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«Give me a shot to remember
and you can take all the pain away from me;
your kiss and I will surrender.
The sharpest lives are the deadliest to lead.»
«It seems to me that I am about to shoot a flower.»
The blood clatters on the paving stone. The bullets roar through the night. The men scream. The fire crackles on its way up the barricade. He himself screams. The wind howls to quieten the shrieks of death. The cannon thunders and shakes the world worse than an earthquake. Yelling, blows, howling. The taste of blood in the back of the mouth, the metal aftertaste of fear between gritted teeth. The smell of fire and death that makes the eyes tear up. Fire, blood and steel.
«He might be your brother.»
«He is.»
«Yes. He is mine too.»
«Let me alone. It must be done.»
Lightnings. The weapon shakes in his hands. Teeth chattering, a shameless tear on the cheek. Blood. He has blood on his hands. He has murdered mercy. It must be done.
«Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!»
Shooting. A voice wrapped in verses. Poetry bleeds to death over the cobblestones.
«Your friends have just shot you.»
The anxiety that nestles in his throat won’t let him breathe. Loss crushes his chest. The unfathomable terror at that sudden thought. We are all about to die.
A pleading steel claw around his ankle. A friend with his guts out begging for mercy. His bullets are numbered, he can’t afford mercy. He has killed her long ago.
The carbine shakes in his hands. The sword is heavy on his waist. His lungs burn. More blood. Another fallen brother. The dancing fire of the torch, the pungent smell of gunpowder, the shiver of death down his spine. If madness had taken that idiot, we would have died in vain.
Anguish. How many dead brothers already? Another fight. He doesn’t want Grantaire to be one of them. The despondency when he loses. We are all about to die and not even the memory of us will remain if he follows us.
The ticking of the watch that echoes in every bone in his body. The pleading eyes he cannot look, he cannot look or he will not be able to shoot, but he owes him, he owes him, because the man cries and he will be the last thing he sees, he owes him more than a pistol and a watch, he owes him a look, a sign of humanity, but he must shoot and he has no humanity left, he hast just sacrificed it, so he does not look up from the watch.
«Think or pray. You have one minute.»
Humanity has condemned itself at the service of the cause. The corpse of his soul is thrown out to the other side of the barricade like a sack of garbage.
Hunger and fear gnawing at the entrails. The silence of dawn that brings another message. We are alone. We are all about to die.
Scarcity and the certainty of damnation. A song interrupted. Innocence has been shot to death on the edge of dawn.
The echoes of the drums that freeze the blood in the veins. The roar of the cannon.
Bossuet was killed; Feuilly was killed; Courfeyrac was killed; Combeferre, transfixed by three blows from a bayonet in the breast at the moment when he was lifting up a wounded soldier, had only time to cast a glance to heaven when he expired.
Dead brothers, Courfeyrac’s corpse collapsing on his arms, Feuilly’s cries of agony, Bossuet’s body making him stumble. Hope has died under the fire of war. Whose blood stains his hands? There is not even time to mourn the loss. Shoot, blow, leap, flee, stay alive, attack. Their deaths will not have been in vain if you resist a little longer, just a little longer. If the Revolution must devour her children, let her stain her hands while trying with you.
The roar is suddenly the thunderous silence of despair. The clinking of the sword as it cracks, the uselessness of the broken carbine. The icy wood against his back. Is this the dignity of defeat? Whose blood stains your hands? The thud of the guns against the floor. Relief tangled with fear. There is no way out. May they kill you too, may you leave with them.
I don’t want to die alone.
«Shoot me.»
Eight bullets nail him against the wall. He can feel them, even then, tearing their way into his flesh, tearing him apart, taking away the life and fervor he had left. If the Revolution must devour her children, where is the hope she promised in return? Where is the light of the new dawn?
They, too, have been pierced by the bullets.
Was it all for nothing? What’s left, other than the guilt, other than the bullets in their guts, the blood in their hands? Other than the pain of the old wounds, the anxiety, the nightmares? Other than so many deaths on their conscience that outweigh any good they could ever do? A bloody flag, a half-sung hymn, clothes pierced by bullets, memories than hurt more than the wounds. Invisible scars on their skin and names they still feel unworthy of uttering. The bullets are still lodged in their chest, and they will never stop hearing the screams…
“Enjolras! Enjolras, wake up, wake up, it’s just a dream…”
Strong hands shaking their shoulders. Courfeyrac, begging him to let him go after Jehan. Hold, him, he’ll get himself killed! He has to retrieve his corpse; they can’t just leave it there. Hold him!
