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Too much. It was all too much. How could he have been so sure, how on earth could have convinced himself that this was the way to go about it, this was the way to make the changes he had so desperately sought?
Maybe it had sounded like a good plan at the time. Maybe it sounded good in his head, looked good on paper. But this? This was dark, violent, horrifying - this was hell on earth. And he was at the head of it.
There was gunfire all around, the sound of screaming - other people’s screams - filled his ears and threatened to destroy what very little was left of his calm attitude. It was so hard to keep it together and keep acting like you knew what you were doing when you knew the people you cared about were being slaughtered around you. What had he done to the people he loved? What awful fate had he led them to? Go back, his mind yelled at him. Go back, you should never have done this, go back before it all began! But even as his world was falling apart around him, he knew that wasn’t possible. He had always known it could, and most likely would, end this way.
Blood was pooling at his feet, it made him sick to his stomach. He knew that around him lay the corpses of people dear to him. He could see them, see their faces frozen in expressions of horror, see them lying in puddles of their own blood, something a person should never have to face. But for the life of him, no matter how hard he tried to focus on their faces, he could not recognise them all. The two closest to him, he knew. Of course Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been right beside him, they always were. They wouldn’t separate if they were offered all the money the world had to offer, it was the three of them together, that’s just how it had always been. Except now it was just him, standing alone and frightened, looking over the destruction he’d brought upon them like some remorseful god. The other bodies, he couldn’t tell who they were. He knew their faces, it was like their names were dangling in front of him, only an inch too far away to catch them. They were so, so familiar, how the hell could he know a face that well and not know of whom it belongs to?
He didn’t have time to think about that. There were men in the room with him now, in uniforms, weapons at the ready. This wasn’t good. It was never supposed to end like this! Never! He wasn’t going to let this happen, he had sworn to himself that he would protect his friends, the only people who cared about him. But take a look around. Was anyone else even left? Had everyone he’d dragged down to this level of hell with him already suffered some horrendous, painful death? He forced himself to think, good and hard, about what he’d done. Nearly everyone he cared about was dead, because of his actions. His plans had failed. He would die soon, very soon, and his cause would go with him. As abhorrent as that may have sounded to him, he forced himself to know it was true. He had tried, he and his friends had given their most valiant efforts to this, and they had failed it was over. But if he, the leader of a newly failed revolution was about to go down, he’d be damned if he didn’t go down on his terms.
Like a mantra in his head, he recited his actions silently as he carried them out;
Take a few steps forward. (Don’t let them see how much your hands are shaking.) Hold your head up high. (It’s over, you tried your hardest, so be brave and try not to cry.) Give them a clear target to shoot at. (Whisper a silent apology to your friends.) Die in such a way that they know you won’t let your life be forgotten.
But then something holds up the process, he doesn’t die as quickly as he expects. When he braces for impact, nothing comes but a warmth, a comforting presence at his side. And then it’s all blurry, so blurry. There’s cracking sounds silent prayers and barked orders and the soft whistle of the wind coming in through the window and then there’s
gunshots, gasps, screaming, fabric tearing, pain blood pain pain pain pain-
And then there’s nothing.
And Enjolras woke up in his bed, his heart pounding and sweat rolling off of him in sheets. It’s not real, he told himself, it’s not real, it’s never real - You’re alive and safe and nobody’s dead. You haven’t killed your friends. They’re safe. Why this dream again? Why always this dream? Enjolras was never quite sure what it meant, all dreams supposedly had meanings, he’d been told in the past. Dreaming of being chased means you’re avoiding something in your life, dreaming of falling means you’re in a situation that you can’t control, that sort of thing. Well, though Enjolras as he sat with his head resting in his hands, what exactly is it supposed to mean when you dream that you’re responsible for the death of all of your friends? What about when you dream about being executed by firing squad? Whatever it was, it certainly couldn’t be a positive thing, and his heart and spirits sank just thinking about it. There was no use trying to get back to sleep now, it simply wouldn’t happen. As he dragged himself out of bed, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking God, it always feels so real.
