Chapter Text
"Your phone's ringing," Grantaire says, neutral.
In the quiet of the room, the words come as a shock, almost. Enjolras stops pacing, looks around for his cell phone, finally hears the buzzing sound of it vibrating against the surface of his table. A regular pattern, standardized, impersonal - he was never one for ringtones.
On the lit up screen stands the name of Lamarque.
Enjolras feels fury rising up in him again, tries to quell it, fails miserably. He looks to Grantaire on the off chance of him offering any comfort, but the man is staring resolutely out of the window like there's at least some kind of grand garden there and not a concrete wall of the next building. Enjolras isn't sure if he's imagining his fingers shaking very slightly as they grip the cigarette.
The phone keeps vibrating. The anger rises like a tide, and as Enjolras' palm closes around the thing, swallows him whole.
He would not remember later what he had said to Lamarque; Grantaire would claim not to have listened - meaning that whatever it was, it had to be pretty bad. There was no explanation good enough anyway, but even if there were, Enjolras wouldn't be willing to hear it.
What would it have mattered? They were dead already.
*
It wasn't a betrayal per se, whatever Enjolras might or might not have implied to certain people some time later, purely in the interest of the cause, of course.
Lamarque was simply very old, and very ill, and it was as much Enjolras' fault as his for not noticing the man falling apart.
It was one of the first really big things the Amis'd done, back when it was still exciting, when no one had been hurt yet and they treated it like some kind of twisted game. In their minds, there was no real risk: they were the good guys, so surely they would come out unscathed.
Enjolras went because it was his idea and he hated the very thought of delegating responsibilities with the fiery passion back then. Combeferre went because he had planned the whole thing-
*
"Combeferre's plan is shit," says Grantaire, breath reeking of alcohol, with urgency Enjolras wasn't aware he was capable of. He's cornered Enjolras right after the meeting, tugging him wordlessly by the sleeve into an unoccupied room and has started speaking before Enjolras could ask what's wrong. 'It's way too complicated, and we're not fucking Ocean's eleven, there's no way we're going to be able to pull this off!"
He is almost shouting; with each of his words, Enjolras' confusion gives way to anger. "You need to drink less," he says, barely keeping a hold on his emotions. Even he is unsure what he means by that: that the man's words are ludicrous or that he shouldn't have spent the entire meeting getting plastered instead of listening, giving blanket agreements and only then asking Eponine to fill him in, which results in scenes like this.
The other man looks at him as if he's grown a second head. "Enjolras," he breathes almost pleadingly, his eyes hard and manic, the shitty little grin Enjolras is so used to seeing on his face wiped clean off. "Even if one little thing goes wrong, and something always does- Enjolras, we're all going to die." He searches Enjolras' face for a reaction, doesn't find what he's looking for, hunches in on himself, lowering his eyes. His words, when they come, are colorless and quiet. "You're going to kill us all."
"Keep your fucking pessimism to yourself," Enjolras snaps and watches Grantaire flinch with some satisfaction. "The time to contribute was half an hour ago, when we were finalizing the plan and when you," he shoves slightly at the man's chest and Grantaire stumbles, catching himself on the wall, "agreed to everything. If your cowardice's getting the better of you, you need only to say so." Grantaire shakes his head slowly. "Then I'll see you in two days at Lamarque' office. Go on, go sleep it off."
Grantaire does. Not meeting Enjolras' eyes, he turns and leaves, leaving Enjolras alone with the rage he's incited. The rage that will keep Enjolras from even considering his words, simply brushing them off like they're nothing.
Enjolras' passion, he is aware, is one of his greatest strength. What he doesn't yet know is that his temper is a terrible, terrible weakness.
He, at least, will have time to learn that.
On the day of the operation, Grantaire is the first to turn up.
*
-and also knew exactly what they were looking for in the database they were about to break in. Courferac went (according to him, at least) because he needed to protect the innocent flower that was Combeferre from the dangers of the real world and Enjolras' ideas.
Grantaire went because there were no volunteers to deal with Joly's bombs, except for Bossuet, and none of them wanted that particular disaster to happen. So Enjolras played dirty and asked Grantaire to do it, knowing full well there was no chance of him ever saying no.
Lamarque gave them floor plans, and info on security guard rotations, and detailed explanations of what they were getting into and how they were going to get out alive.
*
In theory, it was supposed to go like this.
