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Grantaire runs his eyes over their bedroom, tears and age fogging his vision. He’s had glasses for a long time, now, yet he irremediably forgets about them. Not like he’s gonna need them for much longer, anyway. And besides, he only struggles to see from afar and Enjolras’ face is right there, by his side, his white curls framing it, his infamous frown forever carved in wrinkles on his forehead, a soft smile to his mouth. He has no need for glasses to see the world, not when his own very much fills his vision already.
From what he can make out and what he remembers, he can tell the picture frames covering their walls are filled with their friends, their family , increasingly greyer and fewer in number. He makes out the bright colours of drawings from the Pontmercy grandchildren, the loud posters of their past fights. He can’t see it from where he lies on their bed, but he knows there’s a chip on their pale green wall from a bedroom mishap years ago. He’s also sure Enjolras’ favourite jumper is on the vanity chair, it always is, come rain, come shine; he is correct.
He chokes up a little, but tears don’t fall. Enjolras crowds closer to him on the bed, undoubtedly crouched in a position his knees will regret later on.
“Don’t be scared, love. It’s just one more adventure,” he tells him, and even if Grantaire hadn’t grown old by his side, he would have recognised his voice. It is different now, thinner, shakier, but it still holds the same steel and courage it did decades before. It is the voice of someone unstoppable, someone who wouldn’t even let death intimidate him. Enjolras always was the braver of the two.
“I’m good. I’m alright. Look— at the life we’ve had. How could I be scared?” Grantaire says, and he somehow manages to make it sound convincing. He’s quite proud of it; anyone would believe him. Anyone but Enjolras, who knows him by heart, who knows him in the morning, when he hides his face under his pillow to escape daylight. Enjolras, who knows him better than he knows himself, because even he doesn’t know what gave away the fear that undeniably gnaws at his heart.
“A beautiful life,” he agrees.
His words are amiable, they allow Grantaire to pretend he feels no fear, but his body tells another story; Enjolras reaches out. His wrinkled, paper-thin-skinned hands take Grantaire’s own trembling, life-roughened one. He cradles it preciously, as if Grantaire might break, and he figures he just might, now. Enjolras bends down to kiss it, his neck gives a little ‘crick’ as he does so —a life of writing bent awkwardly over his desk has worn him. His lips feel so warm against Grantaire’s chilled skin.
“You’ll stay?” Grantaire asks.
“Of course I will,” Enjolras says. He has straightened up, as much as his crooked spine allows him to, but his hold on Grantaire’s has not loosened.
Grantaire exhales roughly in relief, though it could just be his breathing, which has grown laborious.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Enjolras says. “You can close your eyes and rest, I’ll be here.”
He’s got a grave little smile when Grantaire gives him one last look. He may not see all the mementos of his life well-spent, better than he ever could have hoped for, but he can see his old love, so much better than he ever could have hoped for . He takes his fill, indulges in his favourite activity one last time, studies his face, which has softened in age, his eyes, which never lost their fire, the scar he got tripping on a box when they first moved in together, the curls he’s ran his hands through over and over again, the wrinkles he’s kissed and traced countless times as they appeared and deepened.
When Enjolras bends once more to drop a feather light kiss to his lips, Grantaire closes his eyes in contentment. He does kiss back, but he doesn’t have time to taste the salt.