“Enjolras, please…”
The man is dragging his entrails, and he won’t let his boot go, and Enjolras has to take cover or he will be killed too, he has to leave, but he has no bullets to spare, the wretch will take forever to die and he won’t stop begging, begging…
“Enjolras…”
He shoots and it’s the bullet that could have saved Courferyac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Joly, Bousset. It’s the bullet that Gavroche died for bringing him, it’s the bullet that condemned his humanity. I have tried and condemned, and I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see what I have condemned myself…
«He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot him down on the spot.»
The bullets tear out his guts and steal his blood and fire and he should be dead, why isn’t he dead? Why does it take him so long to leave? It burns, it burns, and he can’t take it anymore, he just wants to die and go away, to forget… If heaven exists, he knows that his damned soul goes headlong to hell, that he will never see his friends again, but he just wants it to end, to end already…
“Enjolras, please, wake up! It’s just a nightmare!”
Enjolras wakes up with a scream and tears running uncontrollably down their cheeks. Their chest hurts, their collarbone, their hip, their stomach; all those places that the bullets bit and are still burning, two hundred years later. Anxiety squeezes their throat and prevents them from breathing.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, Ange, it was just a nightmare, it’s okay, we are okay…”
Firm arms that hold them in silence. They are shivering; they hug the body next to theirs as if it were the only anchor in the storm, the last ember of their world as it falls apart. In a sense, it is.
The old scars that aren’t really there hurt, they don’t let them breathe, they stop their heart. They don’t kill them, they wish they killed them, they can’t stand it, they wish the pain would end them at once…
“I don’t want to die alone…”
“You won’t. Never, Enjolras. I won’t let you.”
«Long live the Republic! I’m one of them.»
Love died with a hand pressed in his hands.
Enjolras hugs him and cries, cries because of the fear and the anguish and the pain of the wounds in their chest, cries because Grantaire is there and they have killed Grantaire, and Grantaire remains their only solace in the face of the bullets.
“I’ve killed them,” they sob. “I’ve killed them all, I’ve killed you…”
Whose blood stains their hands? It floods from their own open chest. From the dead friends they themself have left bleeding on the cobblestones.
“No. No, that’s not true. We all were there out of our own free will, you know it, you know it, none of that is your fault…”
Hands in their hair, gently stroking and combing the tousled curls. The touch of a finger in their cheek, wiping away the tears. The familiar smell of paint and wine cradling them like the sound of an old lullaby that has lingered in their memory for centuries. The warmth of a body next to theirs.
Grantaire. Their Grantaire.
«Finish both of us at one blow.»
“I killed you…”
“No, Enjolras. I was already dead. I was dead the moment the guns aimed at you. You gave me the chance of leaving this world on my own terms. Of doing something good and not letting you die alone.”
«Do you permit it?»
The weigh of a phantom hand in theirs. The hail of bullets intensifies, and the pain grows stronger. Enjolras shrinks with a sob in Grantaire’s arms.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. We’re okay, sunshine, we’re alive. I’ve got you. We’re alive.”
Enjolras cries. The pain is too big. They don’t like their friends to see them vulnerable, but why should they care? Grantaire has already seen them die.
Gentle hands on their back, dampening the fire of the scars. A light kiss on their forehead. That smell, paint and wine and love fermented for centuries. The pain subsides a little.
“Shhh, it’s okay, Ange, I’ve got you. Tell me, what’s wrong?”
The words refuse to come to their lips. They gasp, trying to articulate them. A hand lifts their chin gently. Lips brush against theirs in barely a caress and release them.
“The bullets… It hurts… I can’t…”
The light of dawn streams through the window. Day breaks in Grantaire’s arms.
Hands that stroke their back, their hair, little by little taking away the aches, but they can’t stroke their memory.
“It’s only in your memories, Apollo. They’re not here.”