The four of them would get to the building (2-story, relatively small, surrounded by forest on all sides) in a car Marius'd bought (in a way that couldn't be traced) for that specific purpose. They would hide it some distance away from the facility, get out, wait for the shift change, steal their way in through the window while the guards exchanged their passwords and, using the map provided by Lamarque, split up to do their own thing. Well, Grantaire would split up and go to install the explosives and the other three would find the database. Courferac and Enjolras would quietly take out the guards in the room and protect Combeferre, who would break in to find the files they need, copy them to a flash drive and delete them from the source. After that, they would meet up with Grantaire again, who, ideally, would stick to the agreed upon safe way and consequently not have met any guards at all, wait for explosions to start, get out in the chaos that would ensue, return to the car, return home, celebrate, overthrow the government, celebrate again (well, maybe not the last bits yet).
In practice, five minutes into the operation they discover that Lamarque has sent them a wrong set of maps.
*
"Maybe, we should get out," Courferac whispers. "It's not too late yet."
Grantaire snorts in exactly the same second as Enjolras says, "No." Enjolras glares at him, which, as usual, has no effect whatsoever on the insufferable man. Without giving any of them a second look, Grantaire disappears down the corridor and to the left, checking his watch before turning corners, following the faulty plan easily, as if his life weren't on the line. A grudging respect rears its head in Enjolras' chest. "We've gotten too far. Remember, no escape without the explosions - and no explosions until we get the information, it's too important."
Combeferre and Courferac exchange a glance that Enjolras can't read. It makes him uncomfortable; to get rid of the feeling he purses his lips and walks on, leaving the other two to scramble after him. It's a bit underhanded but effective: he is the one who best remembers Lamarque's explanations and those are the only way to orient themselves left.
He wonders how well Grantaire's memorized them. He seemed to walk purposefully, but that could've been bravado. Enjolras hopes he knows what he's doing, but- It's Grantaire. Enjolras doesn't know what to think.
*
Here's the sad truth that saves them in the end: Grantaire can't read maps. It's that simple: for him, remembering Lamarque's directions and following them exactly was always plan A.
His memory does not fail them.
*
They almost make it. Almost get to the meet-up point. And then Enjolras looks away for a second and Courferac walks through the wrong door, right into two guards having a coffee break in a tiny kitchenette area. One of them presses a button on his radio and a siren starts to wail.
And just like that, they've lost.
It doesn't matter that both guards are dead before they can raise their guns. Enjolras can feel it; the sensation of being discovered, something almost supernatural, as if the whole building woke up suddenly and felt them, and did not like them being there in the slightest.
They run, but they're not fast enough.
Combeferre and Courferac go down instantly, at the same time, two lucky bullets finding them, as the security shoots blindly, with just the sounds of their escape to aim for.
They're already on the floor when Enjolras turns, too late to do anything.
Behind him is a window leading outside, to safety, but, realistically, if he tries to escape now, he will just be shot in the back. Better to die with his head held high, he decides, lets the useless gun (out of bullets) slide down through his fingers and onto the floor, steps a bit away from the- from the bodies and stands still, waiting for the guards to come closer, guns pointed at him.
He keeps his back straight, like his mother has taught him, looks at their faces, rather than the weapons, keeps his face calm. In that moment it seems very important to him for some reason, to keep up appearances, to be seen as the symbol they've all told him he is, rather than a mere human afraid of death.
"In that moment", right. Only in that very moment, of course.
They stop only a couple of steps away from him. Perhaps surprised at him just standing there, they pause slightly - which is the moment Grantaire chooses to appear in the doorway.
He looks like he's been running, his eyes wide with worry or fear, and no one is looking at him yet, and so Enjolras keeps his face neutral, his gaze at the guards, a chance for Grantaire to turn away, to find another way out, a slim one, but a chance nonetheless.
Instead, Grantaire looks past the guards and straight at him. Worry slides off his face and is replaced by stubborn resolve. He takes a step in, then another, and one of the guards turns, and it's too late, Grantaire's been noticed, so Enjolras allows himself to meet his eyes, watches the usual smirk steal its way onto his features, as Grantaire elbows his way through, ever-insufferable, only to stop next to Enjolras. Another second their eyes stay locked, and some understanding begins to take root in Enjolras' head- Grantaire turns to the guards. Enjolras lets it go; it's too late to understand anything now.
There's a deafening bang-
*
In that very first mission, Enjolras learns some very important lessons.
