Chapter Text
Comberferre is gentle, but stern. He lists what seems to be every single mistake Enjolras has ever made methodically, and the list stretches on and on, but Combeferre is not mean about it, they both know someone has to keep Enjolras in check, and it's not gonna be Grantaire.
Enjolras listens carefully, easy acceptance of his faults untinged by hurt, nods from time to time. He's done so many terrible things; it takes Combeferre a while to go through them all, pointing out the faults in Enjolras' logic and better ways he could've handled it.
Courferac looks between them with concern. Enjolras knows he will interrupt Combeferre immediately if at any point this becomes uncomfortable, itches to interrupt as it is - but the sad truth is, this is the most comfortable Enjolras's been in months, years maybe. These days people just do as he says without a thought, and he misses this kind of gentle chiding Combeferre's so exceptional at.
Something about that thought chafes unexpectedly. Enjolras frowns, tries and fails to pinpoint the source of discomfort.
"Are you listening? Enjolras?" Combeferre asks, sensing inattention immediately. He really should've become a teacher, he would've been brilliant.
"Yeah, sorry," Enjolras answers at the same time with Courferac's "Oh, will you let him be, 'Ferre. He's doing the best he can."
Combeferre says nothing. That stings. "I'm sorry," Enjolras offers, hiding his eyes.
"Look at what you've done," Courferac fumes, "you've upset him!"
"He's not a child," comes the cold answer. "He will deal with the results of his actions, one way or another."
"But do we have to punish him for it? Can we not just talk to each other like normal people, for once?"
"I'm just trying to help."
Enjolras sighs, hugs his knees to the chest, rests his forehead on them. It's an old argument; like this, he feels almost like a child whose parents fight around him as if he's not there. He wishes it would end.
He wishes it wouldn't.
Gradually, he becomes aware that he doesn't understand what they're saying anymore. They're arguing still, loud exasperation against carefully contained anger, but the words they are saying are nonsense, reminding him, bizarrely, of the way the Sims characters speak.
Enjolras' head snaps up, and sure enough, they are not so much speaking as gurgling through the blood that spills from both their mouths, wide rivers of it quickly covering the floor, and he scrambles away, even though he knows by now it's going to be useless.
They both turn to look at him, Courferac reaches out, regret written all over his face. Combeferre puts a hand on his arm, holding him back gently. As Enjolras watches, the right side of Combeferre's face sort of collapses inward, more blood rushing out, mixed with something thicker, that Enjolras doesn't want to think about. He's backed up against a wall, nowhere left to run, and everywhere around him, on him, there's blood, endless streams of it coming from every direction at once, and his throat locks, the scream caught inside burning painfully-
*
He sits up in his bed with a single jerk of a movement, eyes flying open, still on the verge of screaming.
It takes a while to coax his heart into calmness, his throat muscles into relaxing. He sits there, a clammy palm against his forehead, taking deep breaths through teeth pressed together, and tries not to mind that Grantaire watches him do it.
"You okay?" the man asks cautiously, not moving from the stool he dragged to the opposite side of the room yesterday, a book lying open in his lap. Not for the first time, Enjolras wonders why not just read in bed, but he knows why, even if he refuses to acknowledge it; why Grantaire is so painfully polite about having to share a living space, why he puts as much space as possible between them at all times, why he never touches Enjolras. He knows, and yet it's tiring just the same. Enjolras is not a particularly tactile person, but even he is beginning to feel touch-starved - it must be twice as bad for Grantaire.
"Fine,” Enjolras lies easily. Thinking about Grantaire distracts him, at least, and breathing comes more naturally in its wake. As much as Enjolras fights it, it's nice to have someone near you, even when 'near' is, mostly, the other side of the room.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Grantaire tries, aiming for casual and missing by a wide margin.
That makes Enjolras smile. "Nothing to talk about. It's the old one, with the blood. You've heard it already."
Grantaire nods, leaning against the wall behind him and crossing his legs. Another bit of space between them, if an insignificant one.
Enjolras flops back onto his pillow, exasperated. "Will you not come to bed?" he asks, looking determinedly at the ceiling. It's off-white, a series of cracks running through it right above Enjolras' head, and Enjolras busies himself with counting them.
