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With hands that trembled more than he would have wished them to, Enjolras tied the shirt of the old Mr Mabeuf to the pole of the omnibus. There was no wind, nothing to lift it up and proudly fly their makeshift flag, nothing to show the horror of it, the threadbare quality of a garment which had seen much too many days, the gaping holes where bullets had pierced through the fabric in an angry rainfall, and the blood, now dry and dark.
Enjolras’ hands were stained, too, when he let go of the shirt. They were maroon with dirt and blood, encrusted in the lines of his palms and under his fingernails. He wondered for a moment if the blood belonged to Mr Mabeuf. It might have been. It was just as likely Le Cabuc’s, or Bahorel’s, or Jean Prouvaire’s. He had not even seen Prouvaire’s body, but he could feel it all the same, his death weighing down Enjolras’s shoulders.
Enjolras did not truly blame himself for Bahorel’s or Prouvaire’s passing, nor could he claim Mabeuf’s as his fault. All three of them had made their choice — they had decided to sacrifice themselves for the hope of a better future, one that none of them expected to see. All at the barricades knew the risk, though perhaps none but Jehan were fully ready for it.
Long before General Lamarque’s death, Les Amis’ resident poet had spoken of his ease imagining his own demise, of how curious he was to find out what came after, of how accepting he was of the possibility that nothing came. Enjolras recalled it. Staring down at his hands, unrecognisable —this had to be the first time in years they were covered in anything but ink— Enjolras could see it as though it had been yesterday.
They had all been gathered in the Musain’s back room. The meeting had been unfruitful: Les Amis had been hopelessly distracted, and Enjolras was thrumming with frustration by the end of the evening. They chatted and jested vehemently, yet with the complete absence of animosity that spoke of true, lasting friendships. Bahorel was laughing uproariously at nothing in particular, arms thrown about Prouvaire’s and Grantaire’s shoulders, possibly to stay upright, while his two companions were engaged in other conversations.
Grantaire was ranting about things — anything, all things. There wasn’t a topic on Earth that couldn’t prompt one of Grantaire’s legendary rants. Bossuet, Joly and Courfeyrac bore it and listened amiably. They were about as far along in their cups as Grantaire was.
Combeferre, Feuilly and Jehan were engaged in a conversation of their own. Together, the three of them held almost all the knowledge available in the whole of Paris, and still they debated what no one could ever hope to know. Jehan, with all the wise confidence of the sage who knows he doesn’t know, talked of spirits. He talked of the end of self and the eternal continuation of the body, of returning to nature and of disappearing into the Vast. He wasn’t afraid, he had said, when Combeferre and Feuilly had shown discomfort at the idea of their friend and themselves dying. Enjolras hadn’t said anything —he was still bitter at the unproductiveness of the evening— but he’d silently agreed with Jehan. He, too, had long been at peace with the idea of his inevitable martyrdom.
With his hands crusty and dry with the blood of his peers, gunpowder, and dust, with his little finger stinging from the cobblestone he’d dropped on it, with his skin itching from the wooden shards he’d gotten while building the barricade, Enjolras remembered that, for all of his frustration at their work being so carelessly discarded that night, he had never felt safer than in such a meeting. And he remembered that he hadn’t been able to think of anything else than this. The barricades, the people, their sweat and their blood, their courage and their fears. He had wanted it for so long. He still did. Bahorel and Prouvaire’s deaths had not deterred him, had not made him fear —but maybe they had made him long for his home: rickety stools in a musty café and tipsy, budding revolutionaries with hearts of gold.
Later, when they scrambled to get the doors of the Corinth to shut, Enjolras thought of the Musain again. He thought of his friends, too. He’d left them all behind, their bodies on the street bleeding out, their eyes lifeless. He’d caught sight of Combeferre being pierced by bayonets, three times, and his friend had not cried out once. Had he not had the time? Had he welcomed that he should go while helping his fellow man, while lifting someone up? Wasn’t that the point? Elevating humanity in their last breath? He’d seen Bossuet fall, too. Courfeyrac he had lost in the fray, but he’d heard his last shout and wet gurgles. They still rang in Enjolras’ ears as he pushed the doors closed. He thought that, should he not die in the coming minutes, he’d have heard it for years to come, still.