He looks down at the wrong map in his hands and understands with some degree of horror that he hasn't checked because he's trusted Lamarque completely. Lesson one: you can not trust even completely trustworthy people.
He watches his two best friends fall onto the floor, Combeferre with his face down, Courferac's head turned at an unnatural angle, eyes dull, blood pooling around them both. Lesson two: it is incredibly easy to die. It is even easier to die if you play at revolution, rather than take it seriously.
He follows Grantaire with his eyes, as the man comes closer, to die next to him, with him. He thinks of bravery, and of kindness, and of acceptance. He thinks of being judgemental, being angry, being wrong. He does not think of regrets. Lesson three: you can sometimes trust people who are not completely trustworthy.
There's a deafening bang and the building shakes. The ceiling begins to crack, after a second so do the walls, and Enjolras has to grab Grantaire's arm to keep them both upright. One of the guards looses balance, falls onto another one, distracting the others, and Enjolras surges forwards, snatches the gun away from the closest man, fires, fires, watches Grantaire, only half a step behind him, knock out another one with a punch and pick up his gun, ducks, fires, hits a man with the gun on his temple, fires again. Tries to catch his breath, looking around for remaining threats, sees none.
Lesson four: Grantaire is probably a boxer, or maybe does some kind of martial arts.
Lesson five: if you're armed with a gun, don't fucking stand next to someone you're trying to shoot. It's not a knife, you can stand at the other side of the room and kill them just fine. It's very easy to take a gun away from you.
Lesson six: whatever his rhetoric, Enjolras really, really wants to live.
*
The walls start to crumble; they have maybe a minute before they get buried under the rubble. They need to leave, now. He turns back to the window, takes a step- and freezes.
His eyes, almost against his will, look down, to the floor. To the red puddle he's standing in. To Courferac's hair caught under his sneakers. To the bloody mass coming out of the side of Combeferre's head - that Enjolras was just about to step in.
The world goes eerily quiet, white noise replacing everything else. For a couple of seconds, Enjolras as a person disappears, gets replaced by an empty look-alike, who thinks nothing, feels nothing - fears nothing.
Then, out of nowhere, sharp pain on his cheek, his head turning with the strength of it. The sounds start to return as he is pulled bodily to the window and shoved through not too gently. He falls on his ass, stands up slowly, his body feeling like it's made out of wood, useless, too slow, going to get them both killed- where's his gun? He had a gun in his hand, just a minute ago- why is he still standing here, they need to-
Grantaire climbs out after him, looks around, eyes wild, breathing heavily. There's terrible noise as, part by part, the compound collapses on itself. At least, the wailing's stopped, Enjolras thinks distractedly, and immediately shakes himself. There's no time for this, he thinks, suddenly angry at himself.
As usual, anger is the thing that makes him move forward.
*
Later, he would not remember how they got to the car, who drove, if they talked about anything (probably not), when they split up again. When asked, Grantaire would look at him strangely, say that Enjolras was the very picture of calm and composure, that he'd insisted on driving, but left it to Grantaire to get rid of the car when he'd offered, walked off without another word.
Enjolras himself has absolutely no recollection about any of this. The next thing he becomes aware of is rushing into his apartment and through to the bathroom, dropping to his knees and throwing up. He does it once, then another time, and another, until he's dry-heaving and shaking so much he has to grip the edges of the toilet bowl in order to stay more or less upright.
It stops eventually, thankfully, and he sits back on the bathroom floor, heart pounding for no reason, mouth disgusting, head spinning.
Dead. They are both dead. He's killed them.
He needs to get up. He has to get up right now, and call someone, because they need another meeting, so he can tell them- so he can-
Oh god, their parents.
For a second he feels viciously glad that Courferac's have disowned him years ago, and haven't shown any interest in him since. It's a terrible thing to be glad for, and it brings with it immeasurable guilt, but Enjolras can't let go of the feeling completely. Not when he knows that Combeferre's mom has worked three jobs for four years to help him graduate and how much it's taken out of her. How would Enjolras explain to her that Combeferre isn't gonna need that diploma after all?
That's when his wandering eyes catch on the dirty footprints he's left behind in his initial rush. His memory helpfully supplies the picture of standing in the pool of Courferac's blood, and Enjolras barely makes it back to the toilet before he loses another portion of bile.
Hands shaking and feeling almost drunk, he pulls off his sneakers, leaves them on the bathroom floor and goes to fetch a mop.
*
It starts out simple enough.
