It was nearly June. Late of May, when the nights ended in warm silence with the buzz of crickets and the skies still light with color. Neither knew what was coming, nobody could suspect what would come from the June Rebellion.

But for now, it was May. It was a quiet night in ABC café, the aftermath of a fight breaking loose with some of the National Guardsmen. Not enough for anybody to get caught and arrested, but enough to stress the growing tension.

Grantaire was not injured. Despite being known as the drunk, he was also a good brawler. While not participating much, preferring to drink over involving himself in the rebellion, he’d got caught in the middle of it all.

His head spun from a bitter hangover, as he watched some rebellion members leaving with mirth and pride on their faces, others with nervousness. His eyes found the same person they always crawled back to: Enjolras.

Sitting alone, independent as ever. Struggling to patch up a fat, juicy slice across the back of his lower thigh. Rarely, he saw Enjolras wounded.

A strange sense of obligation washed over Grantaire. Not out of confidence, or eagerness to help. Of course not, he didn’t feel worthy of it laying a finger on that man— but he could not bear to see him hurt.

Reluctantly, he walked over. Trying very hard to appear sober. Wordlessly, he sat in a stool beside Enjolras, taking the cloth and alcohol rub from him, grimacing into a tight lipped smile.

“You truly believe we’ll change the world, don’t you? Putting people in harms way, for a chance to get what you want?” Grantaire spoke, cynicism sinking into his bitter tone. He hoped his words would distract Enjolras from his kind, yet uncharacteristic gesture of care.