The dream had started coming to him when he was sixteen years old, Enjolras recalled as he walked through the hallway to the bathroom, bare feet padding across the soft carpet. Sixteen, the year he’d cut off his hair and bound his chest, the year he’d told the world who he was, who he intended to be, and hadn’t taken no for an answer. The year he’d finally felt real, felt happy and free. The year he had finally been Enjolras. A significant year, what should have been one of the best in his life. But then those dreams had started, and they’d fucked it all up. He remembered the first one, waking up in a cold sweat, and sobbing for hours in his bed after, not going to back to sleep in case he closed his eyes and the dream started over again, rewinding itself like a VHS tape.
He’d never told anyone. Not a single soul knew about the dreams, even though they gotten more frequent across the years, happening at least once a week by the time he turned 20. Of course he hadn’t told anyone, what was he supposed to say? “Oh, by the way, I’ve been having recurrent nightmares about me and my loved ones dying in a bloody massacre for the past four years. Is that normal?” No one would believe him. They would think there was something wrong with him, or they wouldn’t wake him seriously. They had been tearing him apart for years now, and no one would even care. Well… That wasn’t entirely true. Maybe Combeferre and Courfeyrac would care. They had stuck by him through everything, Enjolras knew in his heart that they would never abandon him. But to imagine the look of concern on their faces if he told them, he couldn’t face that. They wouldn’t know. It would be his problem to carry alone, he thought, as he walked past Combeferre’s bedroom. There was a soft snoring coming from inside, and Enjolras felt a wave of calm wash over him at the knowledge that his best friend of so many years was sleeping soundly, no horrors to disturb his peace. Good. If there was anyone left in this awful world who deserved peace, it was ‘Ferre. Enjolras smiled to himself as he headed into the bathroom to get ready to start his day.
God, it was just his luck, wasn’t it? His fucking train to uni was late. Great. Enjolras stared at his feet, letting out a deep, unhappy sigh. Sure, it wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him, but still. It sucked. Maybe today’s lecture was going to be important, he thought, maybe if he missed the start of it, he would miss something vital and never manage to get his degree. Maybe… No. He shook his head, blonde hair tickling his cheeks as he did so. That wasn’t going to happen, he told himself. Anyway, he needed to get his degree. Becoming a lawyer was one of the ways he planned to make the world a better place, and if he didn’t manage, well… He’d have to rethink a lot of things. It would be fine. Until the train arrived, he’d just… amuse himself, somehow.
Buzz. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and Enjolras hurriedly pulled it out, hoping desperately that it was one of his friends, someone he could talk to and pass the the time with. Looking at the screen, his face fell. No, it was just his mobile network provider. He didn’t want to text anyone, in case they were busy. Combeferre might be studying, or something equally important, and of course, he didn’t want to distract from that. And Courf was probably still asleep, if he was being honest, and while Enjolras was not above waking a person up if he needed them, he didn’t think ‘my train is late and I’m bored’ was a cause that Courfeyrac would appreciate being woken up for. Not that Courf ever really appreciated being woken up at all. He took another look at his phone. New no messages. No missed calls. There were no games worth playing, and he had never really been a fan of ebooks, so Enjolras guessed he had nothing to do but wait patiently. However, patience had never been a virtue of his.
He stared down at his feet, inspecting his shoelaces as though this were the first time he had ever seen them. Criss cross, criss cross, all the way up and then tied in a (pretty shabby) knot. “Fascinating.” He grumbled softly to himself, bored out of his mind and mentally willing his train to hurry up and get there. Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes and thought about the dream, for what was probably the billionth time since they had started. There was a particular part of it, something that he’d been confused about for years. Right before he ‘died’, there was always the same feeling. Warmth and comfort, a feeling of something connecting, almost like he’d been in pieces, but finally made complete. He never knew what it was, could never tell what had changed to make the dream suddenly more pleasant. How, in the middle of a slaughter, with his life in the hands of those men in uniform, could something even possibly be comforting to him? What force could be that strong, to make him forget those he cared about, to make his imminent death irrelevant? None he had ever encountered before, that was for sure. If he could find that again… If he could feel that comfort and warmth in this life… Maybe he’d be calm, for once. Maybe the dreams would go away. Enjolras drifted off in thought, not paying attention to his surroundings in the slightest. He stayed like that for seconds? Minutes? God, even hours? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell. But he was suddenly pulled out of it by a sound close to him. A soft scratching sound. He elected to ignore it. It didn’t stop, though. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Rhythmic, yet somehow succeeding in being abstract. He furrowed his eyebrows, a crease forming on his forehead while he waited for the irritating sound to stop. It didn’t. So Enjolras opened his eyes.