Then, whose blood stains their clothes?
As if to prove it to them, Grantaire lets them go and gently lifts their shirt. Enjolras doesn’t want to look, they can’t, they know they’ll see their torso pierced, blood soaking the pajamas and the sheets, bullets biting their flesh. Tears run down their cheeks. Another spam shakes them.
“It’s okay, Ange. Look. Everything’s fine. We’re fine.” A hand flutters over their chest, hesitating whether to touch it or not. It burns. “Do you permit it?”
The weigh of a phantom hand in theirs. The echo of a pleading smile. The roar of the rifles. The bite of the bullets.
Enjolras screams.
“I killed you! I’ve killed you, I don’t know how you can bear to stay by my side, you’re dead and it’s my fault, mine alone…”
“No, no, no, Enjolras!” Hands that hold their wrists to prevent them from tearing their face off, arms firmly wrapping them. “Enjolras, look at me! I’m here. I’m here, we’re alive. Look.” A hand on their cheek, the warmth of life against their lips. “I’m here, see? Touch me. I’m alive. I’m here.”
And Enjolras touches him. His chest is firm and warm under their hands, his stubble tickles their fingertips. His soft lips kiss them when they pass over them.
His heart beats in his chest. He’s alive.
Enjolras clings to him in desperation and kisses him, kisses him for all the times he wanted to kiss him in another life and never dare, for all the arguments he should have ended this way, for all the reproaches that never meant what they should have meant. They kiss him in tears because they still find it hard to believe that Grantaire can stand to be near them, that he can love them after all the lives he has taken, the death he has brought. But Enjolras is selfish, and if the universe has given them that second chance, they will take every last second of it.
Grantaire’s lips lean back with a small gasp. His hands come back to rest on their face, gently caressing it, taking their hair matted by sweat out of their eyes. His green eyes shine like stars on the edge of tomorrow.
“See? I’m here. I’m alive. And so are you. It was just a dream, Ange. It’s all over now.”
But the bullets still hurt, and they can feel the blood running down their chest. Eight bullets. One for each of the brothers he killed. One for each of the things he lost.
“Kiss me again,” their lips beg. “It hurts less when you kiss me.”
Grantaire obeys. Always, always obeys, except when they try to push him away. He always has, even then. But now that they have allowed themselves to love each other, it becomes more evident to them. Grantaire kisses them, his lips take away the fear and the blood and drown the pain and the anguish.
“We are alive,” Enjolras mutters.
“Yes. We are alive, Ange. It was all a dream. They are just memories. They can’t hurt you.”
“That’s not true. The bullets… still hurt.”
Silence. Grantaire says nothing; he holds them in his arms and kisses their forehead. He croons softly as he cradles them, trying to soothe them. Trois jeunes tambours s’en revenaient de guerre… but the war never ends in their memory and the bullets keep roaring.
A new sob runs through them. They snuggle against Grantaire’s chest. Trois jeunes tambours s’en revenaient de guerre et ri et ran, ran, ran pa ta plan, and the beating of Grantaire’s heart echoes the beating of the drums.
“You don’t have nightmares?”
Fingers getting tangled in their hair, combing it softly. They have a calming effect.
“My nightmares are different. In them, I don’t wake up. I survive. And I look for you for days, but you are no longer there. That’s why the dreams don’t scare me. Because you’re there and you take my hand, and everything is warm and red and I get to see your smile until I stop seeing at all. And that doesn’t scare me. It’s what would have happened if I hadn’t woken up what terrifies me.”
Silence is always softer in his presence. Enjolras swallows hard and kisses his bare chest. They love that man more than they love themself. How could he have been so stupid to deny it for so long?
“Thank you. Thank you for not letting me die alone.”
“Thank you for accepting me by your side, Apollo.”
The sun comes slowly through the window and brings the promise of tomorrow. Grantaire’s arms take away the guilt and the bullets, his kisses wipe the blood off their hands, at least for a while. The wounds heal slowly, and the nightmares will never go away. Dawn brings a second chance, the certainty that they still have love, a new flag and new hymns making their hearts beat, clean clothes, memories that are not always stained with blood. Names they though they would never speak again, the chance to have met their friends again, to have fallen in love again with the man that now holds them in his arms. The bullets are still lodged in their chest, but, in the sunlight, they feel just like another old friend.
