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“Hey, Enjolras, look!”
Grantaire, leaning on the newly installed heater, has his face pressed against the window. Enjolras rises with a grumble, but joins him. The street below is not very crowded at this hour, late in the afternoon, but nonetheless a small group of people, students by the looks of it, are gathered at the entrance of the Musain. They appear to be waiting for someone, chatting animatedly. Their laughter drifts up to the Musain’s attic.
Enjolras watches them for a few more moments before he returns to the old armchair dumped in the corner. It barely fits underneath the slanted roof and he has to fold his long legs in order not to hit his head. It’s his favourite place in the entire building. With the exception of the heater and some changing furniture over the years, it’s the one room that remains as he remembers it.
Grantaire sometimes joins him on the low bench, with a book or simply soft conversation. It’s easier, now. Countless years of crashing against each other have polished their rough edges, transformed them into something smoother. This month they haven’t yet fought a single time.
“They’re probably here for the wine special,” he mutters, partly to provoke a reaction, partly thinking out loud. Grantaire doesn’t react, instead continuing to stare down.
“They’re going in,” he informs Enjolras a few minutes later. Indeed, through the creaks and holes of the old building the noises of a large group of people drift up. “Shall we check it out?”
He considers it, but he’s not really interested. Thousands of people passed through this building over the years, and none spared them any attention. This group won’t be any different. Besides, the book he’s reading, a historical perspective on political theory that he’s snatched from the open library shelf in the cafe, is way too interesting to put down. He tells Grantaire as much.
Grantaire shrugs and descends the ladder to the second floor. In all the years they’ve been here, they never lingered in that hallway; it still holds too many memories. Silence returns when he’s gone and Enjolras, for a few pages, enjoys the quiet. Then, as has occurred more and more often in the last few decades, it starts to grate on his nerves and he finds himself missing Grantaire’s chatter. Though most of the time he tunes it out, he’s become accustomed to it filling his mind.
For a few moments he stares at the page, sighs, and unfurls from his cosy position. Suddenly Grantaire appears before him, pale and wild. “You’ve got to come with me,” he pants, and without waiting for an answer he phases them both through the floors until they’re in the Musain’s restored main room.
It takes him a few moments to spot what has gotten Grantaire so upset, but when he does his mouth falls open. Nestled in the corner, packed at two tables between the large front window and the bar, the students from outside are sipping their drinks. Their faces are not unfamiliar; not like every other guest that comes through here. He knows those faces, permanently etched in his memory, painted in scenes similar to the one presented before him, but always overlaid with the echo of their final fate.
It’s not exactly disbelief that fills him; more a fear to trust his eyes. He vaguely notices he’s stopped right in front of the bar, but the staff on duty pays him no mind, as always. Beside him Grantaire’s crying. His eyes are wide open so as not to miss a thing and fat tears roll down his cheeks.
Grantaire is crying, and that shocks him back into action, He drags them both down onto the bar stools, pulls Grantaire into a hug. In all the years they spent here together, he’s never once seen the other man cry. But he does now, tears turning into ugly sobs, and Enjolras just holds him while he watches the oblivious group.
There’s Courfeyrac, dressed in a ridiculous getup he’d never have worn back in the day, but his dark curls and bright smile are exactly the same. His arm is thrown around Combeferre, who pushes a pair of stylish glasses further up his nose as he reads something aloud from his phone. Surrounding them are Joly and Bossuet, hand in hand, and Jehan and Bahorel with complementing dragon tattoos. Feuilly’s ginger hair is buried under a handstitched I Love Poland-hat. It’s different from the old shirts and waistcoats, but it’s definitely them.
Grantaire dares not close his eyes as the bullets hit. He gazes up at Enjolras, his hair matted and his beautiful face smeared with blood and tears. But he smiles down at him, and Grantaire never felt this happy before.
His vision greys and trembles, or is Enjolras falling? He tries to lift his free hand, to steady him, but the appendage doesn’t move. It’s grown heavy and cold and he can’t feel his fingers anymore. In contrast, his other hand is still clasped in Enjolras’ own, a single welcome point of warmth in a world that grows increasingly colder.
A dull ache in his chest spreads, in concord with the dark stain on his shirt. Next to the red wine spills, the blood is almost unnoticeable save for its shimmering wetness. His mind slows, focused only on Enjolras as black curtains his eyes. For a very long time, he feels nothing at all.
Back in the attic, Enjolras sits slumped in his chair. Grantaire paces. Outside, an endless cloud cover hides the stars from view.
“It can’t be them,” Grantaire reasons desperately. “They died! Their bodies were all over the ground floor and first floor landing!”
“We died too, yet here we are,” Enjolras quietly reminds him. “Maybe it was the same for them?”
Grantaire huffs and drops to the ground. Fresh tears gather in his eyes. “We remained, right from the start. They were gone.”
They’re both silent for a moment, trying to process the impossible.
“Do you think they’ll come back?”
Enjolras looks up. “They already have.”
“No, I mean here. In the Musain.”
“They came here once already. It’s not impossible for them to return, even if they are not them, or don’t remember they are them.”
“Do you think they do? Remember, I mean?”
Enjolras is silent, thinking. The group remained downstairs during the entire afternoon, until the cafe closed. The staff cleaned around them, and one waitress eventually joined them for a bit, giving both Joly and Bossuet a kiss on the cheek. They were talking, pointed to things on their computers (Enjolras still wasn’t quite sure how they worked, or what their purpose was. Nevertheless, nowadays everyone seemed to possess multiple ones in different sizes). Nothing that pointed to resurfacing memories of this old building. Nothing familiar in their motions that spoke of previous visits.