To the right of him, stood a man. More like leant a man, to be accurate. He was almost hunched over the wall, looking straight down at it with an intense expression of focus. Enjolras peered around him curiously, wondering what on earth he could be doing that was making a noise that was so infuriating to him. Likely something completely harmless, but still. It was annoying Enjolras, and he was already having a bad enough day. First a lack of sleep, then his train was late, and now this… Noise. Okay, now that he was thinking about it, he could tell that he was being kind of a dick. Still, he wanted to know what the stranger was doing either way. Looking over the man’s shoulder, Enjolras could see that he was drawing, it was the pencil clutched between his fingers that was making the sound that had driven him to look. On the paper that the man was hunched over, a figure was beginning to take shape. A sharp face, proud shoulders, standing tall and true, everything about the posture screaming defiance . Enjolras watched as long as he could, turning his head whenever the man happened to look up, almost to the point of marvelling at this man’s craft. He seemed particularly skilled, even to Enjolras, who had never been very proficient at the arts, no matter how hard he had tried in the past. Realising it was rude to stare, he turned away and allowed the man to continue unwatched. After all, if he could sneak a look at the finished project, it was likely to be better than this work in progress, right?
He allowed time to pass. He allowed the man to finish his work, and when Enjolras next looked over, the stranger seemed to be putting the finishing touches on his piece. Adding some shading here and there, putting intricate detailing on what seemed to be… a waistcoat? An oddly familiar one, although Enjolras could not place where he might have seen it. On the paper now, there was a man. A man who didn’t seem too tall, didn’t seem particularly muscular or large, but there was something about the way he carried his body that made him look as though he were more powerful than you would expect. Curly hair fell down and framed his face, there was no colour, but also no shading - So Enjolras could assume it was meant to be blonde. A weapon in his hand, aggressive but the figure appeared to hold it like you would a rabid animal, gingerly, with caution and fear, like he did not want to have to use it. He couldn’t shake a feeling of disease about the drawing, as beautiful crafted as it was. It was too familiar… The clothes, the stance, all seemed to trigger something in his mind that he wasn’t sure he wanted to be there. And then he looked at the eyes of the man in the picture and it clicked. There was raw passion in his eyes, a determination that Enjolras recognised. The same determination that Enjolras could see in the bathroom mirror on the morning of an election day. The same wild fervour that he saw in his eyes, reflected in the polished surface of the bar when someone decided to pick an argument with him in the Musain. These were the eyes he’d had since birth, the eyes he saw every morning and every night, the eyes captured in endless family photographs even from long before the world knew him as Enjolras. His stomach felt like a pit, all of a sudden. Who was this man… And why had he been drawing Enjolras?
He waited a moment, taking a deep, shaky breath. Don’t be frightened, he told himself. Don’t. You’re better than that, and you know it. There must be a logical explanation for this… But no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t find one. Fuck. His hands were shaking. No, no, no. He couldn’t let him see that. He was going to have to confront him, and he wasn’t prepared for that. If anyone could do this, it was him, he told himself. Come on, you’ve done things you were much more frightened about than this. Enjolras took one nervous step towards the stranger, reached out an arm, and tapped him on the shoulder. Oh God. Oh God, he’d done it. The man swung around, a look of confusion upon his face, and immediately locked eyes with Enjolras.
Oh. Oh, wow. He was face to face with the deepest, yet warmest brown eyes he had ever seen in his life. They were kind, yet tired looking, as though they had faced all of life’s atrocities at once. The stranger couldn’t have been more than a few years Enjolras’ senior, so he wondered how this man could look so fatigued. Dark, dark curls covered his head, sticking out haphazardly from any open spaces in his green, tattered beanie. A rough beard covered his face, like he hadn’t shaved in weeks, like he didn’t care too much about shaving. Who was he? Had they met before? They couldn’t have, Enjolras would have noticed earlier, would have known. Then why the fuck couldn’t he shake the feeling that there was something old between them, a connection like that of one you may have with a childhood friend.