Leaning his entire weight on the doors of the Corinth along with other nameless faces —had he taken the time to ask for their names? Those men had stuck through the night with him and the rest of Les Amis— the screams and chaos brought Enjolras to another day, another lifetime entirely.
How warm it had been. The sun had beaten down their necks, and the lake water had barely kept them cool. Courfeyrac had suggested they spend the day outside of Paris. On a scorching August day, what good could any of them be? It had been too hot to study, to research, to plot or to enlist. The heat had addled their minds, and Paris had dragged itself through it in a slow torpor. Grantaire had found the spot, and Enjolras had had to admit that this was a good find, the perfect escape. A lake, barely big enough to earn the name —a large pond, with water clearer than they could hope to find inside Paris and better yet: no one around.
With no one to see and only the closest, most intimate company present, they’d swam naked. Musichetta, Bossuet’s and Joly’s sweetheart, had joined them. For modesty’s sake, she had kept her shift on, though no one had dared to look her way, except perhaps for her two lovers who had watched her lovingly, caressed her with their eyes, and only looked away from her to look at one another with the same warmth and love. No one had said anything. Les Amis had all studied their classics, they had been known to partake in an amorous symposium or two, and most of them sought out the company of men just as much as women’s, if not more. No one would begrudge their companions the love Bossuet, Musichetta and Joly shared, not even Enjolras, though he regularly thought of it with some degree of fear.
When Bossuet, still as bare and smooth as the day he was born, had tried to bring Musichetta a cup of wine (now too warm to truly be pleasant to drink), Enjolras had thought for a moment. What if there was a child? What would they do? Would they abandon the cause, or neglect a child for it? Enjolras, in spite of himself and of the soft glow of the moment, had frowned. They couldn’t afford any distraction. They were too few as it was.
A yelp had brought Enjolras back to the scene. In an attempt to please his mistress, Bossuet had sloshed wine all over himself. None were surprised, all were laughing, Bossuet included, as well as Bahorel who woke up from the nap he’d been taking with his head pillowed on Prouvaire’s bare legs, and Grantaire, who had been uncharacteristically quiet and focused, busy furiously sketching something in a battered notebook.
The laughter had not stopped for the rest of the afternoon. They were clutching their sides, out of breath from a loud game of charades and brought to tears of mirth by some of Bahorel’s irreverent impersonations. The ruckus was only made louder when Feuilly had pushed Grantaire in the water for daring to be negative on a day so bright as this, and louder still when Courfeyrac had done the same to Enjolras, who hadn’t been able to help himself and had talked about their cause.
Grantaire and Enjolras, soaked and only pretending to sulk for a short time, had remained in the water for a while. Eventually, Grantaire had helped Enjolras out with a hand to his waist and another on his upper arm. Enjolras had pretended not to notice Grantaire’s trembling hands, the warmth where he touched him, or the wise, serious eyes that Musichetta weighed on him. When he’d shaken his curls dry, he’d shaken off the thought of how fundamentally different and identical Grantaire and him were. Him too serious and passionate, Grantaire too pessimistic and cynical, all of their faults taken to the point of distraction and destruction. They’d rejoined the games and Les Amis’ loud riots of laughter; a revolution in love, companionship and acceptance.
The shouts of the soldiers pushing against the door were a shock and an affront. How dare they be so similar to the excited cheers of his friends, when said friends laid cold and dead on the street? It felt like a desecration of that memory, of that golden afternoon, of the cold water, warm sun, and fine company. It was an insult to their names, and a brutal shattering of one of the best, sincerest moments of Enjolras’ life. Never had he felt so seen and truly accepted, with all his faults turned into an a friendly, lovable joke. And here he was, covered in dust and blood, hiding and being chased.
