Who: Grantaire and open When: When he arrives, we'll say morning Where: A road near the park What: Wtf? What happened to being dead in France?
How had it come to this? How had he come to be standing at the top of the stairs, watching his friend staring down the soldiers and their guns, ready to face death? If he were honest (which was a rare occurrence on a good day, and he did not have many of those), he could not truly recall much of the last twenty four hours. Wine, as ever, had carried him through.
But now, his eyes met those of Enjolras. Why did he have to be so bloody steadfast for his cause? Grantaire then was left with no choice but to stand by him.
The shots were fired and he hit the wall, everything drifting then going dark. That should have been it, he was ready for the end. Why then was he opening his eyes? Above him he could see the open sky. Which made little sense, unless they had dragged his body outside. And what of Enjolras? Did he still live too? It wasn't possible. They had been riddled with bullets, and yet he felt no pain. Not in the calm, pleasant numbing way of too much to drink. But a very real and disturbing lack of pain. Disturbing because he should be in agony or dead.
The ground beneath him was hard and he was just contemplating getting off of it when an almighty blasting horn sounded, with a horrible screeching he couldn't identify. Stumbling to his feet he was met with the sight of a large metal contraption, the likes of which he had never seen before. The man standing beside it was yelling at him so fast it was near indistinguishable. But it was clear for whatever reason he wanted him out of the way. Taking a step back and away, his foot caught the gutter of the road, and he tripped backward to land ungracefully in a bush.