“No.”
Grantaire deflates.”I’m so sorry,” he whispers into the darkness. “I never got to apologise for sleeping through their sacrifice.”
He frowns. They don’t talk about what happened. In all those years they’ve been stuck here, the subject was never broached. A tacit understanding and respect for each other’s pain, turned into a habit, prevented them from discussing it. Now Enjolras has no idea how to react to the admission.
Perhaps it wasn’t even meant for his ears. He awkwardly lowers himself to the floor, until he’s next to Grantaire. When the latter doesn’t move, he tentatively puts an arm around his shoulders. Under his touch Grantaire shakes silently. “The would have forgiven you.” He puts as much conviction in the words as he can, even though he isn’t sure. As the National Guard fired their salvos, he doesn’t imagine they’d have much time to contemplate upon an absent Grantaire.
Grantaire manages a watery smile that Enjolras feels in his chest. “I’m sure they had more pertinent things to worry about than a drunk sleeping out his intoxication.”
A short laugh, rough in sound and excruciating to his ears. “I haven’t had a drink in almost two centuries. What I wouldn’t give for a bottle of absinthe right now. Too bad the stuff’s long gone out of fashion.”
A familiar lecture springs to mind, but Enjolras stops the words from passing his lips. This is not the right moment for berating Grantaire’s past drinking habits. Especially, as the man just pointed out, it’s been so long since he last indulged in anything. Still, it’s strange to have the words come back so naturally. Like he’s been in stasis, preserved behind the glass windows of the Musain, until such a time he’s triggered back into action.
The only thing demarcating today from the endless days they passed here, is the arrival of their friends. Not for the first time tonight Enjolras wonders if this is what they’ve been unknowingly waiting for. If so, what is he supposed to do this time around? He’s already led them to their deaths once. A grimace accompanies the memory, as it always does. He refuses to be that careless and callous again.
Grantaire remains silent in his arms, and Enjolras joins him in staring out the window. It’s not the last sight he ever saw - he had his back turned towards the barricade below, opting to die facing his executors, but he remembers the warmth of the sunny dawn, the breeze that preluded a beautiful summer’s day. The stench of blood and bodies that rose from below.
He’d intended to die with all that in his mind, but then Grantaire had stumbled in, hair a mess and reeking of drink, with that strange light in his eyes he hadn’t seen before and hasn’t seen ever since. That voice, clear as the bells of Notre Dame tolling noon, proclaiming his allegiance to the cause. Grantaire was glorious then like the gods he spoke so much about, and Enjolras doesn’t regret the cynic’s face being his last living sight.
The clouds start to break, here and there. Enjolras wishes he could see the stars through the ragged cracks, but only a few lights blink down at him. Paris has changed, in the time they’ve been here. Electric light pollutes the night sky and skyscrapers reflect all celestial light until it becomes indistinguishable from the neon lamps below.
Grantaire’s breathing evens out in an imitation of sleep. It’s as close to the real thing as they can get, nowadays. Enjolras gently lowers him down onto the rug, and pulls a pillow from the storage box filled with mismatched furniture decorations pushed in a corner. Grantaire is peaceful like this, so unlike the violent twitches and noises that used to disturb his frequent drunken stupors.
Enjolras smiles lightly. He’s found, over the years, that just looking at Grantaire calms him down. Reduced to invisible spectators in a rapidly changing world, it’s comforting to know some things stay the same. He’s even learnt to ignore their shirts’ red-stained tears.
Waking up is violent in a way exactly opposite to dying.
Grantaire jerks forward, heaving and panting, clawing at his chest. His fingers come away bloodied and wet, but he doesn’t feel them as they poke into the hole in his abdomen. His fingertips brush the metal of the bullet still lodged in there.
His breath quickens, but no air rushes past his throat into his lungs. In panic he lurches over and just in time catches himself on his hands. Now on all fours, Grantaire takes long minutes to calm down.
When he stops heaving, the wounds have stopped bleeding. Scarlet droplets now and again well up and fall down, but the blood quickly coalesces into a reddish brown crust. Shredded remnants flake around the entrance wounds; it had been his own fingers that opened them.
Grantaire feels strange. He feels not nothing, because the wooden beams under his hands are coarse and solid and sunlight warms his back. His body, however, has lost all internal sensation. No iron tang in his mouth, no heat in his skin. No rush of alcohol in his veins.
He stares down at the floor, at the outline of the window done in shadow. Only when he lifts his hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, does he notice no shadow moves with him. The light passes right through.
Fear spreads through him, carried by something else than blood. What happened? He remembers the National Guard lining up, releasing their salvo at him and Enjolras.
Where is Enjolras?
For the first time he looks up and unsteadily pushes himself to his knees. Enjolras lies, face-down, on the ground. A red puddle, in the process of coagulating, spreads from underneath his torso. He doesn’t move.
Grantaire crawls closer, desperate. His entire world shrinks to the silent vision before him. He moves slowly and time crawls even slower than he does. His worst nightmare, come true.
Enjolras sits at the bar, reading a newspaper one of the customers left that morning, when the door opens and the students stumble in. They arrange themselves in the same corner as before, which after much shifting around manages to accommodate all of them. There’s more people now than before: he recognises Marius now as well, with a smiling girl on his arm. She’s talking animatedly to Jehan.