There's a rustle of clothes, then footsteps. Grantaire enjoys arguing with him, sometimes can't help it, but for all the arguments he has yet to refuse Enjolras anything. Perhaps it should make him feel guilty for asking, but the nightmare left him weak and wishing for a break from loneliness - Grantaire can call him an angel or Apollo, but Enjolras is as human as they come.
There's only one bed in the room, almost big enough for two people, and that's a luxury. In the last month alone they've slept in terrible motel rooms, dirty and crawling with insects, in a stolen car, in the waiting room on a railway station and on a bare mattress on the floor of an abandoned building. Here, it's stuffy and too hot for having no windows, but it's clean, and they have a proper bed and a shower they can use anytime - what else is there to want for?
If Enjolras knew how much literal dirt was involved in a revolution- ah, but he would've done it anyway. He would've always done it.
Grantaire gets under the covers, mostly dressed, lies there stiffly, pressed to Enjolras shoulder to hips. He's uncomfortable, but solid and warm; Enjolras wishes he hadn't asked and doesn't.
It's too hot to sleep and too awkward to talk, so they lie there silently, staring at cracks in the ceiling until it's time to get going again.
*
It's easier in public situations, where Grantaire sings praise to him and Enjolras dismisses it as mocking, denying the very real possibility that it's not.
Grantaire says, "You are the very definition of radiance. Your very skin seems to shine any time you open your mouth. Be careful, Apollo, a bit more and you will burn our weak mortal eyes." Enjolras thinks, impossibly, he is right. He can almost feel the light escaping him, enveloping anyone who stops to listen, sees it as their eyes glaze over, more importantly, as they offer themselves to the cause for little to no reward.
Grantaire names their deaths a ritual sacrifice. Enjolras hates it and hates even more that he's starting to agree.
It is no more about believing in the cause, the way it used to be with the Amis. Now people believe in him.
Enjolras talks, and the resistance blooms, growing strong, becoming a force to be reckoned with. It's a slow process for a few years until it's not; until suddenly they've got more money than they know what to do with, more supporters than the regime.
The retaliation is brutal.
*
"One hundred and four people," the phone says. Enjolras closes his eyes, swallows thickly. It's never been more than seven at a time, and now this.
"Anyone we know personally?" he forces out, keeping his voice level.
For about three seconds the line stays silent; Enjolras' heart sinks, and sinks, and sinks. "Bossuet and Feully," Eponine says, like ripping off a band-aid. "I'm sorry."
Enjolras doesn't realize he's frozen until Grantaire takes the phone out of his hand, murmurs a few agreements into it, a deep frown settled between his eyebrows. He hangs up with a sigh, returns the phone.
Neither of them knows what to say. Enjolras half expects Grantaire's 'I told you so', but out of the two of them Enjolras has always been the cruel one, so if Grantaire's thinking it, he keeps it to himself.
He is much better than Enjolras deserves.
*
It's an hour later when Musichetta comes. Though 'comes' is an unsuitably calm word; Musichetta bursts in, door slamming against the wall, startling both Grantaire and Enjolras badly from where they were talking out their options.
Behind her, chest heaving, is Joly, a stark contrast to Musichetta's red face and wild face expression. He's sickly pale, sweaty, horrified rather than angry and he tries uselessly to catch her hand, in an effort to lead her away or give her comfort, Enjolras can't tell.
Musichetta's grief has taken control from her. She shouts, curses and blames, the words often blending into each other to the point where Enjolras would have to struggle to understand her. He lets the words wash over him instead; the intent is clear enough and she can't say anything he hasn't said to himself by now. He darts a glance at Grantaire (worry and guilt) and makes a decision.
"Quiet," he orders, and Musichetta falls silent immediately, old habits difficult to kill. "Who told you you were allowed to barge in like this? We were having a conversation." She is not the only one who can be scary and unfair when angered.
Musichetta squares her shoulders, grits her teeth. "You killed him!" she hisses, which cuts deep, like all truths, and which doesn't matter right now.
"Collateral damage," Enjolras spits and watches everyone in the room flinch.
Musichetta steps forward, absolute murder in her eyes, Joly clutching her arm desperately, a litany of "come on, let's just go, please, let's leave" that she doesn't react to. Grantaire steps between her and Enjolras, pale and determined.
Musichetta stops. "You too, R?" Her eyes search his face. "Have you forgotten? You were our friend before you were his dog. Will you really take his side, even now?"
