Chapter Text
Paris, 4th June 1832
Combeferre sits them down the evening before the funeral when the last preparations are done, and all they have left to do was to sleep and wait. The air thrums with anxious excitement and it seems to vibrate with the bodies assembled in the room, amplifying laughter and heartbeats.
In the instances between a laugh and heartbeat, where the world stops and slows, Combeferre senses the fear that mingled with dying hope, laughter too grating, hands clenched too tightly and words too fast. But fear has never brought them far, so he sits them all down and hands each of them paper and quills.
They don’t say a word. They understand and they grow somber as they take the quills and the ink and the paper, and their laughter takes the edge of a sob, and steady breaths become sharp intakes of air that was choked out of their lungs, almost too fast, almost panic.
The quills scratch over coarse paper. It’s silence and they mourn what could have been.
Enjolras sits in the corner in the shadows of the room. He ponders and doubts and watches them. Coarse paper crinkles in his pockets and with each movement he feels the weight of it against his chest, seven lives like seven bullets.
When Combeferre looks over to Grantaire, he finds him asleep on the table, a crushed half-written letter in his clenched fist, ink on his fingers and tear tracks on his cheeks.
He doesn’t wake him.