Bossuet's funeral was first out of the friends. Then Combeferre. Jehan. Feuilly. One by one, Enjolras watched his friends get dropped into the ground. And of course, he would try to remember them, but he knew that eventually, he would have to smile again and maybe things would seem like they were okay. But, they weren't
He remembered pool hopping with Feuilly in 10th grade. He remembered rebelling against "the man" and smoking cigarettes with Bossuet in 12th grade. He laughed with Jehan about Marius trying to get up the courage to actually talk to Cosette in 7th grade. He remembered getting drunk with Combeferre in 9th grade off of , they were gone like they had never been there in the first place.
Enjolras downed his fifth shot, slouched over against the bar table. It was 3:00 AM and he sat alone, his head pounding. Lately, waking up in the morning with a hangover was the only way he would be able to somehow fight off the tears that would constantly flow down his face. The sobbing had been over for several days now and now, he would just have tears constantly coming off his cheeks. And he didn't understand why.
His whole self hurt. Everything about him ached. He ached to go back to what seemed so close, but was really so far. Amy Winehouse played silently through the empty bar as he tried to straighten out his thoughts into sentences.
"Hey, we close in ten minutes, bud. You needa cab?" The bartender asked with a thick New York as he shined a cup, "You don't look too hot," Enjolras tried to form words, but his voice cracked and suddenly, a new wave of tears were flooding down his face.
"Jesus, buddy. Sorry if I offended ya," The bartender said, throwing the rag over his shoulder, "The cab will be here in twenty and I think it's in both of our best interests if you lay off the alcohol,"
"Yeah, sure," Enjolras said, wiping away a tear, his voice slurred, "This is a fucked up world. And it seems that nobody else seems to notice it," The bartender said nothing and Enjolras just got up suddenly, grabbing his jacket. He teetered for a moment, balancing himself before stumbling out into the cold air.
He tripped over his own feet as he made his way back to his house. Somehow, he remembered where he was and he fumbled for the key in his pocket, jabbing it into the lock and stumbling upstairs, his head pounding, the world on a tilt.
He pounded on the door, not meaning to be loud, but it was loud all the same.
The door squeaked open and there stood Eponine. She rolled her eyes, but the eye roll was one of care and she grabbed his hands and led him inside.