Grantaire's back is to Enjolras, but he can hear the slight smile in Grantaire's voice, as he says, "We cannot always choose the gods we serve".
Musichetta makes a noise that is not quite human. Joly puts all his weight into holding her away from Grantaire, as she screeches, "Bossuet's dead and you give me some fucking poetry?! Fuck you and fuck your pathetic crush! I wish we had left you to live on the streets! I wish we had never met you! I wish you were dead and not him!"
Joly cries, "'Chetta, please!" and she stops long enough for Enjolras' cold "Get out," to register. She turns on her heal, fuming, storms out, Joly in tow.
For the longest second in Enjolras' life, Grantaire stands there without moving, facing away, and this is the moment where Enjolras would pray, were he religious. He isn't; instead, he holds his breath, willing Grantaire silently to understand, preparing himself in case he has finally gone too far.
Grantaire turns, face full of some indescribable emotion, looks him in the eye and breathes out, fervently, "Thank you", and Enjolras doesn't know why he thought he wouldn't understand.
Grantaire always understands. Grantaire is always there. Grantaire is more than Enjolras deserves.
Grantaire is the only thing that matters.
*
Neither Musichetta, nor Joly ever come back.
Small victories are the most important ones.
*
Bahorel dies uselessly, in a bar fight, and Enjolras fumes and paces, spitting poison.
Grantaire laughs, sound bitter and unpleasant, says, "This, too, you will take from us, angel? We do not have the right to live for ourselves, we've given it up for you. Leave us the dignity of choosing to die for ourselves, if nothing else."
Enjolras turns away, ashamed and furious, lets his poison drip down his own throat instead of letting it out into the world - wonders, where his grief is.
What is grief?
*
Enjolras thinks, it would not have been like this if Courferac and Combeferre had lived. Under no circumstances would they have allowed the movement to turn into a cult. In his dream, Combeferre never tires of reminding Enjolras of that, and despite Courferac's gentle reassurances, it is a failure on Enjolras' part, though Grantaire is to blame as well, his generous praises rebutted by no one, falling onto the eager ears.
In an ideal world, they would have lived and kept him from becoming a- whatever it is he's become. But the strength of the cults is numbers of passionately obedient, large and growing larger, protesting and going on strikes in his name; Enjolras finds comfort in that, at least.
Of course, the comfort's an empty one, whether he knows that or not.
When it becomes apparent that they need people to lead branches of rebellion in the more distant parts of the country, Enjolras sends the rest of the Amis without a second thought. He doesn't trust the competence or the loyalty of anyone else, after all. Except for Marius and Grantaire, who stay with him in Paris, though for very different reasons, everyone else leaves.
"Look at you, the sun-like emperor, hand-picking the aristocrats out of your closest friends. Oh, the social justice! Oh, equal opportunities! Oh, anarchy!" Grantaire huffs, "What a legacy of change to leave behind!"
This, too, you will take from me? Enjolras thinks, perhaps unfairly. He can feel the hope for a perfect world, usually leaking out of him in droplets, rush out in a steady widening stream.
What's left is an emptiness steadily growing too big to ignore. The desire to stuff it with- anything, anything will do, is so strong Enjolras can't breathe for a whole second, reels, drowning in conflicting needs and terror.
The revolution as you run it is a terrible sham, his inner Combeferre supplies helpfully. Stop and rethink everything, immediately.
Grantaire is being unfair and trying to get a rise out of you, Courferac argues. Talk to him, you will both feel better about everything.
Enjolras's been silent for too long; now there's a hand on his arm, barely touching, and that almost-not-quite-contact is suddenly unbearable. Enjolras steps into Grantaire's personal space, watches his eyes go wide and helpless, and clings, as they kiss, balling his hands in the fabric of Grantaire's shirt, absolutely refusing to let go, even when it makes it unnecessarily difficult for Grantaire to maneuver them both through the apartment into his bedroom.
*
At some point of them having sex for the first time, Enjolras asks, "Is this okay?"
Grantaire laughs breathily, eyes shut tight, chest heaving, says, "No, definitely not," and when Enjolras freezes, he demands, in a whine, "Don't you dare stop." And since Enjolras is not made of steel, he doesn't.
That's pretty much how the relationship goes.
*
It changes things. Well, not really. In fact, it only changes one very small thing inside Enjolras that's been ready to change for a while anyway.
He starts looking for a way out.
