#catchingtomorrow

Summary: Grantaire prides himself on being good with words. He may not be a poet like Jehan or a philosopher like Combeferre, but he can talk circles around most people and has a quick response or sharp comment loaded and ready to fire approximately ninety-eight percent of the time. He has a vocabulary wider than most teachers', could go head to head with the Sphinx in a riddle contest and tells one hell of a good story. But if you asked him how he managed to end up like this, lying flat on his dormitory's dusty carpet (and he has always so hated that ugly geometric pattern) with his hands up Éponine's shirt and her tongue down his throat, it would be a safe bet that his beloved words would fail him.

He thinks he knew it from the beginning. Somewhere right at the back of his mind, hidden amongst the cobwebbed childhood memories and the demons lurking where the light will never reach. It's usually in his best interests to leave the thoughts that make their homes down there alone, skirting deftly around them whenever his neural pathways veer too close and washing them back with tides of alcohol whenever they start to crawl out into places he can't ignore. It's for this reason, he thinks, that it didn't come back to him earlier. Not until he took the scenic route home one evening when the moon shone in the sky and the sun shone on the horizon and he was just the right side of tipsy.