Notes: I apologize for the long wait and I apologize even more for the content of this chapter. I feel like this deserves even more warnings for alcoholism, death, abuse, blood, etc.
Grantaire stumbled to the couch and collapsed, but managed to keep all the wine in the bottle, he had just had the carpets cleaned after all, didn't want to stain them that quickly. He fumbled for the remote on the coffee table and turned on the news while drinking more wine.
"Bon soir*, today is February 16 and there's been a major-" Grantaire heard the news anchor's voice fade away. February 16. He scrambled up and hurried over to the calendar he kept on his fridge. February 16. He checked the date on his phone. February 16. February 16.
How could he forget?
Twenty-Five Years Ago
The sirens wailed and Grantaire though he could feel the noise ripping through his ear drums. His heart was pounding a steady beat, too steady. His heart should be racing. Why wasn't it racing?
Grantaire walked away from the police officers question his father who was pretending to be distraught. The bastard even managed to throw on some fake tears. Grantaire didn't look at him. He just walked to the gurney covered with a white sheet. The medic was filling out paperwork on a clipboard.
Grantaire stood at the side of his mother. (No. Not mama, anymore. Meat.) He lifted the sheet to look at her (it). They closed her eyes. They were blue- just like Grantaire's.
"Hey! Kid! You can't do that!" the medic shouted, leading Grantaire away.
As he was being pulled back, he stared at the body. When the sheet fell it left his mother's right eye uncovered. He looked at her, and thought, without knowing why (because it's not mama anymore, it's just a body), I won't forget you.
It was February 16, and it started snowing as Grantaire looked out the window at the ambulances and the dead body that was not his mother any more.
The Present
Grantaire stumbled to his liquor cabinet. He shoved aside empty bottles, throwing them to the floor where they shattered. He found the full bottles and pulled them out and sank down to the floor. The glass shards surrounding him stabbed into his skin, but he just pulled them out and threw the bloody pieces at the wall.
He drank.
One bottle.
Two bottles.
He threw up.
Three bottles.
The room was spinning and everything was blurry.
He went to grab a fourth bottle.
The room tossed him around.
He grabbed on to the fridge.
His hands slipped and he fell on glass shards.
The calendar was in his hand.
February 16.
His father.
The man in the basement looked so much like him.
If the room was spinning enough it was almost as if he was him.
(Un bouc émissaire*)
Grantaire stumbled down the stairs. Enjolras had heard the noise upstairs and was scooted as far away from the door as his chains would allow him. Enjolras' eyes were closed and his mouth was moving soundlessly, praying to a god he thought he didn't believe in.
Grantaire walked over to Enjolras, stumbling. He grabbed the man by his blonde hair and lifted so he was bent over, the chains on his wrists still holding him to the ground, but the man in front of him lifting his head so the chain around his neck choked him and cut off his silent prayers.
Grantaire released him and Enjolras fell back down to the floor, gasping for breath. Grantaire kicked him in the ribs and Enjolras' gasping became more pronounced, the only sound in the quiet concrete room.
Grantaire set the bottle of wine on the small table. "Do you remember this night, Papa?" He kicked Enjolras again. "DO YOU REMEMBER?!" he yelled. Enjolras could only cough in reply. Grantaire lifted Enjolras' face to be level with his own. Enjolras kept his eyes closed. "Look at me," Grantaire demanded in a firm voice. Enjolras kept his eyes tightly shut. "LOOK AT ME, YOU BASTARD!" Enjolras opened his eyes, and although they were bloodshot and glassy with tears, if Grantaire were sober, he would have been able to see a mix of pity and passion and the fighting spirit that had kept him alive long enough to reach February 16.
Grantaire still held Enjolras' face in his hands and looked him in the eye. When he spoke, the hatred was evident in his voice. "Everyone used to say I looked just like mama. Do you see it, too? Is that why you turned to me when you killed her? IS THAT WHY YOU TRIED KILLING ME WHEN ONE TIME WASN'T ENOUGH?!" He bashed Enjolras' head against the wall, forming a bloody bruise on his temple as he screamed in vain.
Enjolras was crying now, the pain was too much and tears mixed with the blood that pooled on the floor. Grantaire straddled Enjolras and held his throat in his hands. He squeezed and threw Enjolras' head against the floor with each syllable he spoke, "DID YOU HEAR ME? DID YOU KILL ME WHEN YOU KILLED HER? DID YOU MEAN TO, YOU FUCKING BASTARD?! WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY TO ME?!"
Grantaire began to cry and with his tears, his grip on Enjolras' throat only strengthened. Enjolras, through the haze produced with lack of oxygen, he grabbed at Grantaire's wrists and dug his fingernails into the skin. Grantaire released him with a gasp of pain. Enjolras looked him in the eye and said slowly and calmly, "I have to say to you that I pity you and I am so, so sorry for what has been done to you. I understand now."
Grantaire was shocked. He stumbled off of Enjolras, who simply lay there. He scrambled back towards the stairs and ran up them, slamming the door behind him.
Grantaire leaned against the wall and began to hyperventilate through his tears.
Enjolras curled around himself and stared into the dark, breathing evenly.
Notes: Bon soir: good evening
Un bouc émissaire: A scapegoat Let me just say that this was the hardest chapter for me to write. It took so long to get in the proper mindset for this. It was emotionally draining and exhausting, and so you guys better like it.