Mesmerised by the chaotic interactions that proceed like the familiar steps of a Viennese waltz, he almost forgets to get Grantaire, whom he finds on the first floor office drawing portraits on the back of official documents. At the look on his face Grantaire drops his pencil immediately and follows him downstairs.
They’ve ordered drinks, but the glasses are precariously balanced on the edges of the table, to make room for a truly staggering amount of laptops and other devices that Enjolras doesn’t recognise. Underneath the devices stacks of papers litter the tabletop. Bending closer, they reveal themselves to be flyers for an upcoming silent protest. Enjolras swallows.
Grantaire’s hand at his shoulder pulls him gently back. “I know,” he simply says.
They keep watching. It’s not quite a meeting, not like the ones they used to have in this very building. Instead it’s more informal, talking quietly amongst each other and now and then throwing suggestions to the table at large. Before their eyes permits are requested, newspapers are called, and awareness is raised, all much more efficient and calm than Enjolras ever was.
Grantaire takes his hand. It’s an automatic gesture, nowadays, but it never fails to take him back to their last moments. Back then it was as sudden as the gunshots, as blooming as the blood in his shirt. Now it’s calmer, quieter, but the warmth penetrates deeper now than the bullets ever did. Peculiar, but familiar now, the way things have been ever since they died.
Enjolras grips back. They continue their vigil until the Musain closes and the students are shooed out. Lighthearted pleas for one last round are met goodnaturally by the staff as they collect plates and glasses. In no time all devices have been put away and the papers neatly sorted and stacked, and then they’re leaving.
Only after Grantaire whimpers does Enjolras realise he’s crushing his fingers. They’re leaving, and Combeferre is already outside and they’re only waiting for Jehan and Bossuet to put on their coats and then they’ll be gone and Enjolras cannot trust to chance they’ll stop by again.
He rushes forward, stopped only by the barrier formed by the Musain’s threshold, and though he knows it’s in vain, he tries to grab Courfeyrac before he vanishes back into the whirlpool of life. He’s too late, and there’s nothing he can do to make them stay. He sinks to his knees, fresh tears welling up, and the old hopelessness rears its ugly head.
“They’ll be back,” Grantaire whispers, but his voice is shaky. He’s still standing, though, and Enjolras leans back against his legs.
“How do you know?”
It’s a while before Grantaire answers. “Because they found the Musain once already and returned. Because they have to.”
“But do you believe it?”
Grantaire remains silent.
Enjolras sighs and swallows past the lump in his throat. He pulls himself up against the doorpost and together they watch the darkness descend over the Parisian streets.
The Musain is quiet and dark as well, and they slowly make their way to the attic. Enjolras curls into his chair and Grantaire, as always, navigates towards the window. Observing him, Enjolras wonders why.
“They’ll be back,” Grantaire reaffirms, more to the open space than to Enjolras in particular. He raises an eyebrow. “I believe it,” he provokes.
Involuntarily a smile tugs at his lips. Enjolras knows what Grantaire’s doing; so many years stuck with only each other has taught him much about the other man.
“So, about next time,” Grantaire starts. His grin is brittle and Enjolras can see its more for his benefit than anything else. “What are we doing to keep them here?”
A good question, and one that Enjolras was too caught up in his own head for to think of himself. “We could…” he stops. Thinks if he truly wants to unleash Grantaire onto their unsuspecting friends. Then he weighs that concern against the relief and elation of seeing the other Amis again, coupled with with the way his heart, despite not having one, dropped when they left… “Do you remember monsieur Fréderick?”
Grantaire nods, and his eyes take on a familiar shine.
“We could stage a repeat of that fiasco, if you’re in?”
“Am I in?” Grantaire mocks. “No, Apollo, I am definitely not up to haunt the living daylight out of our mysteriously reappeared friends. What do you take me for?”
His face is scrunched up and his voice is pitched up as high as it can go, and maybe it’s the shock, but Enjolras giggles.
Grantaire’s pout softens into a smile and he crosses over from the window. “We’ll be fine, Enj. Don’t worry.”
“Enjolras?”
Grantaire touches his hand. The wrist is cold and clammy, wet with blood, but the skin on his palm is dry.
“Enjolras?” Whispering now, as if shouting might break the moment, the fragile hope that Enjolras isn’t gone. No breath, no exhale curbs his fears. No heartbeat pulses weakly through Enjolras’ veins. No signs of life.
“Enjolras…” he’s crying now, sobbing quietly in the dusk as, fittingly, the sun falls below the horizon. Golden light for a moment sets Enjolras’ hair ablaze. Grantaire can’t help himself. He reaches out, gently cards his fingers through the halo.
He can’t leave Enjolras like this. He deserves so much more than to rot away, his sacrifice censored and forgotten. He deserves statues erected in his image, leading the people to his beloved utopia of freedom. It’s not fair, but when has anything ever been?
So Grantaire cries, and works, and carries Enjolras down the stairs. The Musain holds the middle between a battlefield and a bar long after midnight, with bullets lodged inside the walls and dark red… wine stains covering the tables. Someone removed the bodies, and what remains is an empty, hollowed out space. Traces of the many afternoons spent lounging at the bar still peek through the destruction, like an old paint coat underneath torn wallpaper.
Enjolras is heavy in his arms, but still lighter than his heart. The Musain’s front door has been removed. The barricade, still standing proudly the day before, has been demolished; timber, once a leg of a chair or table, and straw still mark its location.
Grantaire stares, and despair once more crushes his throat. He needs to get Enjolras to an undertaker, or a cemetery, or maybe even to a hospital, anywhere but here. Enjolras deserves so much more than this bleak vista.