*
Gavroche is 15 when Enjolras notices the way his orphans look at him.
He is only 15 - but it's there, bright and unmistakable. The adoration, the eyes glazing over, the unquestioning loyalty- it's the same, the exact same thing Enjolras sees every day wherever he goes. Barely a teenager, and yet. And yet.
Enjolras watches him talk, charismatic, sharp, shining, and thinks, here it is, here's what he's been looking for.
There's guilt there, so much guilt he has trouble breathing for a moment, the worst he's felt in a while - and then his eye meets Grantaire's, and the giddy hope wins out. He's made so many sacrifices already; what's one more? Italy, Enjolras thinks, can almost taste the sea salt on his tongue, feel the sun on his skin. He grins at Grantaire.
Grantaire smiles back, pleased with his happiness, if unsure of its cause.
*
Eponine sends her brother over without protest. She doesn't care; Enjolras isn't even sure whether she would if she knew what he intends for the boy. Grantaire finds out soon enough, since Enjolras doesn't really hide things from him, so it's he who gets pissed at the idea.
"He is a child, Enjolras! The fuck is your problem?" He shouts, and that feels strange now: they haven't had a proper screaming match for years and years, one or both of them now used to backing down when they feel their anger rising, at least until they calm down, and sometimes for good. These days they value their relationship above their principles, which is both lovely and sad.
"There is no problem. We were younger when we started," Enjolras snaps.
"Yeah, started handing out flyers, not leading an army!"
"So? He's capable, you've seen it too-"
"He's like a little brother to me!"
"So he's family, there's no question of trust and morals-"
"That doesn't mean you can just-"
"-and he is willing! He wants to be the leader!"
Grantaire slams his fist into the table between them. A cup tips over, spilling wine everywhere, as they sit glaring at each other. "You will not send a child to die in your stead," Grantaire spits, and it hurts, so Enjolras slumps with his elbows on the wet table, lowers his eyes.
"What happened to 'you can get out anytime, no one will blame you'?" He asks quietly. "I want out, Grantaire. I want..." Italy, he doesn't dare say out loud.
The silence rings. Enjolras looks up after a few seconds to find Grantaire pale and staring. Slowly, the other man raises his hands and clutches his own hair, and Enjolras reels back from the madness in his eyes. "Do you know how long I've dreamt of hearing that from you, Apollo? How did you manage to turn even this into a nightmare?"
There's nothing to say to that. This is, after all, what Enjolras does - turn idealistic unreachable dreams into very real nightmares.
*
That night Grantaire stumbles into their bed, drunk and sad, but allows himself to be kissed. "I'm sorry," Enjolras says and Grantaire laughs, unhinged.
"I do not begrudge a man who he is," he slurs, a quote from somewhere that Enjolras doesn't recognize. Grantaire buries his head in the crook of Enjolras's neck, sighs. "Do what you will, angel. Buy your freedom with another's blood. I give up."
"I love you," Enjolras says because it's true.
"I love you too," comes the obvious answer.
It fixes nothing.
*
Enjolras has Gavroche deliver some speeches, do some conscripting, raise some money. Everything comes easy as breathing to the boy - in some cases, Enjolras thinks, he would've done a worse job than Gavroche, and that's reassuring. Planning attacks, allocating resources, hours-long conference calls with Eponine and Jehan go tougher but still passable. A bit more time for him to grow up, and then-
Enjolras is uncharacteristically patient as Gavroche learns, little by little, nuances and workarounds - Grantaire watches from behind Enjolras' right shoulder, as usual, eyes hooded, never letting go of his flask. Enjolras introduces the boy to people as his second in command, the one to replace him if something happens to him - Grantaire grinds his teeth, and people assume jealousy, which is laughable, but easy enough to believe for those who don't know them well.
"I promise- I swear, R, he's not sleeping with me!" Enjolras catches one time as he walks by Gavroche's room. It stops him short. A choking sound follows, then in Grantaire's slightly horrified voice, "Well, I sure hope not, kid." Enjolras smiles and continues on his way, as Gavroche cries out, "Then what is it? Why are you avoiding me? What did I do?" Mercifully, Enjolras is too far to hear the answer.
The boy makes it almost a year before he's picked out by a sniper, overconfidence and idealism putting him in a perfect place for a bullet. In an uneasy coincidence, Eponine is apprehended earlier that same day, on the other end of the country, and faces the firing squad only an hour after her brother's death, having never found out about it.
