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“You’re going to get them all killed, you know,” Grantaire can’t help saying. Enjolras pauses from where he was sorting out their remaining ammunition.
“What are you doing here, couldn’t find another corner to haunt with your spiritous fumes?”
“Can you be civil for once in your fucking life,” Grantaire asks.
“Revolutions aren’t won by civility,” Enjolras says, rather haughtily. “They’re won with blood and sacrifice.”
“Of all the goddamn egoistic maniacs,” Grantaire says angrily. “They don’t deserve to die for your high and mighty ideals. Combeferre’s almost finished school. Joly and Bousset just bought a new flat. Bahorel has finally started seeing that girl down the road. And you’re going to continue marching them down this inane path of righteous martyrdom?“
Enjolras scoffs. “Since when do you even care—”
“Since you made me care!”
Grantaire can hear his own incensed voice echoing down the alley, and for the first time, Enjolras looks taken back. He quickly smoothes his expression into his usual calm, statuesque porcelain.
Grantaire’s face is warm, and not from alcohol for once but from anger.
“You stand on that high pedestal of yours, and convince these young, stupid students that they can, can change the world in a day,” he hisses. “Well you’re wrong about that. You’re wrong about a lot of things.”
Enjolras stares at him for a while with furrowed brows, and then his eyes widen. “Oh,” he says.
“Oh, what?” Grantaire mocks.
“Oh, you want to kiss me.”
Grantaire’s head shoots up. “What? What are you talking about? You are so full of yourself, I swear to—”
Enjolras steps closer, lying a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Tell me you don’t want to. Go on. Lie to me, drunk.”
Grantaire swallows. Enjolras’s eyes have always been passionate and firey, but now they’re intense, as if he’s staring right into Grantaire’s mind, as if he can see every horrible thought, every selfish and perverted sentiment he’s ever felt.
“So what if I do,” he says quietly.
Enjolras’s grip tightens. “Well then. Do it.”
Grantaire suddenly feels exhausted. “What?”
“Kiss me, R.” Enjolras’s voice has taken on a strange tone.
Grantaire is a weak man, and it would take a better person than him to resist this, something he’s dreamed of shamefully at night when the wine’s gone to his head and all he can do is give in to the dreams and wants of the day. Enjolras’s mouth, his smile, his hair, his voice. Grantaire hesitantly slides a hand behind Enjolras’s neck and kisses him. He’s wanted this for years, and yet, something feels off. They’re a day away from certain death and Enjolras has just begged him to kiss him. Maybe this is another drunken mirage after all.
Enjolras doesn’t move when he breaks away. Grantaire looks at him, at Enjolras’s confused, dazed face and nods to himself. “Well, that’s enough madness for one night,” he mumbles, pushing past Enjolras to leave.
“Wait, Grantaire.”
Grantaire knows this tone. He’s heard it in his own voice too many times: fear, desperation. Lust.
“You’re drunk,” Grantaire says resolutely. He doesn’t look back. “You’re. You’re not thinking clearly.”
Enjolras catches his hand before he can leave. “As you said. I die tomorrow, along with my friends. And all in the knowledge that I led them there. I am undoubtably not thinking clearly.”
“Well don’t let me add to that long list of bad decisions,” Grantaire spits out. “I won’t be your, your whore, just because you’re feeling sentimental in the face of death.”
Enjolras makes a pained nose. “No, I didn’t. I’m not any good at this, Grantaire. I’m sorry.” He lets go of Grantaire’s wrist. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”
Grantaire still doesn’t turn around. He hears the sound of Enjolras walking away. He takes a long drink from his bottle and walks the full length of the barricade, ignoring the calls from his friends to join them. He eventually falls asleep on a table hidden in the corner of the upper-room of the wine shop.
When he wakes, the first thing he hears is Enjolras’s proud voice.
“Shoot me.”