With nothing else left to do, he hoists Enjolras’ corpse higher on his back and makes to leave the Musain, only to find that he can’t. The moment his foot crosses the threshold, something blocks his way. He tries again, and once more an invisible wall blocks his path. Next he tries the windows, but the remaining shards protruding from the frame create an insurmountable barrier. Enjolras grows heavy in his arms as he panics, looks for the back entrance, and finds it equally closed off.
It takes an entire week before their friends show up again, a week during which Enjolras spends practically all his time observing the door. Every time the bell jingles to signal a new customer, his head whips up, only to be disappointed. He doesn’t usually prowl the taproom, preferring to laze about on the upper floors.
It’s the recurring hope that hurts the most, whenever someone else appears at the door. Grantaire looked at him, every morning, but didn’t say anything. He knows Enjolras has to do this, just like Enjolras knows Grantaire cannot bear the disappointment each minute they stay away. He’d turn to alcohol, if he were still able, and making him sit at the bar with him just seems so unnecessarily cruel. Secretly, he feels glad their current existence prohibits any such consumption.
As the hours pass by, he often thinks back on Grantaire’s words, designed to inspire him again though Grantaire didn’t truly believe them. It’s been so long since he truly had something he wanted, something to fight for. He knows for a fact Grantaire misses him, the old him. The one with a clear conscience who led so many people to slaughter. He wants to give Grantaire something back, some token effort for all the trust he still continues to place in him.
It’s not much, but if he can be their lookout, at least he’ll spare Grantaire the crushing despair with each stranger that enters. To pass the time, he mentally reviews his list of action for when he finally catches sight of Combeferre’s soft smile, or Courfeyrac’s exaggerated frown. He still grins when he remembers Grantaire’s reaction, mouth open and eyes comically wide. “Enjolras, is that a battle plan?”
Grantaire had been surprised, pleasantly so, though he’d tried to hide it. Not often had he smiled like that, and Enjolras feels proud and pleased with himself that he was its cause. It wars in his chest with guilt, for he doesn’t want to be that man anymore, too busy saving humanity that he forgot about humans.
He’s worked hard on his change, during the endless hours when the Musain was a boarded-up relic of a long-lost battle, when he and Grantaire had been truly alone together. He’s proud of what he accomplished so far, yet there’s always so much more work to do. He’s lost none of his fervour, but he’s forcibly tempered himself, learned to look past the immediate benefits and consider long-term consequences. Locked up in here, he didn’t have much of a choice.
Grantaire’s changed too. Surprisingly, the long years of waiting has calmed him down, and Enjolras can now honestly say they’ve become very good friends, whereas before he’d be hard-pressed to name the other man anything else but a nuisance. Comparing Grantaire how he is now to how he was long ago, Enjolras is astounded by the differences. During every meeting of old, Grantaire had seemed to make it his mission to rile him up with every point he made, and it took Enjolras a long time to understand it had been his way of supporting the cause. It doesn’t explain all the personal remarks and what Enjolras in this new, progressive age is capable of naming ceaseless flirting, but he blames it on Grantaire’s ever-present drink.
He isn’t like that anymore. In fact, the last time he ever did anything suggestive was the day evening before Lamarque’s funeral, when they all stayed late to discuss last-minute details. He’d compared Enjolras to a number of increasingly dubious figures from antiquity, until he fell asleep on the table mid-sentence. He’s glad Grantaire let go of that particular habit. With no one but each other and immeasurable guilt, he doesn’t think he could’ve handled such petty comments. More recently, though, he’s wondered what it would be like for Grantaire to start making such jokes again. They’re closer now than they’ve ever been before, yet still it somehow feels superficial, lacking the depth of familiarity he’d had with virtually all his other friends.
Enjolras knows what’s keeping them at a careful, friendly distance. They’ve never talked about it, never even mentioned it, but Grantaire blames him for their last days, for the barricade, for the deaths of their friends. For his own death, maybe. Weeks in advance he’d warned them, and Enjolras excluded him from the rest of the meeting instead of heeding his advice. It’s why he cannot possibly initiate anything closer, why he’s working on himself to become a better person.
Enjolras doesn’t know why he’s found himself analysing Grantaire’s past behaviour these past few weeks. It’s like seeing their friends has turned a key in his mind, and all his locked up memories come flooding back.
Absorbed in his thoughts, Enjolras only registers the bell as a boisterous group passes his seat. Out of habit more than any real hope does he look up, and suddenly he comes face-to-face with Jehan.
If they’re anything like they were before, so Enjolras reasoned when he presented his battle plan, Jehan’s the one most likely to perceive them. He’d shortly argued for Combeferre, until Grantaire pointed out his logical mind would demand proof before he’d allow himself to believe in the existence of ghosts.
He’s supposed to get Grantaire at the first sign of their friends, but Jehan is right there and Enjolras seizes the opportunity. He puts a hand to Jehan’s cheek, and watches as his face performs a complicated dance in response to its sudden chill. He then phases through the roof, calling Grantaire as soon as he reaches their attic.
Lounging near the window, eyes unfocused and staring at the sky, Grantaire jumps in surprise when Enjolras grabs his hand and pulls him downstairs. He doesn’t waste time explaining.
When they return their friends have just settled, still shuffling their belongings around until everyone is comfortable. Grantaire is tense at his side. Enjolras squeezes his hand.
