Chapter 2
A/N: Sorry this ones a bit short, once again luff Sparrah for the epic Grantaire. Muse was a bit low on this one mind so yeh sorry again it's a tinsy bit short compared to the mammoth on the last chapter ^.^;;
Enjolras stared at him blinking stupidly. His mind was trying to comprehend and accept that dreadful truth that he'd been trying to hide from. That all those carefully laid plans had gone so wrong. The guilt didn't initially hit straight away, his mind too caught up with the thoughts of the planning wasted. When it did he started to shake his eyes turning cold and demanding, anger deep within, not aimed at anyone but himself, seeking for some outlet.
"Why?" he asked, the question hissed out. His eyes focused on Nicholas, shaking more. He reached up to grasp him, eyes wide and frantic. A confused expression crossed Grantaire's face, which relaxed itself into a singular frown of understanding and something else, though he made no move to answer. He couldn't help the flinch, though, as Enjolras' grip tightened to the point of being painful. He held his peace, however, biding his time in what he knew was a mounting storm.
Enjolras frowned mightily, baring his teeth as it became a snarl, a faint growl escaping as he shook the man fit to rattle the teeth in his skull. "Why us, Nicholas? Why did we survive when no one else did?" he snarled out, trying desperately to ignore the guilt engulfing him bit by bit. He looked away briefly, starting to chew his lower lip in anxiety. Anxiety at just what, the smaller man couldn't say. A further weight dropped as he remembered Marius. "Gods…Marius… It's my fault!" he cried out. "Should've died…would've been better if I had," he added on before his gaze focused on the one before him with furious intensity, bringing his wrath to bear down on him, voice rising to an anguished yell.
"You! Why did you save me? You–you drunken moron!" He knew he was the one who. deserved his hate and anger least, but his pain, hate, anger, and guilt all were desperately aiming for release and this seemed the only avenue. The barriers he'd raised in his mind to shield himself crumbled like the barricade had, and he couldn't help but start to cry, the sobs wracking his form. "Stupid drunk! Could have at least gotten me some wine! So easy for you!" He punched at his chest one-handed, his voice starting to crack and break with tears. "Why can't I forget?" The so-called drunken moron looked into the tearful eyes then, his own unglazed by any drink, and stated, "We can't forget our friends, Adrien. We may bury this failed coup with their bodies, clean up the blood from their faces, but we won't forget their lives or their deaths. Don't deserve that. None of them did you a single wrong that you would give them the penalty of forgetting they died for your cause–the cause they believed in in the end–and lived in part for you, if not for one another as friends. If I ever give you a drink, Adrien Enjolras, it will be to toast their memories, and nothing more." He pressed his fist over Enjolras' chest, where the blood still clung, wet, to his shirt. "We have survived the black night to find the red blood of our friends at our breasts at dawn, but our hearts still beat, so we will continue living. I saved you because you are all I have in this world, Apollo, and I would be damned to stand by and let you be snuffed out." He drew Enjolras into his arms and wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve. "Are you hungry?" A shaken head. No, he wasn't hungry, even with the tears. Any appetite he'd had was long lost, chased off by the images his mind provided of that fateful last attack at the barricades, over and over and once more and again for good measure.