Grantaire cries, huge sobs shaking his body with every breath; Enjolras feels nothing.
Nothing at all.
*
He hasn't had a dream about blood in years. Neither Combeferre, nor Courferac come to see him.
Grantaire tosses and turns - Enjolras's sleep is deep and sound.
*
Jehan comes to visit.
He is heavier now, his hair almost gray at barely past thirty, eyes tired and duller than Enjolras remembers. Marius is overjoyed; he misses the old days badly, and since he himself has lost almost none of his original faith, Enjolras and Grantaire's presence suffocates him rather than brings the memories back.
They drink and remember, in sharp contrast to the usual trying to forget. They say the names of the dead and gone out loud - with fondness and sadness mixed so closely it's impossible to separate the two. They sing songs it all started with.
The chairs around the table almost - almost - seem not empty.
Marius still can't hold his liquor, and Enjolras has to help him upstairs into his bed like they are still students, and in the true fashion of the period, Marius babbles about a girl, and falling in love, and beauty like no other, and knowing she's the one.
Enjolras is about to snap about loyalty to the cause and love being irrelevant, when he remembers that he hasn't let Grantaire anywhere near the shooting in a decade, sometimes to the point of leaving cities at the slightest hint of trouble.
Enjolras holds his tongue and shuts the door silently behind himself to let Marius rest.
Grantaire and Jehan are talking downstairs and Enjolras stops just out of sight at the sound of his own name.
"Do you regret it?" Grantaire asks. There's a rustle of fabric and a huff of breath - maybe a shrug.
"I used to, for a while," comes the answer. "Now I don't know. We are winning, aren't we? His methods work. The people will have their rights back. That's what matters." But it sounds empty, devoid of all meaning.
Grantaire humms. The doubts remain unspoken even as they hang in the air, heavy to the point of almost being palpable.
"What about you, R?" Jehan ventures. "I know you got at least some of what you used to want. Can't be all bad. Regrets?"
"Never." The answer is clear and sharp, and something inside Enjolras almost bursts with the joy of not having ruined this, at least. "There's nothing I could have done differently. It would always end like this."
Jehan makes a sound of agreement. "I can't imagine any other life. Literally, there's nothing but revolution inside my head. Do you remember I used to write a bit? Can't anymore. Imagination shriveled up and died. All I can think about is weapon deliveries and security risks - not something poems are made off."
"The last time I touched paint was before our first mission. God, a decade ago - more." There's a bit of silence. "Standing next to him - it's like being caught in a storm. You know? You may struggle or surrender, and it won't care, will just bring you along anyway, and if you drown in the process, then that's just your luck, not it's fault for being there."
A pause. "You know," Jehan says, thoughtful, "Joly called me that day, after- after talking to you two. I get what Enjolras did, but then Joly told me what you said, and I couldn't believe it at first, couldn't understand it. I think I understand now."
Grantaire makes an inquiring sound, and Jehan goes on. "Poetry has its way of worming into your heart and staying there. That's what it's known for. You dress your illusions in clumsy metaphors - and suddenly, they seem credible, don't they?"
"Do not talk to me about illusions, Jehan," Grantaire says, more taken aback than offended. "You are the ones who encouraged him at the beginning. You gave him the footing he wouldn't have alone. I was just a fool in love, along for the ride."
Jehan snorts. "I'm not blameless, none of us are. But you- how do you not see it, R? Combeferre and Courferac kept him grounded and in check, you- you made him into this, this thing instead of a person, this golden idol we now have to pray to.
"You are not caught in a storm, R. That's a wrong metaphor. Let's go with another one of yours, instead. Let's call this what it is: a religion, with our fearless leader as its god. Do you know what that makes you?"
"A believer," Grantaire presumes, hoarse.
Jehan sighs. "The high priest, R. The one who shapes the god's image in the eyes of men, and therefore the one who creates him. The god's cruelty and his indifference are out of your control, of course. But then, isn't it the men who define what their gods are? And weren't you the first to believe?"
"What will you have me do, Jehan?" Grantaire asks, angry. He means to continue, but Jehan is faster.
"Ideally? Walk away."
The silence rings and Enjolras can't take it anymore. He strides in, positions himself at Grantaire's right shoulder, a mirror reflection of the usual arrangement, puts a calming hand on his arm, before turning to face Jehan. "How much did you hear?" the man asks, looking tired.
