Grantaire is an extraordinarily ugly individual.

That is not to say that he had any particular shocking or grotesque features. One might even say he looked to be a rather dashing young man, so long as they were at a distance. He is not extraordinarily ugly in the sense that he surpasses the average ugly person by some great measure, but in the sense that the nature of his ugliness (called this only because there exists no better word) is so entirely unique to himself that it shocks one to the soul.

There is something in his eyes, or, there is something absent from his eyes. A painter, gymnast, boxer, and dancer, he looked for all the world like someone who lived their life by the passion of art, and yet, there was something so abhorrently empty in him. It was as though someone had stripped the very soul from his being, leaving only a ghost of a man to continue doing whatever it was he did before. It evoked a feeling very similar to seeing something shamble around long after it had died, a sort of bone-deep unease. A sense that what was and should be has been upset.

Grantaire knows, very well, the effect he has on people. His all-consuming nihilism like a dark vacuum into which all hope is irretrievably lost. It scares them. He had found, over his years of slumming through Paris, many methods by which he could hide this part of himself. The most effective, for both himself and others, was drink. Alcohol could always be trusted to pull a thick veil over the ugly parts of his soul, drowning them for at least a short while, a momentary, fleeting, reprieve from the longing he did not understand, a longing for something unseen and unknown. Even when it failed, any slip of the tongue, any emptiness of heart or manner could be blamed easily on the bottle. So, from a crutch was born a habit, and then, an extension of personality.

It is better this way. He told himself this often. It is better this way. Even when he is sick and shaking, even when he is spit on and sneered at by those who deem themselves fit to judge. It is better this way. Like a mantra, almost as though he believes he can convince even himself, it is better this way. Perhaps he has.

If Grantiare could rank all of the world's most horrible misfortunes, he would place this one at the top. His coming to the ABC cafe was a mistake, one he continues to make with higher and higher frequency. At this point 'mistake' is likely the wrong word. A bad habit then? A sin?

At first it had been an invitation to a single meeting. He had arrived, bottle in hand, fully prepared to get himself kicked out or ignored rather quickly, and been met by a group of young, hopeful people whom it seemed wanted nothing more than to call him a friend. It was strange, in that novel sort of way that a beautiful bird is strange: unexpected, but not unwelcome. Before he could stop himself they were all laughing and joking as though they had known each other for many years. This likely would have continued long into the night had they not been interrupted by a sudden hush that fell with the entrance of a man Grantaire can only describe as godly.

He looked so much like the Apollo he had seen in painting and illustration books that he could not look away for an absurdly long time. It was the unspeakably odd experience of remembering a stranger. The unsettling feeling that you understand something (or someone) beyond a natural capacity. The sort of feeling that makes you wonder if your soul could have lived independently of you sometime in a vague before. The man possessed a light about him. Something otherworldly, but not unfamiliar. Something unnamable and lovely. Grantaire had wondered, absently, if he should try and convince this stranger to model for his portrait class. After all, it wasn't often that an artist was visited by a godly muse in such a corporeal sense.

All reverent wonderings were quickly thrown out of mind as soon as Enjolras spoke. He was completely delusional, the light of hope dancing so viciously in his eyes he looked as though his soul were made of flame. A hope so strong it bordered on a feverish madness. Even more amazing, he had every person present entirely convinced that he was not only sane, but sound. Everytime he opened his mouth the most amazingly naive and blasphemous things came pouring out in the loveliest way, so really, it was understandable that they should listen so enraptured. Grantaire was quite nearly immune to his word's effect, and before he knew it, he had opened his own mouth, words flat and grounded in comparison, and there the trouble began.

It had been many months now since that first meeting, and Grantaire had become something of a novelty to the group. Always trusted to tell the truth, to criticise with reason, and be consistently and terribly drunk. One of the men, Joly, had taken particular interest in his alcoholism. He was fully convinced that if Grantaire didn't stop, he would die, and Grantaire was convinced that if he did, he might as well. But Joly won some nights, and Grantaire would try and sleep through the meeting so as not to destroy the picture of him his good friends had painted for themselves. These nights were the hardest.

He knew without the drink to slur his words, his stumble to make them laugh, they would all have to see who he was: a mere hapless cynic. So, when Joly was victorious, he ignored them as best he could, even when he could feel Enjolras staring daggers at him, daring him to challenge whatever new argument had sprung up. It took everything in him not to respond. Enjolras was one of the few people that could look him in the eye with more than pity or disgust, though those were present too, the man was often at least slightly enraged and it comforted Grantaire in some small strange way to know that this man, so perfect in hope and humanity, could look him in the eye at all. At times it felt that the flame of Enjolras' utter faith in people and in life, could warm some small forgotten part of him, but when those flames turned to him, that piece retreated, often singed and wincing.

It seemed to be a fact of their nature at this point. Grantaire was snide. Enjolras was angry. Joly was worried. And it seemed that everyone was always shouting, but it was comfortable and familiar, and felt almost like a strange sort of home.

