Grantaire knew what the revolution would bring. The blood, the shots, the cannons, and the thought of what was to come made him sink further into his bottle.
But it wasn't just his own death that shook him to his core, it was the fear of watching the fall of the only person he ever truly cared about. Even after nights of his usual indulgences, he'd lay on his worn mattress, on the cusp of dreams when the images would come to him. He'd see them all; Combeferre and Joly's expired bodies on top of those whose lives they'd inevitably try to save, Prouvaire with his hand on heart. But there was one image that disturbed him the most. It was Enjolras. He was alone, his perfect figure covered in blood and the cascade of blonde hair covering his face.
"Why should I care so much for him?" he'd always ask himself, but no clear answer ever came. Enjolras was Achilles, seemingly impenetrable and somehow utterly inhuman. Grantaire found small pleasures in his bottle, the thrill of gambling, in-b