Acknowledgement/Disclaimer:
Certain bits of dialogue in here were written by Victor Hugo, not I. Everything Enjolras and Joly say in this section was written by Hugo, as is most of what Grantaire and Courfeyrac say. I don't wish to take the credit for writing this dialogue (though I'd sure love to be able to write like good old Victor). I decided it would be best if I used Hugo's dialogue in the spots where characters spoke, while also adding my own dialogue in areas where Hugo, as the narrator, was not "present" to specify whether someone said something or not, or where I just felt he left something out (yes, the dead French people in my head have told me the real story).
Oh, and a quick note - one of the original (gasp! Yes, spirrogg has flashes of ingenuity now and then, inconceivable as it may seem) boys in my head makes his first appearance in a fanfic in this section. Be nice to him, even though his name isn't given in this particular story. Anyway, sorry I took so long updating this. I had some major problems with it, and I'm extremely busy doing other stuff anyway. No, of course it's still not completed.
Chapter 3: Winecask
Grantaire glanced out the window at Enjolras, wishing he could catch his eye. Wishing he could say something now that was appropriate or meaningful (was that too much to ask?) so that Enjolras might look up and . . . just see him, perhaps.
He inhaled slowly. "We're all going to die here, regardless," he noted, too softly for anyone to hear. "Why the hell's it matter?"
Nevertheless, he couldn't stop thinking. It was disturbing - he'd had plenty of absinthe already, but of course this was the one day that his mind somehow managed to struggle clear of that enshrouding mist. Less than an hour ago he'd been wonderfully intoxicated, had been able to talk long and loud about nothing of any import. Why should he be lucid now?
A random image skittered into his mind, an image from when Enjolras and the others had turned onto the Rue de la Chanvrerie. Enjolras had stood out in the pattering rain, crying out for men to join them, to fight for their families. A apparent tide of workers had surged forth to them (in momentary sobriety and enduring blunt realism, Grantaire could now see that the supposed tide was actually a hopeless ragtag trickle), and Enjolras had stood in the midst of the melee with a beatific, serene cast to his features. His eyes had been cast skyward, his hair flung back in damp locks, and it had seemed to Grantaire that the streaming misty sunlight illuminated his countenance for all of heaven and earth to gaze upon in breathless awe.
Though he was looking down at Enjolras from the window, Grantaire still felt as if was gazing up at some unattainable star. That random image he had just recalled was representative of what Enjolras had always been: the unshakable, unchanging focal point of all that mattered in this or any other world. And even now, Grantaire, cast in the deepest pits of despair, had ridiculous faith in the man. Expressing such sentiments to Enjolras was, of course, unthinkable. Their fearless leader was too proud and disdainful, too chaste, pure, intimidating - in short, everything Grantaire could never be.
The charade had gone on long enough. He had followed these men on their insane and useless quest, managed, for a time, to keep the few embers of hope left to him aglow, but it was over. With a terrible wrenching sensation in his stomach, he looked about wildly, realizing the absolute futility of his whole life, recognizing that his existence was unredeemable. Standing on the shadowy brink of ambiguous fate, gazing into the eternal abyss stretching before him, he saw, for a moment, his certain, drunken, pathetic demise. He looked, terrified, to Enjolras, but suddenly the absinthe was clouding his vision again and he was utterly alone. His hand trembled, and the half-full jug of mixed wine on the table rattled with the vibration. Hearing this, he reached out and grasped the jug with the petrified strength of a drowning man, and, shuddering, brought it to his lips. He gulped at the sweet fluid, letting it spill over his chin. He downed it in one swallow, then, feeling only slightly better, rasped an order to Fricassée.
"More drink!"
Courfeyrac, who was helping Bossuet haul a table down to the barricade, looked up at him from the stairs, half-worried and half-admonishing.
"Grand R," he called, "how much have you already had?"
Grantaire laughed unsteadily at him, seizing the jug that he had just been handed and raising it high.
"One more!" He threw back his head and drank, then slammed the jug onto the table with an aggrieved look when he found one gulp had emptied this bottle as well. He rapped on the table, glowering amiably at Fricassée. She obliged, wearily sliding him another jug before plodding back down to the barricade.
Ma'am Hucheloup moaned from the floor beside the table, rocking back and forth on her heels, praying loudly for mercy to God and anyone else who would listen. Joly, still slightly tipsy, glanced at her and rose shakily to his feet from his chair near Grantaire. He tottered his way over to Ma'am Hucheloup and crouched down beside her, kissing the old woman passionately on the neck. Then, with an air of absurd solemnity, he noted to Grantaire, "My dear fellow, I've always considered a woman's neck an infinitely delicate thing".
Grantaire trailed his fingers across the table, feeling the wondrous warmth of absinthe stealing through him. Noticing Chowder lumbering up the stairs, he sprang rather dazedly to his feet. He caught the servingwoman deftly about the waist as she ascended the last step, and launched into a rambling dissertation on the creation of this supremely ugly being. Courfeyrac passed him on the way down to the barricade again. He grabbed Grantaire's arm, shaking it violently.
"Be still, winecask," he hissed desperately, knowing that Enjolras could hear Grantaire's tirade, and also knowing the inevitable outcome of any confrontation between the two men. Obliviously inebriated, Grantaire released Chowder's waist and thrust the offending arm away in the same motion. He glared at Courfeyrac, raising his fist for added emphasis.
