When Grantaire awoke, his head felt as though it was splitting in half. Moaning, he pressed the heel of his palm to the ache and tried to recollect the previous evening's events. What the hell had happened? He had obviously drunk an obscene amount to have a hangover like this… He hadn't felt this way in ages.
At that moment, Grantaire felt something stir beside him. Looking down, he saw the slumbering form of Éponine, her chin tucked comfortably over his shoulder, her hat and street clothes still on. His insides went cold.
"Fuck."
The memories came crashing in on Grantaire, as well as a vision of what today held for both of them. Today was the barricades.
Grantaire half leapt, half fell out of bed and staggered towards his liquor cabinets.
Enjolras stood atop the barricade, musket in hand, coldly eying Grantaire. With great displeasure, he remarked the drunken wobble of the man's steps and the way he occasionally clutched at the gamine Éponine's shoulder to steady himself. Bitter disdain filled Enjolras's mouth.
"Grantaire!" he called out sharply, "Go sleep off your liquor elsewhere. The barricades are no place for drunkenness. You dishonour the revolution."
The sot raised his head and Enjolras caught a glimpse of heavy-lidded, impassive eyes. He'd been anticipating hurt in those eyes — Grantaire always took on the air of a wounded puppy whenever Enjolras spurned him. But there was none of that this time.
"Fuck off, Enjolras."
Enjolras blinked, stunned. Then, he arched a golden eyebrow.
Éponine, who stood at Grantaire's side, gaped up at her friend. Hesitantly, she reached out and placed an anxious hand on his shoulder.
"'Taire… you okay?"
Grantaire simply looked at her, saying nothing. Then he turned his gaze back to Enjolras. He stared at the object of his longsuffering infatuation, taking in his golden curls, his ivory brow, his piercing blue eyes.
He hated him.
Enjolras — the Enjolrases of the world — the Pontmercys of the world… they were the reason Éponine was here.