As luck would have it, Jehan is seated right next to the aisle, and Enjolras repeats his trick of putting his hands on his face. Grantaire meanwhile shuffles his bag around, left on the floor and inconspicuously out of view of everyone but Jehan. A few papers flutter to the ground. They’re the same pamphlets he saw last time, for an on-campus silent protest against raising the tuition fee, meant to emphasise the powerlessness of those lacking the necessary funds. It’s a cause right up his ally, directly in line with his own principles. He tears his eyes away from the pamphlets and focuses on their mission: raising hell, figuratively.
Over the last two centuries, rumours that the Musain’s haunted have been particularly persistent, a reputation Grantaire and him meticulously built and maintained. As a result, the cafe often changed owners and the current administration decided adding atmosphere via a collage of newspaper clippings was the way to go. There are old, framed reports of the Musain’s role in the June Rebellion, their rebellion, but none of them contain any names. They’re put up right next to the multiple stories on the supernatural, and it is towards these that Grantaire expertly manoeuvres Jehan’s attention.
It’s almost funny how Jehan’s eyes go wide as he reads the headlines. He almost rises to get a closer look and read the articles, but then Combeferre calls the meeting to order. With a silent nod, Enjolras signals Grantaire to let them be, for now. But he does remain watching, and he catches Jehan’s glances towards the wall. When the meeting concludes, several hours later, Jehan is out of his seat, studying the reports.
Bahorel drifts over, Feuilly in tow, and Jehan gestures wildly as he tells of the Musain’s history. This in turn attracts Marius’ attention, and with him comes his girlfriend. Not long after all Amis are avidly reading the wall, and next to him Grantaire sports a quiet, hopeful smile, the first one of its kind Enjolras’s ever seen grace him.
“You know,” Jehan says some time later, “maybe the ghosts are watching us now.”
“I don’t think we’re interesting enough,” Bahorel comments. He forcibly takes Marius’ shoulders to steady him as the latter starts frantically looking around.
“If we’re not interesting, then we’re doing something wrong.” That’s Courfeyrac, grinning ear to ear as he says it.
“No, we’re not getting an ouija board.” For good measure, Combeferre facepalms.
Grantaire looks at him. Enjolras stares right back. Grantaire raises an eyebrow. Enjolras winks. Step one: accomplished.
Bloodied and exhausted, Grantaire hoists Enjolras on the bar, the only intact surface large enough to support him. He’d even tried all windows, but they might as well have been barred.
Outside, night has fallen and the distinct marching boots of the National Guard approach from the distance. From around a corner the flickering of a torch reflects in the remains of a broken window, destroyed by a stray gunshot. It’s enough for Grantaire to see the polished boots and blue coats, and he panics.
Enjolras has to get away from here. His imagination is vivid enough to conjecture a hundred horrible scenarios, and he cannot let a single one of them come true. His own safety, such as it is, doesn’t even register.
Without any other options, he swings Enjolras’ body over his shoulder and stumbles up the stairs. He’s too slow to outrun the Guard, but he can hope that for once luck in his favour and they’re merely patrolling the streets. It would be the least the universe can do, after taking all his friends away.
However, exactly as he already feared, the marching stops as one by one they file into the destroyed Musain. Hiding on the splintered beams of the first floor landing, he dares not breathe. Enjolras’ head leans heavy on his shoulder, dangerously close to a protruding wooden board. Moving away would put him in view of the Guard, so Grantaire is left with no option but to keep still and pray they won’t take Enjolras’ body away. To do what, exactly, he doesn’t know. He simply needs to keep him close.
He holds his breath and finds he doesn’t need to breathe at all. No growing tightness in his chest, no burning lungs. He’s still not sure what’s happening to him, but he figures he’ll find out later, once the National Guard is gone, he’s found a way to leave the cafe, and Enjolras is safe.
From below calm commands are issued as the Guard tramples their once-safe space, their refuge from the dark of night, home to the bright flame of the future. Now it’s its tomb.
As far as Grantaire can hear, the Guard is methodical and meticulous, searching the empty room for who knows what. Smashed glass on the ground and a heavily dented bar is all that remains for them to find. For a moment, when the noises from below die down, he thinks he’s safe.
Grantaire wasn’t afraid when he died. How could he, when he had no future worth mentioning and Enjolras held his hand as he smiled down upon him? It was a better end that he could ever hope for. He’d felt at peace, if sad that Enjolras’ life was over too soon. No, he’d never been afraid for himself.
Now, when heavy boots stomp the first step of the stairs and the helmeted head of a Guardsman appears around the bend of the winding staircase, he is terrified. He cannot move as the helmet rises to show a shiny forehead, sharp panes thrown in contrast by the torch the man holds. Wary eyes appear below the brim, scanning the destroyed landing. A thick moustache follows, styled points curling upwards. Grantaire knows that moustache, recognises it as if from a dream. Those same eyes, laden with remorse as they nevertheless pulled the trigger, now bore into his own.
He wants to run, to fight, to scream at this soldier who thought he could take Enjolras away from this world that so desperately needs him. He doesn’t know what, but he want to do something. But then the eyes pass, without recognition or even a hint of having seen them. A few tense seconds later, the Guardsman descends the stairs and disappears from Grantaire’s sight.
“All clear,” he reports to his superior downstairs. Not a trace of deception colours his voice. Not much later, the entire patrol moves out, leaving Grantaire once again alone with a corpse and a silence that seems so much deeper now.