"I am Capitoul and Master of Floral Games!" He laughed wildly, then choked on his drink. Spluttering, he backed up against the window overlooking the street.
Starkly outlined against the sky at the highest point of the barricades, Enjolras swung around, frowning in irritation, and glanced up. Seeing Grantaire lean against the windowsill, raving nonsense, his face hardened, and he flushed slightly with anger. His lip curled, and his voice rang out, sharp and derisive, in the small area between the two barricades.
"Grantaire, go sleep it off somewhere else." His eyes burned icily into Grantaire's, and the drunkard shrunk back a little, even in his intoxicated state, by simple reflex.
A short, wiry workingman-turned-revolutionary looked up, as did the rest of the men on the barricades, at the sound of Enjolras' voice. Most of the rebels soon lost interest, having seen such conflicts between Enjolras and Grantaire in the previous hours. The lean man, however, kept his mildly interested gaze on the unfolding drama.
He finally smirked, dropping his eyes, and elbowed a nearby boy, who was, judging from his garb, a fellow workingman. The wiry one rolled his eyes dramatically as he spoke.
"There's our phoenix of a commander," - this said with surly sarcasm - "scolding his pathetic, subservient shadow again." He ran a hand through his curly, close-cropped hair. "Very predictable, these students." There was a shade of scornful emphasis on the last word.
The boy shrugged, continuing to fit pavingstones into the barricade. Sighing and quirking a thin, dark brow, the other went back to his task as well.
Meanwhile, Enjolras continued to stare, disgusted, at Grantaire. Grantaire reddened under those piercing eyes and lowered his head, letting tousled dark locks fall across his face. Finally, Enjolras sneered, opening his stance to address his comrades along with the drunkard.
"This is the place for intoxication, not drunkenness." He looked grimly at them all for a moment, then turned back to Grantaire, facial muscles tensing in offended fury, and slammed a fist into the other open palm.
"Don't dishonor the barricade."
Grantaire flinched separately at each syllable. His legs began to crumple beneath him, but he managed to throw an arm out, clutching at the table behind him, maneuvering his body so that it dropped into a seat as if his sitting down was intentional. His pulse throbbed painfully, and he clenched his jaws to keep himself from crying out. He could - and did - endure Enjolras' scorn, indifference, disdain, even his hatred . . . but the idea that Enjolras might truly be (disappointed in?!) ashamed of him was so repugnant, so terrifying, that he felt weak. Enjolras could not have produced a greater effect on Grantaire had he struck him.
Grantaire leaned heavily on the table, trying to catch his breath. He was horribly conscious of Enjolras' gaze boring into his slumped form. Finally, he raised his head and sat up, vision swimming. He blinked, clearing his eyes. His hands trembled against his breast, and he clasped them, attempting to steady himself in a discreet manner. He simply looked at Enjolras for a time, hard as it was, with a terrible expression of wistfulness and wisdom. When he spoke, he did it softly, demurely.
"Let me sleep here." Grantaire had to swallow the lump in his throat. He was so unused to speaking to Enjolras in such a gentle manner; he'd always before been half-serious, intentionally aggravating - nothing more than unignorable and senseless background noise.
Enjolras' features hardened even more at the tone, and he raised his voice a little more, not minding that everyone nearby was privy to Grantaire's chastisement.
"Go sleep somewhere else!"
Grantaire again flinched noticeably, but, with a struggle, kept his gaze level. He breathed deeply, staring at Enjolras so unwaveringly he thought he might be blinded by the other's brilliance. He put his hand, palm down, on the table before him, almost plaintively, licking his suddenly dry lips.
"Let me sleep here-" The words caught painfully in his throat, and he cursed himself mentally. Damnit, Grantaire, already said that! Where's the renowned rhetoric now? He blinked bitterly, shoulders rising involuntarily in a gesture of helplessness.
" -Until I die here." He finished falteringly, shivering slightly.
Enjolras barked a short, mirthless laugh, and his eyes flashed contemptuously. His voice was low, but each word was uttered forcibly enough that every man present could hear.
"Grantaire." The sound was cold, harsh. Grantaire watched him in grave, submissive silence.
"You're incapable of belief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death." Enjolras' jaw was firmly set; his tone was emotionless. He delivered his verdict with cold confidence, then swung away smoothly, glancing disinterestedly at his fellow insurgents.
The guilty party went quite pale behind his tangled, straggling locks, and his mouth trembled the slightest bit. A hint of sheer, desperate terror appeared in the haunted grey eyes. Still he sat erect, motionless. After a time, he wet his lips again.
"You'll see." The words were uttered softly, tremulously, even breathlessly, like the words of some pilgrim at a shrine, fearful of speaking too loudly lest some listening god took offense.
Grantaire's pulse began thundering in his temples, but he continued gazing at Enjolras' back as long as he could bear to. He finally dipped his head jerkily, ineffectually swiping at the hair in his face, trying to force his eyes to focus on something as concrete as the table before him. He tried to speak - though he knew not what he was preparing to say - but his tongue would not obey, and he stumblingly pronounced several nonsensical syllables. Blinking rapidly, he struggled to stay upright, but his quaking elbows slid out weakly. Defeated, he pitched forward with a groan, eyes rolling back. His dark hair trailed across the table as he fell away into dark, disconnected slumber, and his gaunt face drew up in tight angles even in repose.
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