Enjolras washes away the footprints, throws his shoes into the garbage bin, takes the trash out.
But as he walks back inside, all he can see anywhere is the invisible dust particles, tiny molecules of blood that he's brought home with him and that are now sitting on every surface of his apartment. Everywhere he looks, blood, blood, blood.
His mind is screaming - and at the same time, it's completely empty.
He thinks of nothing as he undresses and washes his clothes by hand, which he has never done before in his life. He proceeds to wash the floors in the whole apartment now, not just the hall and the bathroom. He starts the slow and meticulous process of wiping absolutely everything in his home with a dust cloth several times over. When he's finished, he washes the floors again, just to be sure.
But as he stands up after finishing, he looks around and the blood is just - there. All around him.
Enjolras throws up again.
*
His brain turns off completely as he cleans. He would think it a blessing if he thought anything at all.
He washes everything again - twice, three, four times in a row, and then again, and again. At this point, when he washes his floors, the water comes out almost cleaner than it was before touching them, and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.
He wipes down his walls and washes his windows, and his doors, and his light fixtures. He repeats the whole process from the top and looks around for something else. His eyes meet the laundry basket in the corner. He throws everything in it into the washing machine, turns it on and goes to clean the bathtub. And of course, as the machine finishes, Enjolras looks at his clothes and there's blood all over them still. Of course, he has to wash it by hand now.
It's not enough. He empties his wardrobe, washes the clean clothes too.
His shoes are next. After them, he takes everything out of every cabinet and bookcase that he owns, wipes it all down, washes the insides of the furniture, puts everything back in (in a couple of hours, he will repeat this process as well).
He does his curtains and his bedding. He wrenches all his furniture away from the walls to wash behind it. He gets on a stool to wipe off the tops of his cupboards, and dressers, and everything else.
But no matter how much he works, there's always something else, something more he needs to be doing. Just like it's always been, with him.
*
He doesn't hear Grantaire come in. Presumably, he'd have knocked, almost certainly made some amount of noise with the unfamiliar lock, definitely wouldn't have tried to conceal his footsteps - none of which had mattered at all, naturally, not in the state Enjolras had been in.
He is on his hands and knees, wearing only his pajama pants (the first piece of clothing to get dry), furiously scrubbing the kitchen floor for the god-knows-which time. If Grantaire tries to attract his attention by speaking first, Enjolras doesn't process it. Instead, the first thing he becomes aware of is a hand on his shoulder.
Enjolras turns his head, meets Grantaire's eyes beneath his furrowed eyebrows and thinks only, "Oh." Grantaire's lips move, but there's only white noise where normal sounds would be, so Enjolras just keeps looking without giving a reaction. His head feels heavy, too full and useless, it takes everything he has in him to just keep it up.
Evidently despairing of him, Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras' body, slowly pulls him to his feet. Once there, Enjolras sways, his vision going black for a second; Grantaire keeps him upright with a steady hand around his torso.
Up close, he looks terrible. There are dark rings under his blood-shot eyes, two-days' worth of stubble on his cheeks, his hair is greasy and disheveled, his clothes rumpled. He smells like bad breath, stale alcohol and cheap cigarettes. He's the only actually dirty thing in the sparkling clean apartment.
Enjolras can't help it - he balls his hands in the fabric of his shirt and clings, absolutely refusing to let go, even when it makes it unnecessarily difficult for Grantaire to maneuver them both through the apartment into his bedroom. He blacks out for another second and Grantaire uses the moment to pry his hands away and sit him down on his bare bed. Enjolras comes to, as Grantaire's hand starts pushing him to lie down, fingers disgustingly sticky against his breastbone, considers fighting it for a whole second before submitting to the exhaustion. He's out before his head hits the stripped down pillow.
*
After that, Grantaire just sort of - doesn't leave.
He stands more or less still as Enjolras paces restlessly around the room, picking up odd things and putting them back after a second, just for something to do. Sometimes, he would walk out of the room, and Enjolras would freeze every time, barely breathing, listening intently for the sound of the front door opening, of Grantaire leaving. The thought of it fills Enjolras with a surprising amount of dread, for no reason he can imagine. But every time Grantaire would return a few incredibly long minutes later. Sometimes his hands would be empty, other times he would carry a mug or a bowl of something hot he would press into Enjolras' hands without a single word, before walking back to the window Enjolras is starting to think of as his.
