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I think he hears me tell him that I love him.
I wish I could touch him. Hug him. Kiss him. Comfort him.
Tell him all the things I thought the nights he frustrated me. The nights he argued with me. The night I sent him away from the barricade.
I never thought he felt the way I did. He has always intrigued me. Courfeyrac would point out to me that I would stare at Grantaire. I never realized it, but I guess Courfeyrac was right – is right.
I can’t look away from him, even now. He is everything I’m not, and it fascinates me. Enthralls me. Excites me. I can’t explain it, which is maddening to someone with a way for words, like me.
I wish I could draw a picture or paint with beautiful mixing of color and texture, like he can. He has so many talents that he doesn’t give himself credit for.
Grantaire plays up being the drunk. The cynic.
My cynic. My drunk. My Grantaire. My opposite.
The one that natural instinct wouldn’t let me turn away from.
The one I shoved off in fear. Fear of what it meant to let him in. Fear of loving him. Fear of falling into the void of an uncertain thing.
Love is uncertain, and it scares me. To give part of myself over to someone else. To trust them to keep it as safe as I would.
I want that with Grantaire. I thought he’d never want that from me. I want to hug him and tell him everything will be okay.
He is screaming my name. Screaming at me. Begging. Pleading. Calling for us. Our friends. Cursing himself.
I wish I could hug him. I wish I could kiss away his tears.
I can’t.
I died too soon.
I died ignorant to the knowledge that I always had what I wanted.
I died before I could tell him just how much I loved him.
I’m sorry, Grantaire. So sorry that I never said it before I died. So sorry for all the hurtful words.
I’m sorry.
I’ll be here, though, watching over you. Always. I love you.