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“Get out of my way, Grantaire,” Enjolras demands, eyes blazing. Ever since the news came in of the riots breaking out, he’d been overflowing with righteous fervor. It was time. All of their preparations over the last year had led to this very moment. The revolution that had been quietly simmering for so long had finally boiled over into the streets.
Grantaire hates it. He hates all of it. No one can see how this is going to end. With all of them going down, ending up in a grave, or worse, prison.
Thinking of his friends, his family, his….of Enjolras being tortured or of their blank faces, slack and lifeless being carted off to some mass crematorium, never to be spoken of again.
He can’t bear it.
“No.” He’s standing in front of the warehouse door, unmoving. The others had been at another safehouse on the other side of the city and are in the process of moving into their positions. Readying their supplies and preparing for the war they’re about to wage against their government.
Only Enjolras and Grantaire had been here, making out on the couch like a couple of teenagers.
Grantaire was just about to pop the button on Enjolras’ jeans when the code message had come across the radio. Grantaire had watched as the switch flipped behind Enjolras’ eyes, from dark and lustful to bright and so full of hope and excitement that Grantaire couldn’t stand to keep looking at him. It hurt like staring squarely at the sun.
“What are you doing, Grantaire? Move.” Enjolras is in his signature red coat, the nation’s old flag, the one from before the government changed it, lovingly tied around his waist, and a fire raging in his eyes. Defiance is dripping out of every pore, every cell in his body, seemingly illuminating him from the inside and making him more radiant than Grantaire’s ever seen him.
And he’s going to die for it.
“I can’t let you. You’re all going to get killed. You’re all going to--to,” and the images, both real and imagined, are passing too quickly in front of his face. His brother, his twin face down in a puddle of his own blood, crimson combat boot patterns tracked all over the house. Eponine, shot in the chest, her face frozen in surprise. Joly, ran through with a blade and strung up as a message. Stories about others in the fight who had been killed overlying the images of his friends in his mind. He’s spiraling, so he breathes deeply and shakes his head to dislodge the vividly violent nightmares
Enjolras is suddenly in front of him, hands on his face, looking up at him.
“We’re going to win. The people are standing with us. It’s why we waited until they took to the streets. We learn from our predecessors’ mistakes, R. We aren’t just running in without a plan.” He kisses Grantaire full on the lips and smiles into like it’s the happiest he’s ever been, like he’s completely unaware of Grantaire’s current mental crisis. “We’ve been preparing for so long. That’s why we’re going to make it.” The smile Enjolras shoots Grantaire catches him in the heart, and it shatters.
“You don’t understand. I’ve seen this. I know what’s going to happen.” Faces of the first set of young and idealized young people he fell in with float through his mind. They had planned carefully as well and had all ended up paying for it.
“You can’t know, R! This is our chance, don’t you see? We have to go. It’s time.”
“I believe in you, I do, Enjolras. I just--I know what they’re capable of!”
“You must know what we’re capable of too. You helped us plan this all out. You did recons and shared intel. Your first team didn’t die in vain. They’ve allowed us to make a better plan. A stronger plan.”
A beat passes and Grantaire still refuses to budge from his spot. He knows Enjolras could move him if he wanted. Enjolras knows too, so as long as he stays, he’s at least listening.
“What did you think we were planning for? Did you think we wouldn’t ever actually act?” Enjolras scrunches his nose in the way that melts Grantaire’s insides, but now it just makes him feel sick.
“I just thought I would have more time, another chance to convince you all to not die. I got distracted by you. I wanted to stay in this little bubble with you. It’s you I believe in. Not the cause, not the endless, righteous deaths. It’s you.” Enjolras backs up, hands dropping to his sides as is Grantaire had slapped him.
“You don’t believe in this?” Enjolras scoffs. “There isn’t a difference in believing in me and believing in our mission. I am this mission. I am leading it, Grantaire, and if you don’t see the reasons for why we are doing this, then you don’t belong here.” Grantaire wanted to be indignant, to argue or fight, but the fight was beaten out of him more than a few years ago.
“I know I don’t belong here. I never have, Enj.” Even still, Grantaire remains where he is.
“I’m not just going to stand by while you destroy everything. Everything we’ve all worked toward for so long.” A sneer forms on his face as he throws the final blow. The one that he knows has the best chance to move Grantaire without physically touching him. “You don’t have to come, but I will be going. You can’t keep me here, R. All I have to do is order you to move, and we both know what will happen. You’ve never been able to deny me anything.”
They share a brief staring match, wherein Grantaire tries to believe in a world where Enjolras can tell him to jump and can refuse. One where he can call that bluff. Finally, he looks down at the floor, sighing. This is not that world.
“Move, Grantaire. Now.” That is the voice that brooks no argument. The one he uses when he sends out transmissions to rally the public, when he mocks those in power, challenges them to find him. The one he uses to position Grantaire how he wants him when they fuck after something goes wrong.
So, Grantaire moves, and tries to ignore the triumphant gaze fixed on him as Enjolras steps neatly through the doorway. Grantaire ran out of tears a long time ago, but if his eyes glisten a little wetly, Enjolras doesn't mention it.
“We have to move if we wanna make it to our position on time.” Enjolras doesn’t even look back, but Grantaire supposes he has no need to.
At least, this way, if Enjolras goes, Grantaire can follow quickly. A well-placed gunshot wouldn’t be the worst way to die. Preferable even, if the alternative is prison.
“On your six, boss,” Grantaire needlessly assures him.