An old friend that brings them pain every night.
Tears on their cheeks, again, sadness in Grantaire’s green eyes. Green like the spring, like the hope. Like the peace that only his eyes bring them.
“Does it still hurt?”
Enjolras doesn’t have the strength to reply with more than a small silent nod.
“I have an idea. If you permit it.”
They nod again. You know you've always had my permission.
Delicate hands that make them lie back down on the bed, that pull off their pajama top. The sheets are cold without Grantaire beside them. Grantaire, who sits astride their waist and looks at them as if they were the most beautiful thing in the world, and Enjolras feels they would die a thousand deaths just to see Grantaire look at them like that again.
“I want you to tell me where it hurts. Is that okay?”
Enjolras shakes their head frantically. They can’t look. If they look at their naked torso, they’ll see blood pouring from the wounds, death reaching out her cold fingers to them. They can’t.
Hands caressing their naked chest. Caressing their lips. There’s no blood on them.
“It’s okay, see? There’s nothing here. It’s okay. You’re okay. Tell me where it hurts.”
Enjolras closes their eyes and points to the scars that are so visible to them, so real, even though they are not there. They never have been.
Then there are lips kissing their collarbone, tearing a sigh from them. The pain recedes, beaten down by pleasure. Grantaire kisses, then bites and sucks, the place where the bullet broke their collarbone two hundred years ago. Enjolras moans and arches their back towards him, and the pain is subdued by Grantaire’s lips.
They don’t know how long Grantaire spends kissing them, but when he finally breaks away, their collarbone burns in a very different way. They lower their gaze to let it rest on him; Grantaire has a careful look in his eyes and a hint of a smile on his lips. On their chest, a purple mark has made the old scar disappear.
“What... what are you doing?”
“I can’t do anything to erase the echo of the bullets. But I can trade them for kisses every time you need. Remind you that you’re alive and that these will be the only marks on your skin. Is that okay?”
Tears blocking their throat. They had never believed they could hold so much love inside.
They nod silently and Grantaire caresses them tenderly.
“I love you, Enjolras, and we’re alive. Don’t you ever forget that.”
His lips rest on their chest and humanity beats again with their heart. The soul they sacrificed centuries ago at the service of a doomed cause need not remain lost in that time, that life. Grantaire returns it between kisses and sighs and one more wound disappears from their skin.
The other side of their chest, a little lower. Grantaire's lips bite before kissing; the sharp pain of the bite scares away the pain of the bullet. The kiss is slow and wet, a whispered incantation against their skin. Hope flares timidly and Grantaire feeds her with his kisses, keeping her alive until she can burn on her own.
It’s now the turn of their arm, the wound that burns every time they try to write, to use something. Perhaps that’s why they have become accustomed to using their left hand, even if they are right-handed. Grantaire kisses, his hands glide over their body gently, writing silent words on their skin, and poetry slowly comes back to life.
“Grantaire...”
Grantaire groans against their arm, his hands scratch their chest. A thousand shivers dance down Enjolras’ back, fighting against the pain.
Grantaire moves to their side; the bullet that barely grazed them. It’s the one that hurts the least and yet the most bitter; it’s the bullet that took away innocence. Enjolras closes their eyes and look away. Grantaire’s bite hurts this time, and his kiss does not drive away the metallic taste of blood. Tears on their cheeks. Enjolras entangles their hands in his lover’s curls and gives them a slight tug.
“Grantaire... Grantaire, come here. Kiss me.”
Grantaire lets himself be guided to their mouth and presses his lips to theirs like a castaway who finds water at last, drinks from them as if he could never get enough. He kisses them and gives them back their breath and their life, gives them back the blood he spilled for an ungrateful tomorrow.
The tomorrow they have achieved almost sounds like paradise when the nightmares torture them, but it’s even more tortuous to know that they had nothing to do with its construction.
Tears run down their cheeks again and Grantaire kisses them dry, holding their face as if they might unravel at any moment. Enjolras almost feels like they might.
“I love you,” they murmur against the lips that save them from the night. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Don’t leave me. Don't leave me alone.”