When his last few comrades and himself started demolishing the staircase, Enjolras didn’t expect a new wave of memories, but he welcomed it, cherished it, adored it. His end was soon, he knew it, and though he would not beg for his life and run from death, he was desperate to relive moments that had been warmer, kinder, livelier.
Lively.
Enjolras had never felt so alive. They had climbed the stairs to Combeferre’s apartments, nestled just under the roof of the building. Grown men, or just about, running up the stairs two by two like children, they’d made such a commotion. It hadn’t been any sort of gentlemanly behaviour, nothing that could be close to proper, and they hadn’t cared. Courfeyrac had called for a race, and they’d accepted the challenge.
In Combeferre’s apartments, they’d sprawled on the floor as if they were six years old again, and they’d studied for upcoming exams. Courfeyrac had moaned about law, but he knew the material already. Joly had joined them later on while Bahorel had shone by his absence —likely he wasn’t aware that he had exams at all. Enjolras, once more, had been unable to refrain from turning their study sessions into an informal meeting. All that talk of legislation had him thinking about rights, and thinking about rights had him starting to preach about revolution.
They had all indulged him, though they likely had been burning up with revolutionary fire themselves. Les Amis didn’t need Enjolras to fight their fight. Their blood boiled just like his when it came to injustices. They were as ready to take arms, to lay down their lives for Patria, as he was. Enjolras organised them, helped them focus their anger, passion and energy, just as Combeferre appealed to their reason and Courfeyrac brought them together. But individually, they lacked for nothing, for no quality nor strength. All were aware of the danger of their endeavours, yet none were ready to back down.
Les Amis had all proved how true they were. Since General Lamarque’s funeral, they had had so many occasions to run, to save themselves. They had gone through a day and a night, and they hadn’t given up. By the time dawn had come, without the people, they’d had no doubt that this would be their last sunrise. The army would advance, and it would crush them, and still, they would stand their ground. They would protect their barricade like they would protect the people who had abandoned them, like they would protect the idea of their country, the rebirth of democracy and the shy light of hope. Les Amis de l’ABC were determined to die standing —and they had. They had all been David, titans of courage with the reach of toddlers. They might not have had the National Guard’s guns, the army’s cannons, or even slings. But if a rock could take down a giant, then maybe cobblestones could take down a king, one day.
The broken staircase didn’t stop the National Guard for long. They climbed up quickly enough, though with no small amount of trouble. The effort seemed to anger the men even more; they reached the floor enraged, bloodthirsty, and incensed, like feral beasts. They shot the last of Enjolras’ companions.
He was alone.
Enjolras stood, backed against the wall, surrounded.
He was proposed a blindfold; he refused it. He was asked if he had killed the artillery sergeant; he acquiesced. He was offered no mercy; good, he didn’t want it. Enjolras had done his part, his very best; now he wanted to go like his brothers had.
The soldiers took aim; Enjolras kept his eyes wide open and he breathed out. He would not blink and miss it. It had been so long since he’d last had the chance to sleep and close his eyes. He wouldn’t miss his last seconds yet. There would be time to rest later, just a short while later, only a few heartbeats more.
There was a cry.
“Vive la République! J’en suis.”
Enjolras blinked. He couldn’t help it. What thunder, what a shock. When Enjolras had thought himself alone, Grantaire had stood.
Enjolras was staggered. When he’d thought himself to have sailed and reached the edge of the world, it had been flipped upside down. What would Grantaire be doing here? Why hadn’t he fled? No one would have blamed him. They wouldn’t have blamed the believers of their cause for fearing; they certainly wouldn’t blame the non-believers.
“Vive la République!” Grantaire repeated, with more passion and honesty than Enjolras had ever heard from him.
