Chapter 6, after a long delay.
Enjolras feels quite unwell in this chapter, so his thought process becomes not-very-Enjolraic. Please try to deal with it.
I got absolutely no reviews on the last chapter and I don't know if that means you all hate this. If you don't and want me to continue PLEASE tell me. I need a morale booster. But if you want this story to go die, tell me that too (and why you dislike it). I'll try to give it a makeover, or maybe I'll kill it.
I cannot sleep at all, for I am consumed by guilt and a pounding headache. I tell myself that I do not really care about the scene in the café, but tonight I do not even half believe my own lies. He noticed that I was ill, which means that he cares more than any of the others. Or does he simply examine me more closely, looking for a crack in my façade that he can rip open?
I don't know. I don't think I know anything anymore. But Grantaire knows all. He knows I am faltering, though I assure my followers that I am not. He knows we are all marching to our deaths and we cannot truly hope to win, though I have somehow managed to convince myself and those around me otherwise. He knows how badly I need him. But this is ridiculous! I need no one, least of all him, and even if I did, how could he know?
My thoughts are running in feverish circles and I am neither sleeping nor getting anything accomplished. Dragging myself from my rumpled bed, I sit at my kitchen table and begin work on a paper for a class that I must attend at 8:30 tomorrow morning.
All too soon the night is over. I know that what I have written is rubbish, but at least it is something. Gathering up my belongings and taking not quite enough time to make sure I look presentable, I hurry off to face another day filled with far too many responsibilities.
The day passes in a haze of pain and by the time I find myself at the Café Musain, I have all but forgotten what occurred here less than twenty-four hours ago. I am focused simply on getting through this meeting, going home, and forcing myself to sleep.
But then the door to our back room opens and Vivien Grantaire walks in. Half the men are staring at him in shock; the rest are watching me with ill-disguised curiosity. My first instinct is to have the fool forcibly removed for such a display of nerve. He does not, however, say a single word as he retreats into his usual corner and he seems not to have ordered any alcohol upon arriving. I resume talking and direct the meeting as before, ignoring our surprising increase in number.
As I talk, I cannot help but glance at Grantaire several times. He looks different somehow, as if he has finally been restrained… or broken. Though the tears have left his eyes, his face shows the same hurt expression it wore just after I struck him. I want to feel guilty, perhaps I want to consider apologizing, but the pain in my head and all my muscles require my full effort to control.
The men stay late and volunteer for tasks that still require attention. Our plans are extensive and tonight we are giving them all a careful examination. At a quarter to eleven, my strained voice gives out and I am forced to lead the meeting with a hoarse whisper. I receive several concerned looks and Comberferre asks me nervously if I would rather adjourn for the night and continue tomorrow. But I am too proud to let them see me cave in to my physical frailties; shaking my head at Comberferre, I pull several maps out of my bag and begin marking where we will build our defenses.
It is well past midnight. The men are watching me intently, so I must be making sense, but I no longer know what I am saying. There is a dreadful ringing in my ears which is causing the pain in my head to double. It's so very cold in here! I glance toward the fire and see that it is blazing. Why, then, is it not warming the room? Would I look too weak if I fetched my coat? No one else seems cold; perhaps they'll think I'm running a fever. Am I?
Grantaire is watching me from his corner. As far as I can tell, he hasn't had anything to drink all night. Why is he here? Did I not make it clear last night that he is not welcome? Why is he looking at me like that? Of course, he can see how exhausted I am. He is the only one who can… or perhaps the only one who cares to notice? He hasn't said a word tonight; he's probably afraid I'll hit him with something more painful than my hand. Tonight, I actually wish he would interrupt. Anything to make me stop talking would be a relief.
I stop after each sentence to swallow down the nausea rising in my throat. For a moment, I think of the slice of bread and mouthful of cheese I forced myself to eat several hours ago and I am very nearly sick. I mustn't think of food, or of anything except breathing deeply and slowly.