Two days later, their friends reappear in the Musain, still talking about the cafe’s tumultuous history. Half-hidden in his bag, Marius has actually a brought an ouija board, and Enjolras spends several minutes laughing when Grantaire points it out. Marius isn’t even subtle about it, though when Courfeyrac declares it’s time for ghost-hunting, he grins and reveals the board with a magician’s touch. Courfeyrac squeals and leaps over the table to crush Marius’ frame in a massive hug. Combeferre and Marius’ girlfriend sigh in unison.
“Do you think this happens often?”
Enjolras squints. “I can’t remember Marius and Courfeyrac being so… affectionate, no.” He studies them again as they set up the board. “But they might have changed.”
“Hmm. Didn’t they use to live together?”
“Did they?”
“Marius had no money and Courfeyrac found him on the streets. I used to pay for his drinks, those few times Courf dragged him along to your meetings.”
Enjolras finds himself looking at his friends with new eyes. He’d had no idea. He’d always assumed Marius was set, like they all were, and was mildly interested in their cause. That mildness had always infuriated him, back then, when he thought they had so much left to give. He knows Marius survived the barricade and found happiness with his bride.
Where before he’d only begrudgingly allowed him in, reasoning he couldn’t possibly be worse than Grantaire, now he finds himself glad for Marius’ presence in the group. Without his own shadow falling over him, and without Grantaire to steal the spotlight, Marius in fact seems less shy, more outspoken, a mediator between different ideas and plans with a knack for talking to and convincing the right people.
Was he like this before, Enjolras silently questions. How many people did he judge, and in his judgement overlooked their true value?
He cannot help but glance aside to Grantaire, who’s grinning as Jehan bats Courfeyrac away from the ouija board, intend on leading the session himself. Quietly he slips his hand in Grantaire’s, who squeezes back. The Musain is anything but silent, at dinner time, but something between them still feels charged, fragile. Perhaps it’s simply the moment, the knowledge that after two centuries they will not be alone anymore. The view of these tables finally filled packed again.
From his pocket Jehan manifests a candle and places it on the table, amid notebooks and laptops. Their owners are quick to remove their precious belongings from the flame and wax as Jehan uses his lighter.
He takes Combeferre’s hand on one side and Joly’s on the other. After a stern look, the rest follows until they’ve formed an unbroken circle. Combeferre takes a deep breath and closes his eyes in concentration. With a single nod, Jehan makes the rest follow his example. The candle flickers, and the twilight gloom outside adds to the atmosphere. It’s a contained thing, like a bubble stretching only so far as the chairs circled around it. The noise from the other patrons somehow fades away and Enjolras finds himself leaning forward.
“Dear friends,” Jehan begins solemnly, ignoring Bahorel’s sniggering. His eyes remain resolutely closed. “We are gathered to put the past to rest, to allow those lingering in the shadows to cross over into the light.”
Grantaire cries.
He’s still cramped on the remains of the first floor landing, Enjolras cradled close and lifeless. He’s spent, and tears are all he’s got left to give. For the first time it truly hits how alone he is. No friends, no casual relations, not even enemies.
The face of the Guardsman is burned in his mind. It wasn’t even recognition he lacked; it was any worth of being seen at all. It was confirmation of Enjolras words: he is incapable of believing, thinking, willing, living, and as recently shown, of dying as well. He’d promised Enjolras, had promised himself, that he would prove Enjolras wrong. He thought he had. In those few moments, as he stumbled up the stairs, saw Enjolras standing tall and proud, he thought he might belong there. Perhaps not by his side, but in his shadow.
He cards his fingers through Enjolras’ golden hair. Knots and tangles and blood fail to hide the lacklustre shine, like the dimming of the sun. He doesn’t know what else to do, where else to go. He cannot leave, cannot let Enjolras’ body leave, but there is nothing to stay for anymore.
He’s spent some nights on the streets of Paris, when he was too drunk to make it home. He’s seen the worst humanity has to offer, the desperation for food and for warmth, and what happened to those poor souls unable to obtain either. The prospect of seeing Enjolras like that is simply… unbearable.
Maybe this is his punishment. Maybe he in his cynicism was wrong and there is some higher power among the stars, and this is his reward. He could have left the bottle behind and participated in Enjolras’ war on poverty. He could’ve done so many things differently. If he’d taken the meetings seriously, Enjolras might’ve listened to him when he warned against open revolt.
Or that was exactly his mistake. He shouldn’t have venerated Enjolras as he did, at the price of countless other people. Maybe he should’ve been more like Enjolras, more like anyone else, and less like himself.
He’s never believed in second chances, not for people who so royally screwed them over like himself. Still he finds himself wishing for someway to make it up, first for Enjolras, and a distant second for himself.
He sits like that through the night. No stars sparkle through the broken window, and he sits and stares as the dawn casts the street in cold and monochrome grey. Enjolras has long gone cold and Grantaire has lost the body heat required to keep him warm. An entire day has passed in which the world stopped making sense, yet continued spinning anyway. He finds himself longing for a drink, something to dull the ache and the thoughts in his head, and hates himself for it. Enjolras would hate him for it too. It’s that thought that prevents him from creeping downstairs and try to salvage something alcoholic from the mess.
The grey morning slowly acquires colour, first pastels in the sky and later deeper shades as the sun crests the slanted roofs. It’s silent, still. At this hour, people normally grumble as they traverse towards their work. Today the doors remain locked and the windows barred. It’s like the world needs time to adjust to this new reality. Suddenly, Grantaire wishes he could paint the scene, preserve it somewhere more lasting than his memory.
“It’s beautiful,” a hoarse voice says.
