Grantaire guzzled down another prolonged gulp of wine, swaying in his chair. His thick eyebrows furrowed with slight irritation as the door of Café swung open. The sharp glare of the sun momentarily blinded him— wait, it wasn’t night time?

He internally winced, but did not stop drinking.

Grantaire was a very negative man. Cynical, many put it. He didn’t care for a thing in the world. Life? Everybody died in the end, didn’t they? Death? We all face in eventually, right?

There was one thing he cared about, and that was Enjolras.

His eyes snapped over to him as the man walked into the café, proud. He watched him, drink hesitating at his chapped lips.

Grantaire looked at Enjolras as if he were the sun god himself, Apollo. His eyes would gleam with an undying admiration, even as the man scolded him for drinking, or disregarded him completely for his ideals.

Grantaire didn’t care. He felt mad for this man, and while he didn’t quite understand it, that didn’t stop his interest. Love was the best term for it, but it wasn’t like a man would ever consider loving another man willingly in the 19th century.