"Enough."
"Look, Enjolras... I am not saying you are wrong to do what you do, per se. I believe still; that we'll win, and that better times are ahead. I will die for the cause tomorrow if it needs me to." He takes a breath. "But I don't like what we've become. And to tell you the truth, I don't much like you either, anymore."
Enjolras nods, runs his hand up Grantaire's arm to his neck and down again, automatic, calming them both. "That's okay, Jehan. I wish you wouldn't take it out on Grantaire-"
"I am sitting right here."
"-but otherwise, you're good. I'm sorry I disappointed you."
"That's the thing," Jehan says, rising. "You didn't. You did exactly what we hoped you will do, and got the result we wanted. If anything, it's us who have disappointed you. Good night, Enjolras, R."
As he exits, Enjolras sits down next to Grantaire, letting go of his arm, and Grantaire leans into the touch slightly, before straightening back up. It makes something in Enjolras's chest go warm and tight for a second. "I think I could stop you, with Gavroche, at least, and if I really tried - maybe, at the very beginning," Grantaire says, almost whispering. "I think Jehan is right. I give up control too readily when it comes to you."
Enjolras itches to make him feel better, has no idea how, can only be honest. "Maybe. I don't know." He takes a second to think it through. "That time, in my old apartment's kitchen... it might've been possible. But with Gavroche- the idea of getting away from this nightmare- I'm not sure anyone could talk me out of it, even you."
There's a ghost of a smile on Grantaire's lips. "Even me," he repeats slowly like he's tasting the words. "If I asked you to walk away with me now, then, like Jehan said, would you?"
Enjolras lowers his eyes. "Would you ask?"
Grantaire pauses to take his hand. Enjolras kisses his fingers. "Never," Grantaire says, bitter and resigned. "Though maybe I should."
Enjolras laughs, although it's the furthest thing from funny.
*
"Jehan, for the love of god! Get out! Leave it, leave it! Get out!" Grantaire shouts, and it has no effect.
The phone on the table between them spits a bit of static, then Jehan's voice says, calm as ever, "Almost done, don't worry."
Enjolras has his own phone to his ear. "Three more minutes," the woman on the other end updates him hurriedly. He thanks her and hangs up. Three more minutes - and then it's too late, and the soldiers will find the building. If Jehan left right this second- but there's too much information that could get people killed lying around, and so instead of running Jehan is formatting flash drives and hard drives and burning paper, still on the phone to report his progress.
As soon as Enjolras is done, Grantaire turns to him, clutching his hand painfully. Please, his face says. Please. And yet his lips produce no sound.
Enjolras understands like he understood all the other times this has happened. If Grantaire asks out loud, Enjolras will call Jehan away - easy as that. But then it would be Grantaire's choice, and the man has spent half of his life running from choices like this. No, he will stay silent, and whatever follows, it will be Enjolras' decision. Jehan or faceless strangers alike: their death will be Enjolras' fault.
He stares right ahead and says nothing. Grantaire closes his eyes, as if in pain. After a minute of tense silence, Jehan says bleakly, "They are here. I can hear them running up the stairs. For what it's worth, I'm done. They will find nothing of value." Grantaire swears under his breath. "Yeah," Jehan agrees. "Hey, Enjolras?"
"Yes?"
"You are the worst thing that has ever happened to me. To all of us."
"I know."
"Good. Keep that in mind. And take care of R for me. You are good for that, at least." He sighs. "I'm gonna hang up now. See you on the other side, I guess."
"No!" Marius exclaims and they all jump, having forgotten he was in the room. "Stay on the line. I need to try- I need to-" he sobs, and the rest of the sentence is lost.
Right, Enjolras thinks, Marius needs to try and work out if the soldiers are working under their government or the other one, the one Marius has just reached an agreement with that could win them this war. If the ally betrayed them, it's entirely possible they're the ones who sent people to Jehan's base. And if it's them, the deal is off, and they are set back another couple of years.
If there were cameras there - but there are none, and the satellite images won't give them anything. Neither will, probably, this phone call, but at least there's a slim chance this way, which is better than nothing.
Grantaire covers his face with his hands, but Enjolras still can hear the quiet "No, please, no, don't make me listen, please, no, no, no," he is muttering, and he almost tells Jehan to hang up anyway, when the man himself says, "Be at peace, friends. No one betrayed you: Javert is standing in my doorway."
