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The barricade had never been so quiet before.
Even in the depths of the night, there was always something, whether it was the murmer of voices, the small distant crack of gunfire. Gavroche laughing at something he found hilarious that no one else really cared about. Courfeyrac arguing a case that was certainly irrelevant. Always movement. Always hope. Always someone insisting that the revolution was not over, there was still a chance for France.
But tonight, there was only rain. The droplets had come down steadily, soaking the already cluttered streets and turning the barricade into a miserable mess of wood, broken chairs and tables, and revolutionary optimism. Grantaire had been so deep in his drinking that he had lost any feeling of the cold a while ago.
He sat beneath the dripping structure of a collapsed chair with his back against the wall and a bottle loose between his fingers, watching Enjolras move around the barricade, swiftly and tense. He was always moving. Never stopping to take a break. Grantaire watched as Enjolras counted the ammunition and checked the support of someone's bandage, before helping Marius with his own bandages because apparently Marius was able to write pages upon pages of the beauty of a girl's eyes but was strugging to wrap a simple piece of cloth around his own arm.
Marius muttered something about Cosette.
Grantaire took another gulp from his bottle.
"Christ's sake."
Enjolras finally looked up.
"What?"
Grantaire gave him a chin nod and raised his bottle towards him in acknowledgement. "Oh nothing. Carry on with saving France as usual."
Enjolras turned back to the barricade. Of course he did.
France
France was starving, France was suffering, France was rising, France would be free. France had to be saved, France had to be rebuilt, France had to be loved more. Come rain or come shine, if Enjolras ever woke up one morning and discovered that France had ceased to exist, Grantaire suspected the man would simply stare off into blank space before personally constructing a new one out of sheer indignation.
And Grantaire loved him for it.
Which was one of many problems.
”You’re going to wear a hole within the pavement will all your pacing.”
Enjolras looked over at him.
“Are you drunk? Again?“
”I am French.”
”That was not my question and you knew that.”
Enjolras went back to pacing. Grantaire shrugged and returned to his drinking. He observed Enjolras quietly. The rain had darkened his hair until the curls clung in damp golden strands around his forehead and temples, catching what little light remained and turning it almost luminous at the edges. There was something frankly unfair about it really. The man had been standing in the rain for hours, surrounded by broken furniture and wounded revolutionaries, and still managed to look as beautiful as one of Botticelli's angels. If an angel had stepped down from heaven and wandered into the Parisian rain.
It was absurd.
In the dimness of the night, there was something delicate and luminous that had no business existing among splintered furniture, bloodstained bandages, and men preparing to die.
Grantaire took another drink.
“You’re very pretty.”
Enjolras stopped.
”What.”
Across the barricade, Marius looked up from his bandages. Grantaire pointed at him with his bottle.
”Not you.”
”I didn’t even say anything.”
”Of course not. You were thinking about Cosette. Day in, day out. You’re incapable of thinking of anything else.”
”…I can think of other things.”
”Can you?”
”Yes.”
”Like what then?”
Marius hesitated and eventually said meekly, “France.”
Grantaire stared at him.
Then he looked at Enjolras.
“See? Even now, he's trying to steal your thing.”
Enjolras sighed.
“You are drunk.”
“I have already established that I am French.”
”Well you clearly are drunk too, you said that-“
”I was drunk.”
”YOU JUST SAID YOU WERE NOT.”
”That was 3 drinks ago.”
“Well how many drinks have you had?”
”Not many.”
Enjolras stared disbelievingly at the increasing line of bottles, then at Grantaire’s increasingly red face.
”Grantaire. There has to be at least six bottles there.”
“Honestly Enjolras. Stop stressing. You should sleep.”
”So should you.”
”I’m not the one leading a revolution here.”
Enjolras sighed, and sat down, knowing that when Grantaire was drunk, he couldn’t be persuaded or swayed.
Grantaire looked from Enjolras to Marius. He was still struggling with the bandage. It had somehow become worse.
Grantaire stared at it.
“Marius.”
Marius looked up.
“Yes?”
“Are you even attempting to treat that wound?”
Marius glanced down.
“I've almost finished.”
“You've been ‘almost finished’ for ten minutes.”
“I’m doing it properly.”
“You've tied it in a knot. It's meant to go around your arm, you idiot.”
“I know.”
“Then why does it look like you've strangled your elbow?”
Marius looked offended.
“I was wounded.”
“So was half the barricade. The rest of us have somehow managed to operate pieces of cloth without a fuss.”
Enjolras turned away, presumably to hide a smile. Marius finally managed to secure the bandage.
“There.”
Grantaire squinted at it.
“That is the ugliest bandage I've ever seen.”
“It doesn’t have to look nice! It’s functional!”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Can you move your hand?”
Marius flexed his fingers.
“Yes.”
“Congratulations. You've exceeded my expectations.”
Marius sighed and helplessly looked towards Enjolras pleadingly.
“You're insufferable.”
Grantaire immediately pointed at him.
“Don't look at him.”
“Why?”
”Listen Pontmercy. Enjolras is not going to teach you how to tie a bandage.”
Enjolras shook his head.
“You're impossible.”
Grantaire smiled.
“And yet France would be poorer without me.”
“France,” Marius muttered, “might be better off without you.”
Grantaire gasped with fake hurt and stared at Enjolras.
“Did you hear that? The romantic poet has developed a personality.”
Marius groaned.
Enjolras laughed again.
“You should smile more.”
The words slipped out before Grantaire could stop them.
Enjolras looked over.
He really was beautiful in the rain. His white shirt was soaked through and his coat hung heavily from his shoulders, darkened by the droplets. There was blood at his temple, grime along his jaw, and exhaustion beneath his eyes, but none of it made him look less luminous.
Grantaire smiled drunkenly.
“You look prettier when you do.”
Enjolras only sighed and turned away. Grantaire watched him for another moment before trying to stand. His legs immediately betrayed him.
Enjolras caught his arm. His fingers closed firmly around Grantaire's sleeve, steadying him before he could stumble into the barricade.
“Careful.”
Grantaire looked down at Enjolras's hand, then up at his face.
“You worry about me.”
“I worry about everyone.”
“Not like this.”
Enjolras didn't answer.
His grip remained. And for once, Grantaire had nothing clever to say. He only smiled.
Enjolras finally smiled back. It was small and tired and gentle. Grantaire thought, hazily, that he could have stayed there forever.
He didn't know that he would eventually let go.
Grantaire was very very drunk indeed.