Joly calls out to me, asking some question I do not understand. The room twists as I turn to face him and I find myself clinging to the back of my chair for support. Everything is spinning. The fireplace has exploded out into the room, burning all it touches. I think my jacket must have caught fire, for the oppressive heat is suddenly choking me.
My knees buckle beneath me. I can't do this! I can't stand anymore. Just let me rest for a moment, please… I'll be alright. But why am I fighting so hard for a cause that is sure to fail? I don't want to struggle anymore. I only want to sleep.
My head rolls back, for I no longer have the strength to hold it high. I am falling, falling into a deep, cold darkness where there are no more responsibilities and where I am asked to do nothing but breathe…
The world from whence I so recently came is making so much noise that it is ruining my quiet blackness. I think I hear my name. People are grabbing me, hurting me. Why can't they leave me alone?
One voice rings out above the others. I don't remember who it is, but it sends a peculiar feeling through my body. I am at once irritated and sure that I am safe. "Back up, for God's sake! Give him some air!"
A cool hand gently brushes my hair off of my face. It feels so good! "Come on, Apollo. Wake up. You're strong; just open your eyes and you'll be alright."
But I don't want to be strong. I want to stay right here and sleep. Would he keep his hand on my face like this while I rest, just for a bit?
I have no sooner thought these words than the hand vanishes. "Why don't you all go home?" The voice sounds protective, the way a father might sound. Of course, I am only speculating, for my father never protected me.
"And leave him in your care? Not to be offensive, but you can barely care for yourself."
"I'm sober. I'm responsible as any of you when I can see straight. And he wouldn't want all of you seeing him in this condition."
Another voice joins the argument against the man standing over me. "You would be the one he would least want with him."
Why would I least want the man who so obviously cares the most for me?
He does not discuss his merits with them further; he simply says, "Go now. I'll look after him well."
The fact that such a weak argument sends them away shows how little they actually care about me. I am glad they are gone.
That wonderfully cool hand is on my face again. "They're gone, Apollo. Everything will be fine. You don't have to talk anymore. Please just wake up."
He sounds so worried. I want to tell him I'm only sleeping, but cannot make my lips move. Slowly, painfully, I force me eyes open. The room is too bright and still spinning. I am about to return to the darkness when I see Grantaire watching me with concern on his mismatched features.
For years, he has endured my cold remarks and returns each night to hear me reprimand him again. Last night, I struck him and chased him from this place where he has tried to win my acceptance. And still he is here, keeping me from prying eyes and soothing me with his gentle hand.
"You have finally seen the marble crumble," I croak softly. "How does it feel?"
"Horrible," he replies. "It is my place to be sprawled on the floor, not yours."
"Grantaire… I am so sorry. Last night, I-"
"Hush. I know. I deserved it and you were ill. I saw how tired you were; I shouldn't have baited you."
I am too exhausted to protest. We can continue this later. Now, I must try to preserve whatever remains of my dignity. I try to sit, but lack the strength. Grantaire wordlessly pulls me up and leans me against his chest.
The motion sickens me so that not even closing my eyes stops the spinning in my head. I breathe deeply and smell the stale wine that has dried on Grantaire's vest. Swallowing is no longer of any use. My cheeks flush with shame as the unbreakable Marcellin Enjolras vomits on his loyal Winecask.
He does not even flinch, but simply holds me, rubbing my back with one hand and pushing my unkempt hair away from my mouth with the other. "That's it, Enjolras. You'll feel better once you get it all out. Go ahead."
It feels strange to hear him say my name, but I like it. He pronounces 'Enjolras' like a song; as if it is the most beautiful word he has ever spoken.
I am sick again, but am no longer ashamed. Grantaire will not think less of me for this, for he already knows that I am quite human. He will stay with me and protect my reputation; if he has not exposed my frailties to my followers by now, I can trust him not to do it in the future.
He is talking to me, saying something about a cab and home, but I cannot comprehend the meaning. His quiet, rough voice is a lullaby to my fevered brain and I listen to it until I fall finally, blissfully asleep.
I was going to make this chapter a lot longer, but decided to break it into two pieces because I really wanted to put something up today. Again, I really need advice on this, so please review!