It was in August of that year that Grantaire left his parent's home for the first time since that June.
He wandered the streets aimlessly, not sure where to go, convinced of only one thing- it was better to be alone, outdoors, than to be back home, under the scrutiny of his father and the fussing of his mother.
But even though he didn't have a destination in mind, he wound up outside the Café Musain.
It was at perhaps six o'clock that afternoon that Musichetta saw him walk in, dressed in a black overcoat, leaning on a cane. She averted his eyes as he walked toward the passageway to the back room.
He sat at one of the tables, staring down at its wood surface. The dark stain, there- where Jehan had spilt a bottle of ink. That deep purple spot- Bossuet had broken a wine glass there. Grantaire rested his head in his hands. How could he know which of them had lived, which of them were gone?
Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear Musichetta walk in and come to stand behind him.
"Can I help you, Monsieur?"
He glanced up at her. She was dressed in black, somehow paler than usual. Had she lost Joly? Bossuet?
Both?
Grantaire shook his head. "Je ne sais pas. I don't know."
She sighed. "I… Suppose you want a drink."
He nodded, silent, not sure what to say.
Musichetta left with a soft rustle of skirts, and returned, moments later, setting before him a glass of absinthe, a spoon, a sugar cube, and a carafe of water.
He pushed the sugar aside and poured the water over the spoon, watching the absinthe turn cloudy.
Neither spoke for a moment.
"Musichetta…" Grantaire trailed off, unsure of what to say.
"Do you know if Enjolras- If he-"
She glanced away. Grantaire thought she looked somehow- drained. Tired.
"No. He's dead. They all are." Her voice was flat, emotionless.
He stared at Musichetta, struggling to process what she's said, trying to understand.
She shook her head, and walked away, leaving Grantaire to stare at the bottom of his glass.