Marius lets out another shuddering sob, but Enjolras can see guilt and relief on his face; he is happy his decade of diplomatic work has not gone to waste, even if it cost him a friend to find out.
"Long live the republic," Jehan says without much conviction. "Long live the revolution."
Shots fired; a heavy thump.
Enjolras presses the button to end the call.
*
Two things happen at once: the regime falls and they run out of places to hide.
They are in the capital again, and they've been found. It doesn't really matter: the war's being won just as the uniformed people surround their building. Enjolras and Grantaire with their cult, Marius with his foreign friends - they've done their part through and through; it worked, finally, unbelievably, perfectly. And now to die as an afterthought, in the last useless convulsion of the dying power - how ridiculous.
Maybe it's fitting that they would die now - like tools being thrown away after completing their job. Maybe they were not meant to live in the world they gave up everything for. Maybe it's poetic justice demanding the last sacrifice.
Enjolras really, really wants to live.
It is not an option. Javert's side may have lost the war (and there's a rumor going around that he's killed himself this morning, which is neither here nor there), but he has enough people yet to hunt them down, even if it won't make a difference at this point.
If Enjolras knows anything about his revolution, they will not be deterred by his death - rather, they will make him into a martyr and march on, in his name.
"You wouldn't have any bombs installed around the back this time, would you?" he says, smoothing down Grantaire's curls, as the man lays his head onto Enjolras' lap, eyes closed.
Grantaire snorts, cheerfully drunk. "Afraid not, angel. We're on the fourteenth floor, too, no jumping out of the window for us."
Enjolras makes a non-committal sound. Grantaire pops an eye open. "Oh," he says quietly. "Are we considering that, then?"
Enjolras shakes his head. "No. Not really, no." He thinks he can feel Grantaire relax a little bit. "We have maybe fifteen minutes left. I'd rather not cut it short, love."
Grantaire smiles and closes his eyes again. "I will never get tired of hearing you call me that. I forget to be angry with you or myself when I hear that word fall from your lips."
"You can be angry, if that helps," Enjolras says quietly.
Grantaire makes a defeated gesture. "I don't think I have it in me anymore."
"Me neither," Enjolras whispers, and for possibly the first time in his life it is true: there's no anger to be summoned. They've won; he is spent.
He pets Grantaire's head and looks out the window in silence. It's summer, and the weather is lovely, and Enjolras gets an urge to drag Grantaire out to the streets, or better yet, to a park, to walk among fountains and a sea of green, and to breathe, and to kiss with abandon. To live - even a little longer.
He shuts his eyes.
"Why did I not run away to Italy with you, love?" he asks quietly, and the question comes out genuinely puzzled.
"Do you not remember?"
"No."
"Huh," Grantaire mulls it over. "I guess you used to care about all this nonsense." He waves his hand, encapsulating years of war in a simple gesture.
"Did I really?" Enjolras muses. The revolution seems far away and unimportant; such a silly thing to fight and die for.
"Sure. I couldn't believe it either, at first. But you did care. You cared so much I felt a husk next to you. We all did, but I more than others."
"The others... Marius is in the building with us, no?"
"He is. I really thought if anyone could get out, it's him."
"Me too," Enjolras smiles. "Do you know he's been keeping in touch with that girl he fell for? He thought I would be angry, bu actually, I'm glad. A bit of happiness during hard times - a rare fit."
"We were happy too, though, weren't we?" Grantaire asks, chewing his lip.
"Of course. This they can not take from us," Enjolras says, and believes it. "I'm so glad you followed me," he breathes.
"I corrupted you, Apollo. Without me-"
"Then I'm happy I am corrupted. I only wish I listened to you sooner."
"How the gods fall," Grantaire mutters and reaches out to caress his cheek.
They hear footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, hurried, threatening sounds and Enjolras sighs, and wishes again for a way out that isn't there. They start ramming into the door.
There's nothing to say now, or rather, there's too much to be said. They stay as they are while the door breaks and the masked men storm in, quiet and efficient, guns trained on the pair of men on the couch.
Enjolras keeps sitting. Grantaire curls further into him, hiding his face in Enjolras' stomach, and if he could give anything, anything at all, to keep them safe-
He keeps stroking Grantaire's hair.
There's a deafening bang-