Enjolras is so grateful he would have cried if that was something he was capable of.
Everything hurts. He used to think it a turn of phrase, but not anymore. At the moment he is very, very aware of every part of his body because of various pains - the headache that's just barely started to fade, the sore muscles all over, the complaining of his overtired back and knees, the blistered hands, the pain in his stomach from not eating for more than 24 hours - basically, his body is not a fan of him at the moment.
His mind is even worse. It's in a desperate scramble, trying to solve a problem that Enjolras hasn't stated yet. For the first time in his life, maybe, he doesn't have a ready obvious answer to the question of 'what to do next'.
He needs to call a meeting. He doesn't know how much his friends know, probably not enough, and that needs to be fixed. But they will be angry, and horrified, and irrational - irrational enough to do something drastic and rash, he fears. For all his objections, he is their de-facto leader and it is his job to channel that into a new goal, come up with the course of action - and for the first time, he is drawing a blank.
Mostly because, for the first time, he properly understands that yes, in fact, if they follow this road, he will kill them all.
He misses Combeferre and Courferac so much, he can almost physically feel it in his bones.
Shamefully, he misses his certainty more.
*
Lamarque calls again a couple of hours later.
Enjolras cancels the call, turns off the vibration, puts it back down, returns to his pacing - but there is no escape: every time the screen lights up it catches his attention, holds it long enough for it to be distracting, frustrating him more and more. He's already wound up tight, and each call brings him closer to the point where he'll start taking it out on inanimate objects.
Eighth time, and Enjolras snaps; but he makes it only a single step in, before Grantaire reaches out, casual as anything, plucks the phone from the table and sticks it into his back pocket. Enjolras stops dead in his tracks, caught out. "Don't burn your bridges, Apollo," Grantaire drawls and his eyes seem to glow in the near darkness of the room. "Not now, anyway. Think it through."
This is the first time Grantaire has spoken since Enjolras woke up, disoriented and hurting all over, to find a bottle of water on the floor next to his bed and Grantaire cooking in his kitchen like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Grantaire is right. Enjolras' natural instinct is to argue, to be dismissive, offended, even, at the implication that he would be angry enough to do something regrettable - instead, Enjolras' shoulders sag, the fight going out of him before it can set in properly at the thought of sticky fingers against his chest, his apartment smelling of unfamiliar food, too-sweet tea being pressed into his hands - kindness Enjolras doesn't deserve, would've said a month ago he doesn't want.
"You are right," he mutters and sits down heavily on the bed, impossibly tired. "Thank you. Keep the phone, for now, okay?"
There's some strange quality to the ensuing silence, and Enjolras frowns as he raises his eyes. Grantaire is frozen in front of the dark window, face caught for a second in a mask of uneasy surprise before he hastens to relax it to a neutral expression. Enjolras looks away; this is definitely his fault, but on the list of things to feel guilty about this does not stand very high up.
He wants to ask why Grantaire is here but knows for a fact it'll be taken as a demand to leave, so he doesn't. He wants to apologize for underestimating Grantaire but it would probably just make the man even more uncomfortable, judging by his reaction. What he really wants is to return to just not caring about Grantaire at all, but that ship has sailed now, for better or for worse.
The silence, once broken, suddenly feels too thick, to the point of oppressive. It stretches out, impossibly awkward, and he can see Grantaire fidget out of the corner of his eye, even though he tries not to look; after another moment Enjolras breaks. "Have you really known all along?"
Grantaire looks at him blankly. "Known what?"
"You tried to warn me, before- before."
The blankness doesn't go anywhere. "I don't, uh, see future, if that's what you are asking," he seems to be choosing his words very carefully.
Enjolras shrugs, the motion tugging at his sore muscles unpleasantly. "That's not what I mean. It's just that I don't think I really understood we could actually die." The last word sits awkwardly in his mouth. He closes his eyes, afraid he will start seeing blood everywhere again. "But you did," he finishes lamely.
"Ah," Grantaire says, just as intelligently. "Well. Yeah."
Enjolras nods, eyes still closed. "And you still went. I can't decide if that's amazingly brave or unbelievably stupid."
Grantaire snorts. "This has nothing to do with bravery, I can tell you that much, at least."
Enjolras taps his fingers on the bed, still restless, looks at Grantaire once more. It's difficult to look him in the eye, so Enjolras focuses on his right shoulder instead. "Unbelievable. You are unbelievable."
"Huh?"