Tonight is a bad night. Grantaire had gotten into a boxing match while a bit too drunk and gotten his jaw dislocated by a man with a top hat so worn the rim had all but disintegrated. It would have been wise to keep this observation to himself, but alas, it wasn't meant to be. Joly had found him slumped in the corner of the cafe's upstairs room that morning and managed to re-align it, but the swelling has yet to go down and leaves Grantaire unable to do more than take small sips of water and mumble through his teeth.

He glowers at the table as his friends file in for the evening's meeting, trying his damndest not to give in to the cough that has been scratching at his throat for nearly a week now. He was surprised it hadn't let up yet, instead re-announcing it's presence as often as possible with watery phlegm and itching. As much as he would welcome the relief, he knows coughing would only make his jaw flare up again, so he resists. The chair to his left is filled with a shuffle and sigh as Joly stakes his claim.

"I'm going to take the opportunity of your speechlessness to try and tell you something without an interruption, got it?" Joly raises an eyebrow threateningly, Grantaire ignores this and eyes the door beyond his friends shoulder, "Don't even try to escape this, Grantaire."

Grantaire just sighs through his nose and looks back to the table, tracing a scratch with his thumbnail. Running was no use, and he was tired anyway.

"You've got to stop the drinking and the fighting, it's going to do you in sooner rather than later. This should be a wake up call for you. This time it's just a dislocated jaw, but what about next time, or the time after that? Next thing I know you'll be coming to me with a bayonet in your stomach. It's just not healthy."

Grantaire sighs, wishing he could respond somehow, but knowing that he has nothing to say. Except maybe to ask where he would even get the bayonet from. Joly is right of course, bayonet aside, but what else is there for him?

Enjolras enters the cafe and the ruckus turns into a murmur as his clear blue eyes sweep the inhabitants. Grantaire welcomes the distraction and stares back, a hint of adversity twinkling in his eye. Apollo notices, and instead of the usual look of contempt, the man only shakes his head and allows a small smile to turn up the corners of his lips in response to Grantaire's familiar absurdity.

"You can't do that if you're dead." Joly whispers, "You live to argue with Enjolras, but look where the fighting has gotten you, now how do you plan to challenge him? Hmm?"

Grantaire wants to tell him to be quiet, to leave him alone, to stop trying to save him, but he can't. So he grips the wine bottle- now full of water thanks to Joly- and glares at the table.

"-and so, with the help of general Lemarc in parliament, we will be able to form another protest, this time without uniformed intervention. So long as it is peaceful, and quiet, we can avoid a confrontation. It would be best, I believe, to carry it out in front of the Elephant, a symbol of the crumbling empire. Now, we will need-"

Grantaire snorts, how could Enjolras believe, that just because one man in power tolerated half of the same nonsense, that it would keep them safe? He was going to get himself killed, get all of them killed. And for what? A delusion? Was he really so willing to throw away all his potential, all his skill, in trying to build something for people who wouldn't care if he bled out at their feet. He could stop now, could keep his dissent to the shadows, finish his schooling and live long enough to really do something about it. He was worth more than this. He didn't have to die.

He realises too late that the cafe is quiet, that all eyes are locked on him, and a fuming Enjolras.

"Oh please," Enjolras starts, inviting words dripping with venom, "Do tell us what you find so funny Monsieur Grantaire."

Grantaire looks up at him, the fight gone from his eyes, far too sober to find any of this more amusing than sad. He says nothing. He can't.

"Well?" Enjolras takes a threatening step forward, cheeks flushed with righteous fury.

Joly stiffens beside Grantaire, grabbing his sleeve below the table to try and hold him back, despite Grantaire making no move to approach.

"Well?!" Enjolras repeats, now losing whatever was left of his collected composure.

Grantaire sighs. Enjolras wasn't going to let it drop. The only way to calm him down would be to give him an answer.

Enjolras begins marching across the room, and Grantaire holds up a hand to signal him to stop. Enjolras does, some anger diffusing into his confusion. Grantaire shakes Joly's hold off, and rises to meet Enjolras, bottle in hand. As he continues past the tables the light catches the left of his face, Courfeyrac uttering a sympathetic hiss of pain at the sight of the extensive bruising.

He watches as Enjolras' shoulders fall a bit at the sight of him, bloodied and beaten, and Grantaire resents his pity for a moment.

"See 'ere." He mumbles through his teeth, raising the bottle to Enjolras, "You 'ink 'm drunk, yeah? 'Just some idiot withou' a thought in 'is head? Only a drunk coul' scoff a' you?"

His jaw screams in pain at being moved even this much, the accompanying headache flaring up with a dizzying pulsing. He hates that he can't clarify his words, even drunk, he refrains from slurring. He looks Enjolras squarely in the eye, pouring the contents of the bottle on the floor.

Jehan starts to shout a protest about the mess, but stops short when water, not wine, spills across the floor.

"You make th' mistake, Monsieur Enjolras, of 'aking your beliefs for fact. I only hope thi' is the las' time."

Enjolras looks at him with something Grantaire can't name, something akin to surprise, only a shadow of his previous anger remaining. He says nothing.

"Good 'ight" Grantaire mumbles, shoving past him to leave, pushing his empty bottle into Ejolras' chest. A pointed reminder.

He walks out, and, for the first time in a while, he doesn't look back.