enjolras could only remember his face like a memory that had lasted like a flickering flame before there was nothing again. grantaire’s lips had tasted something foreign and he had been something estranged, perhaps it was the cigarette smoke or the way his fingers were always covered with charcoal. (maybe how words fell from his mouth like a breath of freedom which he hadn’t had to his own in his whole life or the wild look in his eye when he stared even in his cynicism at the horizon). they had called it the ship of dreams with an arrogance only businessmen could jest — a newspaper headline — and the titanic had sunk with hundreds left to the sea and enjolras could only hold grantaire’s hand until the cold was too much to bear.
"make every moment count," grantaire had said in a way enjolras hadn’t heard from him before and would never again. "before there are no more left to have."