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You sit in your corner with your hands wrapped around a bottle
and your eyes wrapped around him,
around the lock of hair that always hangs in his eyes
and the creases of his red jacket at his hips
and the fingers that will never twine with your own.
He is a prophet
preaching the gospel of all the things the world could be,
the fire of his conviction setting the room ablaze around you
and you warm yourself by it though it scorches you.
He sees you, the only one his fire cannot kindle,
feels your shadow across his brilliance
and his marble face twists with scorn
at the heretic who dares enter his sacred place.
“Grantaire,” he says, and your name is cold and stone-hard in his clear voice,
“you are incapable of believing,
of thinking,
of willing,
of living,
and of dying.”
The words sting,
confirmation of his disdain for all that you are,
but you bind your gaze to his as you reply:
“You will see.”
You slouch at your table with your hands wrapped around a bottle
and your mind struggling to wrap itself around the idea of him
gone,
his hair turning rust-red with blood
and the crimson of his jacket becoming indistinguishable from the crimson all around
and those fingers twitching and going still.
He is a messiah
leading his apostles down the path to Calvary
to be sacrifices on the altar of progress
and they go willingly.
He does not see you here,
drinking as though the world is ending
because it is,
because he is ending
and you would follow him anywhere
even into oblivion.
So you drink to drown yourself and the gunshots outside
and when sleep comes you do not fight it.
When you wake it is unexpected.
The room is silent as a winter’s morning
and your fingers are numb
and this is wrong.
You lift your head from where your cheek had been pressed to the table
and your breath flees your lungs as you see him
standing alone at the window,
his hair wild around his serious face
and his jacket rent across the front
and his fingers clenched defiantly around that damned flag.
He is a god
glowing with divine fury
martyring himself to his cause
and as always you are devout.
He sees you, the only one left
and your name is a question in his eyes.
Grantaire
You lock your eyes on his from across the room
and you would not move them now for the world.
you are incapable of believing
You never shared his convictions.
This has not changed;
you cannot see a better world beyond his barricade
but you can see him
and he is the one thing
you can believe in.
of thinking
You do not know what you are doing.
You have long passed the point of logic and are functioning on instinct alone,
on the surety that this is what must be
and for fear you might change your mind
you do not stop to think it through.
of willing
You stand though your legs are leaden.
Somehow you stay upright,
somehow you walk toward him
and although the soldiers’ guns are pointing at you now
you will yourself not to falter.
of living
You have never put much stock in life.
It is cruel and unfeeling and seeks to break you
and you have always preferred it when less than sober
but though the alcohol sings in your veins
you are more alive now than you have ever been.
and of dying.
You reach him.
You must have spoken because all the soldiers are watching you expectantly.
The words come from somewhere inside you you had not known existed:
“Finish both of us at one blow,”
and you turn to him
and your eyes have not left his as you ask
“Permets-tu?”
A heartbeat.
His fingers brush yours like a breath
and he clasps your hand.
His eyes are no longer burning you
but filling you with a gentle warmth
and he is
- miracle of miracles -
smiling
at you.
When the world shatters
he is still smiling
and his hand is still in yours.
You will see.