one who continues to profess loyalty to something you know nothing of. Combeferre worships his friendship. Courfeyrac worships his politics. Bahorel worships his will. Bossuet worships his wit. Feuilly worships his compassion. Joly worships his idealism. I worship his loyalty. We worship his strengths, but recognize his faults. We grant him his humanity. You are the only one of us who expects him to be perfect. So he tries. He tries to be all the things we worship in him at once, and if he ever dies of something, it will be partially for his ideals, and partially for us."
The situation suddenly seemed so absurd. Grantaire laughed and dropped back into his chair next to Jehan. "So we kill him slowly."
Jean Prouvaire stared at Enjolras, sleeping peacefully. A deep sadness flickered across his eyes, then settled there. "So it would seem."
They both were silent and somber until the candle on the table flickered out and plunged them into darkness.