They stared at each other for a minute, clearly taking in each other’s appearances. Then the man’s eyes widened with shock. His lips started to move, but no sound came out. The man dashed for his sketchbook, snatching it up before turning back to Enjolras. And that was when Enjolras remembered why he was engaging this oh-so-familiar man.
“Excuse me,” He started politely, no need to get into an argument unless it was entirely necessary. “Could I ask why you’re drawing someone who… And I don’t want to sound vain, or anything… But why are you drawing someone who looks disturbingly like me? If it’s me, I’m flattered, I suppose, but it’s very rude to draw random strangers you see at the train station.”
The man seemed to be in a state of shock. He was still staring, couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Enjolras’, and it was starting to seem strange. His mouth opened again, but this time, a voice poured out of it - brash and rough, but with a caring tone.
“It’s… It’s you. Jesus Christ, it’s you!” He said quietly, not loud enough for anyone but Enjolras to hear. Enjolras couldn’t help but noting that the man’s voice was shaking as he spoke. “Um. I mean, the drawing isn’t you, not really- Well. It could be. I’m not sure.”
“You’re talking nonsense.” Enjolras said firmly. What the hell had his life become?
“Shit.” The stranger muttered something under his breath, before turning his voice back to Enjolras. “You don’t… You don’t recognise me, do you? Fuck, it has to be real. This has to be real, they felt so real, fuck. I’m sorry, you weren’t supposed to see that drawing.” There was a pause, a hesitation before the man spoke again. “The drawing, it was… Someone from my dreams.”
Enjolras felt an involuntary smirk rising up at the corners of his mouth. “Dreams?” Uh huh. Okay. That wasn’t weird at all. He pushed down the thought that was threatening to plague him, dreams, Enjolras, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you? “Alright. Sure. Okay. Because, you know, it looks a surprising amount like me.”
The man stopped. Enjolras’ train was still nowhere to be seen, how on earth could it possibly be this late? How one earth could he be trapped in this impossible situation? There was a look in the man’s eyes, God, those eyes that drew him in, and the look in his eyes was saying fuck it, what have i got to lose! It wasn’t one Enjolras was unfamiliar with, it was one he’d seen in the eyes of many different people across the years. But this one, this man’s eyes were tearing him apart inside, tearing his mind into tiny little pieces until he couldn’t tell his emotions apart, didn’t know what he was feeling or remembering. With one look, this man had made Enjolras question everything he had ever known.
The stranger’s face grew hard, but his eyes stayed hopeful and determined. “This is going to sound fake.” He said. “But hear me out.”
Enjolras listened in terrified confusion as the man spoke of revolutions, of a time gone past, of dreams that plagued him in the night, of a recurring figure amongst them. He tried to ignore the familiarity of it all, tried to ignore the warmth that filled him whenever the man looked him in the eyes because that would mean he would actually have to take all this in, would actually have to believe. The man told him that he personally believed in nothing, but the dreams were the one thing in the world that seemed plausible to him - a notion that made the passionate Enjolras’ head spin and heart race. It wasn’t real, none of it was real. If he acknowledged some truth in this man’s fantasy world, then he had to acknowledge truth in the horrors that plagued him when he went to sleep. That meant there was truth in the bloodied corpses of his best friends, in the overwhelming fear when the men in uniforms cornered him in that room, truth in the sick, heavy weight of the rifle in his dream-self’s hand. It was fake, it was fake, it was all make believe. This man was playing a foul trick on him, trying to scare him, and Enjolras didn’t appreciate it in the slightest.
“You’re wrong.” He near shouted, eyes full of anger, head full of confusion. “That’s not true, none of that is true. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to disrespect you, but I don’t… don’t… I don’t know you and I can’t believe what you’re telling me.”
The man looked broken. Utterly shattered. And Enjolras had caused that. Despite his pain, despite his rage, he couldn’t help but feel broken. But a man doesn’t stand down from his beliefs, and when you only have one… Well, you protect it to the death. So the stranger wasn’t done. He made one last, desperate attempt.
