Dearly Departed

“Give me some brandy on my breath….” His voice was weak, shaken, coming out in breathy sobs. He forced a unbelieving smile on his face, though tears proved that this smile meant nothing. Grantaire tried to wipe away the tears with the grimy ball of his hand, just smearing more dirt over his cheek. These were the actions of a lost man. A man who had everything he held dear to him taken away. He shook with more tears, making his way down the dark cobbled streets. “A-and… I’ll breath them all to death.”
The cold bit into his skin, chilling him to the bone. He had lost a considerable amount of weight since he lost Enjolras. He stopped eating. After all, why should he? The light that kept him going another day had almost entirely faded. But, it was still there. It was dim, but he pushed on through the darkness. But, he gave up on almost everything. He didn’t eat, hardly slept, drank himself almost to death each night. But, he had hope. Through everything, Grantaire had hope. Hope that, Enjolras wasn’t dead. Of course. He saw the grave… His mournful mother, and how everyone else was dead. But-he never saw the body. So naturally, the skeptic wanted himself to doubt the revolutionary leader was really dead… So he did. That was what kept the light from fading out… Even if everything told him otherwise. R always had been as stubborn as a mule. L-like when Enjolras yelled at him to stop drinking… And he never did. He chuckled to himself at the thought, clearing more tears as they rolled down.