"You risk your life for us, and you risk your life for me, and you save my skin, and you feed and water me, and protect me from myself- you do all that, without a second thought, and then not only do you let me call you stupid, but you actually go out of your way to reinforce this idea in my mind." Enjolras rubs his face. "I mean, I know I'm bad at this," he gestures helplessly between the two of them, "'talking to people without a cause in mind' stuff, but this is just unbelievable."
Grantaire makes a face and turns back to the window. A moment later comes a clicking sound of a lighter opening; and although he is standing not ten steps away, inside Enjolras' bedroom, making no move to leave, this is as clear a dismissal as if he'd stormed out.
Surprisingly, that makes Enjolras smile. It doesn't last, chased away by the guilt, but it's there for a whole second, proving that Enjolras is a terrible human being still able to smile after two of the most important people in his life have died because of him - but also, that he will live through this. For better or for worse.
*
It takes him another hour to claim his phone back from Grantaire and accept the call. This time, he listens patiently to the stammering on the other end of the line, the apologies and the explanations.
He really cares, Enjolras thinks, not necessarily surprised. It's not a good thing, or a bad thing, it's just a fact. His caring won't save anyone, can't bring anyone back from the dead, is basically useless.
Lamarque asks if he's got the information. Enjolras thinks of caring and of mistakes; he says nothing. Lamarque sighs, defeated and weary, his age, that Enjolras is usually so prepared to underestimate, now showing and impossible to ignore.
For a long moment, they both stay silent. Enjolras is almost ready to finish this useless conversation, when Lamarque starts talking again, voice stronger and firmer with each word.
Cards on the table, he says. A possibility for a proper revolution, he promises. Buying their way underground with the information, he explains. Too old himself, he admits. Everything in Enjolras' hands, he concludes.
It's just like old times; Enjolras listens and commits it all to memory: names, places, events and strategies. The only difference is, the second he ends the call there it is, Courferac's blood on the soles of his feet - or was it Combeferre's? Was it both'?
He lets the phone clutter uselessly to the ground, rubs at his eyes with too much force. "Snap out of it," Grantaire says without turning around, voice colorless, and the illusion breaks enough for Enjolras to start breathing normally again, instead of hyperventilating. He didn't even notice he was doing that. Great.
*
This time, Enjolras is the one to make tea for them both, and they sit at the kitchen table like normal humans as they drink it, domestic and cozy against all odds.
"Jehan's been calling me almost non-stop for the last three hours," Grantaire says, sipping the mixture in his mug and trying very hard not to pull a face at the taste that has to be awful. Maybe he thinks Enjolras hasn't noticed him adding whatever it was in his flask to the tea, maybe it's just a habit at this point.
Enjolras traces patterns into the wood of the table with his fingertips, stalling. "I was wondering why my phone was so silent, except for Lamarque," he mutters finally.
"Yeah, that's because you told your friends not to call you until you said it was okay, and you haven't yet. Also, they don't know what's happened."
Enjolras starts, almost spilling his tea. "You didn't tell them?"
Grantaire shrugs. "I thought you would, at first. Then I was too drunk to, then they told me they haven't seen any of you three since the operation, so I figured you had your reasons, asked Joly for your apartment key and went to investigate." He takes another sip and doesn't spit it out immediately, which is remarkable, in Enjolras' opinion. "Now I don't even know what I would say."
"Right," Enjolras taps his fingers against the table. "It's fine, I'll do it. When we go back."
There's a pause. "What exactly are we waiting for?" Grantaire blurts out, and it's obvious he's been holding on to the question for a while now. "It's been two days, Apollo. They are probably worried sick."
Enjolras sighs. "I know. I just-" he swallows, "I don't know what to do."
"You. Don't know what to do," Grantaire repeats, disbelief thick in his voice, too obvious to be natural.
Being mocked by him is familiar territory; Enjolras' hackles rise as if on command. "Well, forgive me for not having some kind of magical manual on how to overthrow the corrupt government without killing any of my friends in the process," he says, faux-calm, and Grantaire looks at him, startled, before breaking out the inevitable annoying grin, eyes narrow, shoulders tense.
"Oh, now we care about not killing anyone, do we? What happened to 'our lives don't matter'?" he drawls, and now this is mockery, when it wasn't before, and Enjolras is caught off-guard by how defensive it sounds. It doesn't make sense- except, he suddenly realizes, his own shoulders are already squared, knuckles white where he's gripping his mug, leaning in like he's preparing to lash out.