“Never, Apollo. Never. I’ll follow you to the end of the world. You know that.”
The wet kisses burn like the fire that used to run through their veins. Perhaps that fire, sweet and welcoming, the warmth of being safe in other arms, the illusion of being untouchable as long as those lips remain on their lips, can restore their innocence.
The kiss is broken with a moan, who knows if it is theirs or Grantaire’s. Grantaire sits up to look at them for a few moments and he is beautiful, towering above them, looking at them with so much love in the depths of his green eyes.
“You are here,” he whispers, “and you are safe. Nothing is going to hurt you, Ange. Nothing is going to touch you. Only me.”
The next wound is on their stomach and Grantaire’s stubble tickles over their navel. His bites tickle, too, and after several seconds of squirming and letting out more giggles than moans, Grantaire lets them go. Next to his navel has appeared a small mark with which mercy returns.
There is a wound on their thigh that never stops hurting, that stops them from keeping a steady step for long. Grantaire slides down their legs gently, wraps his arms around their thighs and presses his lips against the invisible scar. Pleasure wants to come in slow steps, still hiding behind the blood and the pain. It doesn’t come as a surprise; that's the one that hurt the most. With it he lost the morning light that had always guided him.
Grantaire kisses them angrily and Enjolras opens their eyes. The dawn spills over his brown curls, giving him a halo of golden light. The tears that come to their eyes are this time of happiness. Tomorrow is never as one imagined, but it has light again. After all, they are alive, and their friends are alive, and Grantaire has dared to let them love him, and they have dared to love him, and they are still trying to change the world. There are still many dawns left to fight for, but none shines brighter than that one, with Grantaire by their side. Where he has always been.
Grantaire’s lips stop. There is concern in his eyes as he climbs back to their side and lies down beside them, caressing their face.
“You’re crying. Have I done something wrong?”
Enjolras entangles their hands in his curls and kisses him. Grantaire tastes of wine and tobacco and light. Their light.
“No, my love. On the contrary. I cry because I love you more than I ever imagined I could love.”
An insecure smile brighter than the sun. The dawn has light again. Once again, it’s a light worth fighting for.
“Do you want me to go on?”
“Yes. Please.”
Delicate lips on their lips, and then Grantaire slides down to their hips. His hands are warm as he pulls down the elastic of their underpants, his lips are icy and send a thousand shivers through their body as they rest on their bone. That one is the bullet that made them fall and never rise again, the one that has deprived them of support for so long, the one that broke them inside. The one that begins to burn before all the others do and breaks every other bone in their body.
«Finish both of us at one blow.»
That’s the bullet that killed love.
«Do you permit it?»
And, at the same time, they see it now, it gave it a chance.
Grantaire nibbles at their hip, kisses them, and a wave of pleasure spreads through their body. Enjolras arches into him and Grantaire presses his firm hands against their waist to pin them against the bed and Enjolras moans, lost in the warmth of the body over theirs, in the pleasure of lips on their skin, the freedom of letting themself go, the love that threatens to drown them.
This life has given them more love than they could ever imagine. They do not intend to let the wounds of the other one deprive them of it.
“Grantaire...”
Grantaire raises his head. He is smiling. With a last bite that is barely a caress, he lets them go and lies back down beside them, cradling them in his arms as he looks critically at the eight purple marks he has left on their body. Eight marks like eight stars, but this time they don't hurt, this time, they want them there.
“Look at you, Ange. You’re gorgeous.”
Enjolras looks at themself. There are no more bullets or blood on their chest, only the traces of a love they never allowed themself to have in another life and now, they can't imagine not having. The pain and the anxiety leave, Grantaire’s kisses have set the nightmares ablaze.
“Will you stay by my side?” they plead.
«Do you permit it?»
“Always. And, whenever you need me, I’ll be here. I can’t erase the past. But I’ll trade the bullets for kisses every time you need to forget the pain. We’re alive, Ange. That’s all behind us now. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but now, this instant, we are alive. And I’ll stay by your side, for as long as you permit it.”
«Take my hand.»
Enjolras sighs as they snuggle into his chest. It’s difficult, to reconcile the memories of another life with the one that is now theirs. But Grantaire holds their hand, and they know they won’t have to do it alone.