I'm not dead! Sorry, I was forever, I've just been so, so busy! Hope all those who celebrate had a fantastic holiday (whichever one) and everyone is happy and healthy! I also hope I still have any readers left to wish this for, to be honest!
Well, if you are here - I don't own Les Miserables, and on with the story!
When Grantaire woke up, he had no idea how much time had passed. An hour? A day? A week?
He scoffed inwardly. What did it matter anyway? Nobody cared. He didn't even care. He'd stopped caring about time, about himself, about everything, the moment he stepped out of that apartment and nobody followed him. He had no friends, he saw that now: Enjolras was nothing but disappointed in him, Éponine lied to him, and Combeferre hid the truth, which to him was the same. Nobody wanted him around. He was just a loud, smelly, drunken burden to them all.
He had no idea where he was and no energy or desire to raise his head to find out. Outside, definitely. In an alleyway, probably. In a puddle, maybe. Who cared? Who cared at all?
The worst part - the bit that cut into him like a knife, slowly pushing its way into his back, twisting slowly as the magnitude of the realisation slowly dawned - was that he wasn't even surprised at the rejection. A small part of him, no matter how much he'd ignored it, had always known that it wasn't to be. He had even known, very deep down, that Enjolras was straight; he'd said as much, after all, no matter how much Grantaire internally argued. But of all the women in all of Paris – in the entire world… it was the only one he wasn't worried about. Éponine, of all people. The ex-street rat: underfed, argumentative, sarcastic, endlessly picking holes in Enjolras' arguments and plans… Enjolras wouldn't have been interested in the slightest, he found her irritating! And she found him just as bad – she'd laughed at his declarations of adoration once, declaring the man "insufferable", and asking "how the fuck he could see past the ego?!". Jesus, look at the last guy she loved – Marius freaking Pontmercy –she couldn't have more different taste if she tried!
And yet, there they were. Sleeping in the same bed. Touching each other like it was the easiest thing in the world. Talking of love like that wasn't the most unexpected and ridiculous and fucking unfair thing they could have come up with.
"All this fucking time" he rasped out into the balmy early summer air. "And she never even TOLD ME"
What a fucking idiot she must have thought him. Old Romeo, lusting endlessly after the only one he could never have – he never suspected she'd be bloody Count Paris, or that Juliet would fucking fall for THAT ONE. She'd listened to him mooning for months – she probably went home and laughed about it while Enjolras… no no nope nope don't even go there, don't even think about it.
God, he wanted a drink. Fighting torturously through the painful sparkles of an extreme hangover that exploded behind his eyes as he moved, Grantaire sat up. Looking blearily around him, he found himself in a narrow alleyway, his hands covered in something bright red and… well, gloopy was really the only word that came to mind. Wiping it on his filthy jeans, he wiped his eyes to clear them and looked around.
It was daytime, and it was warm – that meant it had been at least 12 hours, but from the hangover he was sporting he guessed it was at least a day later, if not more. God knew what he'd been doing, but there was a lot of alcohol involved, probably some fighting, from his knuckles, and… paint?
He turned around to face the opposite wall of the alley, his eyes confronted with a huge, bright monstrosity that was… well… It was the best thing he had ever painted. 7 feet high, Enjolras' head and torso assaulted his eyes; the face finally right, cheekbones sharp but soft, brow set in determination, the jaw chiselled but lifelike, and the eyes bright, hard, and deep as the ocean. The curls of his hair were just right, and the red of his jacket was like a shiny beacon, begging you to look at him, to pay attention. And the glow…
It was finally right. Finally, he'd got it. The warm fuzzy feeling that he got from looking at Enjolras, replicated in paint form in a way it had never been before. He supposed he knew what it was now, why it had changed, who it was really for… he understood it, and now he could paint it.
The disgust rose in him like bile, and his face crumpled into a snarl of fury and hurt, and all of a sudden he just couldn't look at it anymore, he was done, he'd had enough, he couldn't hurt any more. And he grabbed whatever he could get his hands on: a broken chair, trash, the empty paint containers scattered around the place – he hurled them, with all his might, at the wall. He was desperate, furious, heartbroken, and he shouted it at the wall – "HOW COULD YOU", "WHY" "I HATE YOU" – until there was nothing left to throw and all he could do was sob. He sank to the floor again, crying his heart out, wishing it would end, that he could just stop feeling, stop existing. And when all the tears were dry, he looked up at the wall, where eight stains slashed across the best thing he would ever make, and he felt nothing but emptiness. So he stood up, and dragged himself off.
God, I need a drink he thought to himself, wearily.
When Enjolras woke up, he had no idea how much time had passed, but he knew something was wrong. His neck was stiff and he rubbed it uncomfortably with his hand as he stood up from the single chair in the living room; the one facing the door, which they hardly ever used, and when they did it was because they were waiting –
Éponine. The events of the night before hit him like a tidal wave, and a feeling of dread filled him as he half-ran to the door of his room, to Éponine's room, to Gavroche's - all empty. She was really gone. She hadn't come home.
The anger rose in him again. SHE'D left?! Why would SHE leave?! No close friends had turned up unannounced and suddenly declared their love for HER! SHE hadn't discovered that every single one of her friends knew about it and never told her! Nobody SHE loved had been hiding something huge from HER! Why should SHE get to leave?! This was all her fault, if she'd just told him in the first place…
But that wasn't right, and he knew it. It wasn't all Éponine's fault, and he'd blamed it all on her.
He groaned. Of course she left. I all but sent her away.
God, I'm an idiot he chastised himself. He sank down into the sofa and ran his hands furiously through his hair. "COMBEFERRE!" he yelled.
There was no answer from the philosopher. He'd have to wait this one out on his own.
After all, she had to come back, right?
Eventually.
She had to.
Didn't she?
Enjolras hardly moved for 3 days. And then he started to panic.
When Éponine woke up, she had no idea how much time had passed. Actually, her head hurt so much she could barely work out which way was up. What had happened? Why did I black out? How long have I been asleep?! A day? More?! She turned onto her side to look at the clock, and that was when it hit her: something was wrong. Her hipbone was digging uncomfortably into a too-hard, too-thin mattress. Her alarm clock was missing – in fact, there was no furniture at all. She was in a bare, dank, empty room, with no windows; nothing but a ragged, disgusting double bed. And her heart sank to the floor, because she knew exactly where she was: the one place she said she'd never go back to, the last place in the world she ever wanted to be.
The inn.
She was trapped in the back room at the inn. The fear filled her up so that her heartbeat thumped in her ears. She sat on the side of the bed, staring at the door as though willing it to explode open, to just let her escape, please, please, don't make me go back to this life, please… she begged whatever power there was or wasn't, begged her father though she knew he couldn't hear her, begged her mother, though she knew she'd never help.
She looked helplessly around the room, dreaming of a way out, just as she had every night for ten years, though she knew it was helpless. Her heart sank to the floor, despair gripping her, as Enjolras' face flashed across her mind, his eyes full of the disappointed look he'd given her as she left the apartment – the last thing she remembered. With a pang, she lay back down, her eyes filling with tears. I'm stuck in the inn. There's no way out. Enjolras definitely isn't coming to find me and probably never wants to see me again now he knows what I'm really like. Nobody knows where I am.
I don't know what to do she realised with a terrified start. I have absolutely no fucking idea what to do.
And then she heard the key in the door.
Please, please review, mostly so I know you still exist! Another one up as soon as I possibly can, and definitely before New Year. Thanks so much for not forgetting about me and my silly little story!