“Listen to me. I’m about to say some things, and if I’m wrong they’re going to frighten you, and if I’m right, well, they’ll probably frighten you even more. But I need you to listen.” He said slowly, a hint of fear present in his own voice. “I know you. At least, I think I do. Or I think I used to. I’ve already told you that. But my name is Grantaire. I don’t know if that rings any bells for you. And if you’re anything like me, I also know that you have dreams. Dreams that may frighten you, dreams that make you doubt everything you’ve ever known. Dreams of a past life.” Enjolras didn’t say anything, so Grantaire continued. “I know these dreams are gory, and I know you dream about death, the death of you and others. I know they probably started when you were a teenager. I know these dreams get worse at certain times of the year, I know they become unbearable in June. I know. Mine do too.” Grantaire extended his arm, placed it on Enjolras’ side. “I know your name is Enjolras. I know that’s not the name you were born with, I know it wasn’t back then, either. I know you want change for France, for the world, if you’re anything like you were then, either. I know that, in a past life, you lead a revolution - the June Rebellion, 5th June 1832. I know it that it failed, and I know that it wasn’t your fault, I hope to God above that you don’t blame yourself for it.” He took a shaky breath, as if he were about to say something he might regret. He opened his mouth, and closed it. Opened. Closed. Again and again, until he found his voice.
“I knew you in a past life. If you’re who I think you are, If everything I said is true, then I’m sure of it. I loved you in a past life, you were- you were my world, my one belief. And I know that in that life, we… We died together. Hand in hand. I hope I won’t lose you in this life, too. Not before I have a chance to make amends.”
Enjolras stared, blankly. He knew so many things. How did he know? Some of those things, he’d never told a living soul. Some of those things he’d never even acknowledged himself. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do? He was terrified out of his mind, despite his gut instinct being to trust this man, wholeheartedly. Despite the look in Grantaire’s eyes making him feel safe, and warm. The fear in the pit of his stomach was too much. So Enjolras did what he’d never done in his life before. Enjolras ran.
He ran home. All the way home. Screw waiting for the train. Screw going to uni. He couldn’t face it. Enjolras knew that, even if he’d gone, he wouldn’t be able to focus because all he would be able to think about was what Grantaire had said.
He didn’t leave his bedroom all day. When Combeferre came to see if he was alright, he pretended everything was fine. He didn’t eat. He tried his hardest to work out where the fuck this man could have learned so much information about him.
By nightfall, he still didn’t have an explanation.
He changed for bed in silence, still lost in thought. Out of his coat pocket, fell a slip of paper. Picking it up, he felt his blood run cold. His name, written on one side, a phone number on the other. It was Grantaire’s. It had to be. He had to have slipped it in there, when he’d reached out to Enjolras. Why would Enjolras ever want to call him? He thought to himself, angrily, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw the number away. Instead, he left it on his nightstand, and went to bed. Maybe sleep would bring him peace, a release from all the pain in his head. He snorted softly. Not likely. When had sleep ever brought him anything but heartache, but pain and hurt and now confusion and things he didn’t want to think about? Well. There wasn’t anything left to do but sleep, was there?
He was surrounded. Again, fuck it was happening again. He couldn’t save them, he couldn’t save Courf and Ferre, God, he’d tried so hard this time but there they were, still dead, still dead alongside all the other friends that he could not recognise. Their bodies lay among the debris, tossed aside like they were nothing, and Enjolras was tired, so tired. He’d had enough.
Enough fighting.
Enough bloodshed.
He’d had enough of losing people.
At least he was safe. Wait, he thought for a second, who was he?
The soldiers aimed their weapons, he knew the drill by now.
Head up. Confident facade. Step forward. Clear target. It would all be over in a minute, it wouldn’t hurt any more.
There was no blur this time, there was still a pause though. Something was happening. Something was prolonging his suffering, and for once he resented it. A voice, a shout, the sound of footsteps across wood, stumbling towards him.
A hand in his.
And suddenly he was looking into eyes, eyes too warm and too brown and too sad and too desperate. Eyes that filled him with warmth and confusion, and the hand in his that completed him, like he had only been half a person for his whole life. Oh God, oh God, Grantaire-
It didn’t hurt this time.
And Enjolras woke up. No sweat. No tears. No panic. Not this time.
He sat up calmly in his bed.
He picked up the phone, and he dialled Grantaire’s number.
“It’s… It’s Enjolras.” He managed to get out. “I’m ready to listen. Tell me what you know.”