A/N: I do not own Les Misérables, nor anything following with it. I'm just a young woman who enjoys writing one-shots. Please enjoy.
Sober; it was so foreign to Grantaire that it made him ill. Physically, gut retching, ill. The hangover was easy to deal with. The part that was hard was actually looking into a mirror and seeing himself in the natural light of morning. He was pale, lanky, and his bones stuck out like some sort of monster from a fright film. Greasy curly hair outlined by dark eyes with bags under them. At least when he was drunk those were gone. It had only been four fours since he woke up to a kitchen deprived of any kind of alcoholic beverages. He knew the night prior there was at least one bottle stuffed somewhere. There had to be a bottle stuffed away somewhere. If there wasn't, he was fucked six ways from Sunday.
There was no way in Hell Grantaire was going to roll out of his flat looking like some half dead zombie. Oh, he didn't care what people thought of him anymore. He wasn't leaving because those people out there had venom in their words. So, he sat on his bed, calling anyone he could to pick up a bottle of Absolute. Everyone gave him the same answer or some form of 'No'. For them being 'caring friendd', none understood why he drank. Not even the only god he believed. In a way of ironic events, his god turned into one of the reasons he took in bottles a night. Grantaire needed wine like a fish needs water. He'd die without it. Maybe he could do just that. The dark haired man shooed the two prostitutes from the room. When did he pick up hose two...? /Why/ did he pick up those two? It made Grantaire hate himself even more.
Once the room was clear, R began his master plot in curing himself of all the bad he was emitting into the world. A letter opener, a bottle of sleeping pills, the straight razor... there were many choices. He thought about it, grabbing the bottle and razor and began his work. One by one, he places the medicine into his mouth and ate them. What a weird breakfast.
After what seemed like hours, everything was starting to get dizzy. His arm looked like a master piece Norman Bates would enjoy. His stomach was turning. His dark eyes felt so heavy.
When Grantaire woke up, he was met with the off white ceiling. There were nurses around him instantly, followed by Bahorel and Combeferre. Both were speaking to him. He decided to tune them out. Their words didn't mean anything right now. He didn't want to hear what they, or anyone had to say. He looked around, tensing as he spotted Enjolras sitting in the chair that was perched away from his bed. Those icy eyes where fixated onto the ground in a deadly stare. It made Grantaire tense.
That's when Combeferre's words began to voice in. Enjolras was the one who found him. The one who held his arm together until the ambulance arrived. The one who rode with him in the back. The one who gave him CPR when his heart stopped... Enjolras found him, in a pool of selfish blood and self pity.
Grantaire made his Apollo sad.