Grantaire nods, staring outside and still lost in thought. A bird chirps, hesitatingly at first, before the song quickly gains volume and cheer. Grantaire listens to it, and his hand falls to his side.
“Don’t stop,” the voice commands weakly. Obediently Grantaire raises his hand back to the pale filigree hair.
He stops. Processes the order, the tone, the voice. Slowly turns away from the golden morning hour. A terrible hope builds in his chest, and he wants to move faster, but he can’t because what if he’s truly gone insane now and the voice was only in his head?
Enjolras still leans against him, head on his shoulder, unmoving. But his limbs are arrayed differently, less dead weight and more clenched muscles. Grantaire’s eyes reach his face. Underneath the blood and grime, a pallor rests on those marble cheeks. Sun-kissed skin has lost its tan, and pink lips have lost all volume. But that is not what Grantaire sees.
Enjolras’ eyes, passionate and blue like the waves of the Mediterranean, are open.
“This isn’t working,” Feuilly, ever the voice of rationality, says, and normally Enjolras would agree. He’s never believed in the occult or the spiritual, and even now, centuries later, he’s hesitant to name himself supernatural. He may not have the scientific mind Combeferre does, but he’s always been logical.
And yet. He knows a candle and a mass-produced plastic game aren’t going to help him and Grantaire, knows there is nothing magical about the scene. Knows many exorcists tried to cleanse the Musain, only for all their seances to fail. And yet he feels touched, like somewhere deep inside a tiny piece of a dam breaks.
He may not have believed in ghosts or spirits or anything, but if back in the day Jehan would’ve come to him with the request to lay some poor souls to rest, he would’ve agreed in a heartbeat. Because Jehan was his friend and they would all die for each other.
And they did, but perhaps they died not for Enjolras’ folly but for their own dreams, and perhaps they would’ve done so even without Enjolras’ encouragement.
He remembers the pamphlets, remembers the list of injustices his friends compiled. Courfeyrac’s serious expression and Combeferre’s worry. Joly’s care and Bossuet’s endless optimism. Feuilly’s drive and Bahorel’s enthusiasm. Maybe, just maybe, his friends would have raised their barricade anyway, with or without him.
He’s still holding Grantaire’s hand. With a devilish grin Grantaire keeps the pointer focused on the letter R, then moves towards E when the Musain’s door opens and two people leave. The resulting breeze has Courfeyrac arguing the wind against a determined Combeferre, who, Enjolras knows, wants to be convinced of a world beyond the one he can see.
“You should give them something useful before they give up,” he remarks. Grantaire’s lips tighten momentarily, before he laughs.
“Don’t worry. I am capable of being good for something.”
Grantaire speaks with a casual air, but something about the words is familiar, and that something stings. But Grantaire doesn’t mention it further, and instead moves the ouija pointer in earnest.
“Look!” Jehan gasps.
“Unbelievable,” Marius’ girlfriend says, but doesn’t sound afraid. Unlike Courfeyrac, who’s gone completely white.
”No-no way,” he stutters, clasping his shoulder with both hands. “It’s moving on its own!”
Marius is fervently watching the pointer, recording each letter in his notebook. “S-T-U-C-K-H-E-R-E-W-E-L-C-O-M-E-B-A-C-K,” he reads, then frowns. “Welcome back?”
Enjolras mirrors his actions. “Welcome back? What was that for? They don’t remember.”
Grantaire purses his lips. “Maybe it would jog something.”
They watch for a few minutes as their friends try to make sense of their cryptic message, but don’t get much further beyond having been seen when they came by earlier. They’re not wrong, but simultaneously they’re so far off the mark. With a sigh Enjolras pushes Grantaire aside and takes charge of the pointer.
“W-I-L-L-Y-O-U-D-I-E-F-O-R-T-H-E-P-E-O-P-L-E-?” Marius reads again. “What does that mean?”
“Is the ghost going to kill us?” Joly is fascinated, almost excited. Bossuet pulls him close.
“It better not touch you,” he mutters.
“What was that for?” Grantaire is staring at him. True, this was not the plan, Enjolras skipped from step two directly to step six, which he two minutes ago had silently added to his battle plan.
“I just need to know.” Grantaire keeps looking at him, then gazes back at their friends. “Why?”
He takes a deep breath he doesn’t need, just to buy some time. In all their years together they never spoke about the barricade. Does he truly feel prepared to break that silence? Looking at Grantaire’s face, Enjolras makes his decision. They’ve been stuck long enough, dancing around each other. Maybe the arrival of their friends was the push they needed to finally face themselves.
“All these years, I thought it was my fault. The barricade, the deaths, us remaining here. All of it.” Something’s stuck in his throat, making it hard to get the words out. He has Grantaire’s undivided attention, and the rest of the Musain around them falls away. “If I hadn’t encouraged them, convinced them, nobody would have died.” He tries for a smile, but it comes out weak and watery. “And now they’re here again, and even without me they’re organising these protests and fighting for the people. So maybe, maybe, it wasn’t completely my fault.”
He’s done it. He’s said the words out loud. The dam in his chest breaks a little bit more.
And Grantaire was listening. This may be the first time he’s seen the other completely speechless. His complexion is even paler than usual. He opens his mouth a few times, but no sound comes out.
Enjolras watches him for a few moments, and then finds he has more words to say. More to apologise for. “They would have erected the barricade with or without me. But not you. I know you came for me.”
Wordlessly, Grantaire nods. He looks like he’ll break any second. That, or run. The latter is fine by Enjolras; there’s no place in the Musain he doesn’t know. The first, though, he needs to avoid at all costs.