For all of his harshness, Enjolras had never hated Grantaire. He didn’t think his sharp reproaches towards Grantaire and his carelessness had ever been unwarranted, but he had never uttered one such reproach in contempt. Rather, Grantaire had always been a source of frustration for Enjolras. How many times had he sighed to himself at Grantaire’s antics? So much intelligence, wit and education wasted on drinks; bright words made senseless, growing soaked and soggy at the bottom of a bottle. Such a shame. But then, Grantaire making his way surely towards Enjolras, much steadier than any other man would with alcohol in his blood, weighing his limbs and dulling his mind —much more determined than any soul might be with the dark and deadly ends of the rifles staring down at him, like cold and mocking eyes, like smirking, hungry mouths… Then, Enjolras felt a new kind of regret, one he had never before felt in regard to Grantaire.
In the short few seconds it took for Grantaire to cross the room towards him, to defy the guards and their guns, Enjolras thought that he should have liked to share a drink with Grantaire once. An amiable one. Maybe he could have stilled Grantaire’s hand and stopped him from reaching for bottle after bottle, just long enough to hear Grantaire’s thoughts on the book Enjolras had seen him reading before meetings a few times.
In that short a time, Enjolras could see it, the whole scene unfolding before his eyes. The two of them at a table, the candle and its flame like shy, quavering chaperones between them, Grantaire’s well-loved, worn out, dog-eared book and perhaps, hopefully, a rare glimpse of his sincerity. Enjolras had never enjoyed it, never acknowledged it for what it was, but he had noticed those precious few times Grantaire had removed the hard mask of his cynicism and bared his heart, beating only for Enjolras, and yet for all to see. He had seen Grantaire’s eyes go soft, his voice go smooth.
Before that day, their very last, Enjolras had never seen the point of romance, had never envisioned it for himself, had only discarded it as a distraction from the fight that needed to be fought. But with Grantaire’s last stride to him, Enjolras couldn’t help thinking that he should have liked to bask some more in the love and adoration that Grantaire’s eyes had always held for him.
He thought of that day, of the two of them in the pond and the knowing eyes of Musichetta, almost issuing a challenge. He’d thought of how viscerally different they were, and how entirely similar, too. Would they have complemented one another, if Enjolras had ever given Grantaire the time of the day? Grantaire was an experienced lover, and Enjolras had never taken any. Enjolras was fiercely optimistic, and Grantaire was the sort to see the glass half empty, if he hadn’t already downed it. Enjolras was a born leader; Grantaire only followed, and very poorly at that. Grantaire, as Enjolras was coming to realise, was also capable of a tenderness Enjolras couldn’t even picture in himself.
Maybe they could have taught one another. Maybe Grantaire could have shown him at that table, behind the candle, with his book and a bottle of wine nearly full and forgotten by the both of them. Maybe, with his large grey eyes, he would have taught Enjolras how to look at a lover. Maybe, with his rough, hairy hands, he could have reached over the table to graze Enjolras’, whispered confessions of love in the shy twining of their fingers. Grantaire might have leaned forward to press his lips to his, too. Enjolras would have let him, he thinks. He didn’t think he would have, before, but he’d also never noticed how attractive Grantaire’s mouth was until his lips had shaped around his love for the Republic. Now, he thought, he would have liked to taste the word straight from the mouth of this new believer and of one of his oldest, most faithful apostles. République .
What a shame that Enjolras wouldn’t get to test Grantaire’s newfound faith. Though perhaps, as Enjolras understood when Grantaire finally reached him after what felt like both an eternity and a half and barely the blink of an eye, Grantaire had believed all this time. If not in the cause he served, he’d at least believed in Enjolras.
“Permets-tu?”
Enjolras would have gaped, had they had the time. But they didn’t, and Enjolras was done wasting it. He reached for Grantaire’s hand, and he smiled tentatively, slowly, with the sort of softness he thought Grantaire would offer him.
The shots rang. But with the thoughts of his friends filling his head, with glimpses of wasted meetings, of clear little lakes, wet shifts and wine stains, of high steps and battered textbooks, and with Grantaire’s fingers squeezing his own, Enjolras didn’t feel scared. Not even a little bit. He felt safe. He felt home.