"I'll see you around I guess," Apollo said.
I'll see you around.
Did he mean that he was looking forward to seeing Grantaire around? Or did he mean that it's a pity that he has to see Grantaire around? For Grantaire, the former option is certainly the favorable one. However, given the recent events, the last option seemed to be the probable one.
Grantaire's mind was malfunctioning. This occurrence was rare, for in all situations, regardless of context or danger, he always had a snarky remark ready on hand. He valued his dignity far too much to not have the last word. But now...now Grantaire found that he had nothing to say. His tongue sat stagnant in his mouth, refusing to move, and he found that it was impossible to compel his lips to form words.
The silence awkwardly dragged on.
Grantaire felt his body heat up as his heart beat faster and faster. Realizing that his palms were starting to sweat, he tried embarrassingly to wipe them on his trousers.
Enjolras, seeming to be tired of waiting for a response, nodded and turned away.
He listened to the echo of the muted footsteps as Enjolras got farther and farther.
Grantaire's mouth felt dry. His head was faint and dizzy. His feet seemed to be cemented to the floor. He clenched and unclenched his sweaty hands. This sensation was entirely new and he wasn't sure if he liked it.
Apollo's shining locks and vibrant eyes flashed in front of him as he processed what happened. Enjolras was undoubtedly searching for something. Most likely military papers. A spy then. Wait…
Grantaire covered for a fucking spy.
A patriot, he helped a patriot in committing treason. He could go to prison or worse for that shit. Yet, in the excitement, Grantaire made a questionable decision. Grantaire was a naturally selfish creature, and like most humans, he valued his own life and comfort above others. For him, this was a perfectly logical mindset that he vowed to hold true.
Enjolras however was an exception. Something convinced Grantaire that he would take Apollo's punishment in his place no matter how severe. This obviously violates Grantaire's plan for self-preservation. Enjolras seemed to have this effect on Grantaire. He made Grantaire want to drop everything for him. Apollo was utterly enchanting.
An agitated huff from Javert's office alerted Grantaire of his dangerously close proximity to the ruthless monster that would love to unload his rage upon him.
He did not hesitate to get the hell out of there.
A maid directed him down a long flight of stairs to a dim room where Montparnasse and a servant were tediously scrubbing at the uniforms.
Sighing, Grantaire caught a small coarse-haired brush thrown at him by Montparnasse as he gingerly sat down on the wet stone floor.
"What are the others doing?" Grantaire muttered as he hesitantly picked up a black boot dripping unidentifiable liquid.
"They're out patrolling, with horses...and guns. We really picked the wrong day to get in trouble." Montparnasse replied, bitter.
Grantaire hummed in agreement.
Thankful for the lack of conversation from the usually verbose Montparnasse, Grantaire went back to thinking.
He was a cynic, ever so pessimistic. People weren't really his area. He never learned to trust anyone. People let you down, best to stay away.
Trusting people always ends in disaster, trusting people leads to hurt. Hurt isn't something you can get used to. It's hard to move on, very hard, which is why Grantaire prefers to numb the pain. Push it deep deep down until you can't feel it anymore. Scrunch it into a small ball and drop it into the abyss and pray that you never have to see it again. Admittedly, Grantaire had gotten quite skilled at this. But he did have a lot of practice.
Sometimes though, everything unravels. The pain unfurling and clawing out from the void and threatening to drag Grantaire down with them. Again through experience, he found that alcohol is a great solution. Grantaire doesn't like to think of himself as an alcoholic, it's just that these episodes happen often enough for others to think of Grantaire as an alcoholic.
Grantaire isn't really the type to form social relationships. In all twenty-three years of his life, he's managed to procure about three friends. The first of which died of dysentery along with Grantaire's parents when Grantaire was nine, which was a shame. Grantaire left the second one behind in the orphanage when he ran away to make his living off in the streets. The third one was scrubbing hard leather boots beside him, but it'll only be a matter of time before Grantaire's back to zero again. Grantaire had mentally prepared himself for that. He stayed away from friends, friends aren't forever. It'll all come crashing down someday, and when it does, it'll take Grantaire down with him.
Enjolras was the exception. Enjolras made Grantaire almost want to risk all the hurt, rejection, anger, and sadness for a chance. Just a chance with Apollo. Grantaire never felt so strongly about anyone, ever. Grantaire would be lying if he said that he wasn't transfixed with Apollo. Maybe he was tired of being alone, maybe he wanted to wake up every morning and see their face and smile. Maybe he dreamed that the face would be Enjolras.
But it could only be a dream. Grantaire would have to be crazy to act upon his feelings. It didn't help that they happened to be on opposing sides of an impending war. It didn't help that Enjolras would never think of Grantaire that way, hell, Enjolras wouldn't even think of Grantaire as a friend. Grantaire's one of the blasted redcoats that Enjolras hates so much. Apollo would never have those feelings about him.
And to be honest, Enjolras could do so much better. His face was surely chiseled by the gods themselves. His long hair waved glittering behind him, catching the sunlight in its golden net. His eyes were a deep blue that sometimes turned a turquoise in the sunlight. Enjolras was beautiful. And Grantaire, with his messy curls and asymmetrical face, could never compare.
Even if Enjolras returned his feelings, which he wouldn't, his parents would never approve. They were absolutely rolling in dough, there's absolutely no chance that they would permit their only son to marry a poor soldier with no family.
"You're thinking very hard," Montparnasse asked softly.
Grantaire paused in his scrubbing.
"Yeah, I suppose," he replied.
Montparnasse oddly did not ask for elaboration.
Soon, they had finished washing everything. After dumping out the soapy water into a small drain in the ground, they each carried a heaving basket full of the soaking uniforms and made their way up.
They passed the jeering but sometimes sympathetic faces of their fellow soldiers engaging in a particularly unruly game of cards.
They soon made it to the drying lines, the moon had been out for a few hours already. They'd spent most part of the day slaving away.
After setting the baskets down on the rough gravel, the servant motioned to the pair that he would take it over from here. Stretching his tired hand and sore knuckles, Grantaire and Montparnasse made their way back inside.
Montparnasse steered them in a different way to avoid the soldiers. Soon, they reached the sleeping quarters and promptly collapsed on their cots.
Grantaire let sleep engulf him and hopefully take him to his dreams of a certain blonde-haired god.