He drops to his knees, unheeding their friends around them and invisible to all but Grantaire. “You died because of me. You wouldn’t have joined the barricade if not for me. And I know you blame me for not listening to you, and I know you blame me for dying. You are right to, but can you forgive me? I- I didn’t know and I didn’t care and you paid the price.”
Around them, the discussion about what Enjolras’ message could mean is still going strong, but he has no attention to spare. He’s crying, he notices as a tear tracks down over his cheek. Grantaire is stupefied, not moving in that slightly unnerving way only they can. No breathing chest, no pulsing veins, no darting pupils.
“Enjolras…” he says after some time. Again, “Enjolras.” There’s something in his voice, something Enjolras cannot quite name, but he’s convinced Grantaire’s crying too. “You cannot believe that?” In lieu of all other emotions, Grantaire sounds incredulous. “I never blamed you,” he says with more conviction than Enjolras ever heard him speak. “All these years… I thought you blamed me for sleeping off my intoxication while you fought for your lives. I thought I tarnished your martyrdom, that I interrupted even your last moments.”
Amazed, Enjolras listens to Grantaire. Amazed, at how utterly wrong Grantaire is. He never even suspected the thoughts forming behind Grantaire’s expressive face; if he’d known, he’d have made sure they disappeared forever. He tells Grantaire so, and the disbelief crossing his features hurts more than the memory of the bullets.
It hurts so much that it surprises him. Something inside him vehemently protests against the lack of faith, not in the cause but in him personally. At the same time, scolding Grantaire is the last thing on his mind right now.
Rising from his knees, he takes Grantaire’s hand. The contact, significant ever since they died, acquires new meaning. “Let’s go,” he says simply, and phases them to their attic. He sinks in his chair and Grantaire takes his customary place at the window.
“I never regretted you being my last sight,” he begins. Rephrases, “I’m glad you were my last sight. I’m glad I wasn’t alone. I’m glad I was with someone who knew me, and not only saw me as a symbol.” He laughs dryly. “Though you’ve compared me to pieces of art often enough.”
“That’s only because art is eternal, and you’ve lasted this long already,” Grantaire quips.
“Same as you,” he returns, and it feels normal, even if only for a short while. “I am serious, though. I don’t know why you came for me, and though your death will always remain my cross to bear, I’m glad you’re with me.”
“Do you really not know?”
Enjolras looks up from his hands. Grantaire is staring at him, conflicted, as if preparing to be the punch line of a particularly bad joke. Enjolras never wants him to look like that. The dam in his chest is pressured, about to break. Something hidden, something pushed away, is desperate to break free. He thinks it’s time to let it.
“I might not know your reasons,” he says, “but I think I do know my own.” He thinks back to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, to Joly and Bossuet. Perhaps even Jehan and Bahorel, though he isn’t sure on that front. The dam breaks. “I love you.”
Something in Grantaire’s expression breaks too. “Say that again.”
“I love you.” He puts all his passion and his conviction and his sincerity behind the words, and hopes Grantaire receives them.
He’d expected to feel nervous, once the words left his mouth and became irrefutable. Instead he’s left with an immense feeling of relief, and the secure knowledge that even if Grantaire doesn’t reciprocate, he’ll never leave the man on his own again.
“I love you too.”
He’d half expected the words, yet actually hearing them still feels like a punch in the gut. A good punch, one that takes his breath away and leaves him smiling like an idiot, and then he crashes forward and simply holds Grantaire close. He feels lighter, like he could float away on thin air, yet also steadied and grounded in Grantaire’s arms.
They sit like that for a while, and Enjolras never wants to let go. Outside the stars come out, twinkling silver in the night sky, and even the towering skyscrapers of Paris cannot diminish their light. Enjolras shifts until he too sits on the windowsill, Grantaire pressed close. They watch until the first colours of morning chase the darkness away, and by unspoken agreement they rise.
Hand in hand they walk down, taking the stairs instead of phasing through the floors. It takes longer this way, but Enjolras doesn’t mind. The main room is empty and dark still, a stark contrast to the previous evening. The ouija board is stuffed on the shelf, next to the books Enjolras now and then borrows. He scrabbles a short thank you on the box, confident the message will be found.
They’ve been here for so long, so many years of waiting. So many years wasted. They won’t be wasted any longer. He lets his eyes roam over the space, the backdrop for the most important moments in both his life and death. He catches sight of the newspaper clippings on the wall. The Musain has been a part of him for so long, and he of it, but it’s time to redesign his heart and gift it to Grantaire.
The front door catches his attention, and points wordlessly with their intertwined hands. Grantaire understands immediately.
Whether it was coincidence or fate, the front door is unlocked and the handle turns easily under Grantaire’s touch. Outside the dawn is bright and warm, with a cool breeze. It plays with Grantaire’s unruly hair.
The weather is similar to the day they died, but somehow brighter. The street is empty and if he squints, Enjolras sees the outline of the barricade, standing tall and proud.
Together they cross the threshold. For the first time in nearly two hundred years, there is no barrier to stop them. Outside, they listen to birdsong mixed with the distant fire of muskets.
Enjolras looks down on their linked hands, then up to Grantaire’s face. He smiles.
He keeps looking as they fade away, growing transparent in the first rays of sunlight. Grantaire’s laugh is the last thing he sees, until they are both gone. On their way to a new future.
He keeps looking as Grantaire fades away, until he’s standing there on his own. He bares his face for the first sunlight, until he too is gone.