He gets a curious picture in his mind of two dogs baring teeth at each other out of fear of being attacked.
The fight goes out of Enjolras in a rush, leaving him empty and faintly guilty. Distantly, he wonders if he is the reason their interactions usually escalate so quickly, spinning out of control with just a few ill-timed words. At least, they haven't said anything unforgivable, or even that bad, this time - but then, it's difficult to maintain anger after what Grantaire's done.
"I care," Enjolras says quietly, and gets a helpless look from Grantaire, who seems to be now completely lost. "I guess I thought we could come out on top without any sacrifices," he snorts, self-loathing and tired, "and I guess I was wrong."
Grantaire stares at him silently for a bit. When he speaks, it's a non-sequitur: "What did Lamarque tell you?"
"He wanted to know if we managed to get the information. Said it's our chance to go underground and start an actual revolution."
Grantaire nods, considering. "Did we? Get the information, I mean."
Enjolras snorts, and there's absolutely no humor in it. He reaches into his pocket and drops a flash drive onto the table. It's so small; such a silly thing to fight and die for. "It's all here."
"Great," Grantaire says, and it sounds flat, like he cannot be bothered to even try to summon any enthusiasm. "So are we going underground then?"
"That's what I'm stuck at," Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We do that, and we'll all die, and that's-" he swallows, tries again, "but we can't exactly stop now, can we? Not after-"
"The hell we can't," interrupts Grantaire, and he sounds casual, not at all like that time he tried to talk Enjolras out of their stupid mission. "We are not some fucking superheroes, Apollo. Not bulletproof, no superpowers. I know you think the whole world is yours to save, but it's not. It's not. You can quit anytime and none of us would blame you."
This time Enjolras keeps hold on his temper, and he's getting better at this, however belated. He is just human; the last 48 hours have proven it beyond doubt. "True," he replies, just as casually. "So what do you think we should do? With what's happening right now, living in this country is going to become very hard in the next couple of years."
Grantaire grins, easy and bright. "So let's leave!" he exclaims eagerly. "I will follow you wherever you go, of course," he continues, like it's an obvious thing; and maybe it is.
"Oh," Enjolras can't help the answering smile, "where would we go?"
Grantaire considers it for a second, before concluding in a very serious tone, "To Italy. I hear it's great this time of the year."
"It is," Enjolras nods, equally serious. "Somewhere on the coast? I've always wanted to live by the sea."
"Of course. We'll buy a little white house with a vineyard-"
"And a garden."
"Yeah. I can work in the docks, or anywhere, really - I'm good with my hands."
"I'll tend the garden, then- the vineyard, too, I guess. I'm sure I can figure out the vine-making."
Grantaire's grin is blinding. "It can't be that hard, really."
"Right. Do you speak Italian at all?"
"Not a word. You?"
"A bit. I'll translate for both of us, then."
"I'll cook for both of us in return."
"Your cooking is impressive," agrees Enjolras, smiling softly. Grantaire's eyes shine with mirth. "We'll go swimming in the evenings when it's not too hot."
"And in the afternoons we'll hide from the heat in the house. No TV, though, or the Internet. Nothing to spoil it." Grantaire stops to think for a second. "I'll buy you some books, I guess."
"What will you do then?"
"Paint," says Grantaire wistfully. "I haven't had time to paint in months."
Enjolras hurries to shift the conversation from reality, afraid of the spell breaking. "Will you paint me?"
"Try and stop me," laughs Grantaire. "You, seating on our porch, or working in the garden, or- playing with our cat. Can we get a cat?"
In Enjolras' pocket, his phone vibrates, signaling that the time for dreaming's run out. "Yes," he says, fishes the bloody thing out, without breaking the eye contact or losing the smile. "We can get a cat, Grantaire, and I'll pose for you, even, and nobody will ever have to die."
And accepts the call.
*
"Combeferre and Courferac are dead and we're going underground," Enjolras proclaims in one breath. Among the gasps that follow, Grantaire toasts him with his flask from the back of the room before drinking. "If anyone, for whatever reason, doesn't want to join me and Grantaire there, now is the time to leave."
No one moves, and Enjolras closes his eyes for a second, pained. Behind his eyelids is an endless mass of water, a white house on the shore, making wine and posing for pictures, and Grantaire, paint streaks on his arms and face, laughing.
Enjolras opens his eyes and launches into an explanation.