Work Text:
He stumbles across the uneven stones and nearly catches his feet as he tries to stay upright. Above him, the sky burns with a thousand lights and he grins, wild. Tonight, Paris is a city of laughter. Sharp edges washed away by the soft beauty of the night. A rare time where he can forget the problems he faces and instead enjoy the city for what it is.
It is only when he tries to turn a corner and instead falls heavily against the closest wall, legs trembling, that Grantaire wonders if perhaps he should leave the drinking to someone else. It would not do to spend another night in a forgotten corner of the world and he stares forlornly at the bottle in his hands.
A sudden movement in the shadows causes him to step hastily back before a figure steps out. Grantaire blinks. He opens his mouth, rude words already on the tip of his tongue when the man grins down at him, eyes alight with recognition. He stops short, mouth hanging open.
“Grantaire! I thought I recognised that face. It has been a while, has it not?”
His eyebrows scrunch together as he tries to focus his blurry vision and he can just make out round cheeks and tousled hair in the soft lamplight of the night. He feels a glimmer of recognition “Do I know you?”
A smile lands on the face of the young man. “I’m Courfeyrac. We met each other at the Corinth a few months back.”
“Well then Courfeyrac,”Grantaire straightens with some difficulty and spreads his arms wide as he grins in the darkness, “I am pleased to have met you on this night of glorious wonders”
“Glorious wonders?” A pause. “Should I ask?”
“Ah, another ignorant fellow! The wonders of the Parisian night are lost on those such as you. If our city does not share her secrets with you, then do not expect that I will provide insight where she has not.”
Courfeyrac’s laughs. The sound brightens the night somewhat and Grantaire slings one arm around the student’s shoulder. He tries not to lean too heavily on him as he continues with a whisper “You know… maybe just for you, I could make an exception.”
“I am honoured then.”
“As you well should be!
“Then please explain. What has our city failed to show me?”
Grantaire toasts to the moon. “Look at those stars up above and see how they shine their pale light on us.” He jumps over a broken chair that lies forgotten in the shadows. “Listen. You can hear laughter in the very lifeblood of the city tonight. Can’t you feel the very spirit of Paris striding across your skin?”
Courfeyrac grabs his elbow with a delighted look. “Surprisingly, I feel like I understand what you mean. Our city is one of wonders, isn’t it? And you, my friend, seem to know all about that.”
“I have astounded you with my wondrous intelligence, have I?” Grantaire sends him a wink.
They continue to walk together for a while, wandering aimlessly as Grantaire regales his new friend with tales of his past. Courfeyrac in return, laughs and cheers him on, gently pushing him through the streets to guide him.
Finally, Grantaire pauses a story to ask “Where were you going before?”
“I was heading to the Musain. A few of my friends are there for a meeting at the moment.”
“Well I am sorry then for keeping you from your friends!”
Courfeyrac sends him a look that he can’t decipher, his mind still hazy from the drink. “You can join us if you want?”
“And what is this meeting for?”
A wry smirk etches its way onto Courfeyrac’s face and he continues to push Grantaire along. The cold air sweeps across the back of his neck but the chill does not bother him with the warmth of drink still sitting in his stomach.
“If I told you that would spoil the surprise. So are you interested?”
“My night is yours to command.” Grantaire bows and the two traipse through the streets, laughing together.
He is unsurprised to see a familiar scene when he steps into the Musain with his new friend. It has always been a place for congregations of students, their merry voices intermingling as the raucous drinking takes its toll. However, the surprise comes when Courfeyrac nods to the patrons of the café and instead walks through to a new room that Grantaire has never seen before.
He slips inside and manages to avoid tripping over the haphazard spread of chairs. Courfeyrac has already gone over to greet his friends and so Grantaire takes a moment to blink in the dim lighting. The worn and beaten room is home to a small number of others, clearly fellow students like Courfeyrac. They send each other smiles and seem happy to even just be in each other’s company. He wonders if he is intruding but when Courfeyrac notices that he has not yet moved, he gestures for him to come over.
A few of the others turn at the movement and shout greetings over the noise. He waves back, still hesitating on the edges of the room and Courfeyrac instead comes to him with one eyebrow raised. “And here I thought that you would be more than willing to join us.”
“What do you do here?” Grantaire waves off further comments about his sudden lack of outspoken comments.
Courfeyrac pauses. “We meet here to debate the shortcomings of society. Our leader, Enjolras, formed the group a few years back and we just went with it.”
“Courfeyrac, get back over here! Enjolras wants us to hear this. He says it is important.”
With an apologetic grimace, Courfeyrac bounds off to join the others and Grantaire shuffles forward, wine clouding his thoughts, yet he is still curious. As he watches, a student gets up on one of the tables to address the small gathering and the breath is punched from his chest.
Grantaire falls into a chair, nearly knocking it over in his haste as he stares up at that figure. Untamed curls, eyes alight with fire. Every word is punctuated with a gesture, the sharp tones practiced and even. Watching him speak was as if watching an opera, the crescendo, the climax, the lyrical words that seem to wrap themselves around his wrists and pull him closer towards the one who spoke them.
He stays as long as he can. Listening to those words, in awe of the one speaking them. He is silent the entire time. Not willing to interrupt such a passionate speech. Content to merely watch and listen.
He later leaves, wine settling deep in his stomach and thoughts swirling anew. There is a feeling he cannot describe burrowing in his chest and it terrifies him. But he still finds Courfeyrac the next morning and asks him when the next meeting will be. Something draws him back there and it is not something he wants to name.
This time, he arrives awake and entirely sober. He wants to hear Enjolras without the cloud of wine tainting his thoughts. Wants to know if the feeling swirling on his fingertips is more than just a drunken choice. So he sits towards the back, legs tucked under the table and chin resting on one hand as the other taps absently on his knee.
Enjolras is just as passionate with his words as the last time. However, this time it is still light outside and the sunlight sneaks through the windows and catches on his rounded face. Grantaire stares at him. His fingers still. Even in the cold light and without a drink in his hands, he is unable to look away. The man seems perfect, in the way that a statue shines bright with beauty in the eyes of humanity. It is something unachievable by mere mortals but glorious nonetheless and as he looks at Enjolras, he sees something unnameable in the way he stands, proud. He is someone willing to take on the world for his beliefs and Grantaire, for the first time, feels like he can finally breathe. A weight has lifted off his chest. He feels alive, in a way that he cannot remember ever feeling before.
The urge to draw that gaze towards himself sweeps him off his feet as he suddenly exclaims, voice loud and grating. “I am not sure why you believe that you all can make a difference. Paris is Paris. It shall never change. The poor are destined to stay that way. You claim you want to fix what has gone wrong in our society, but are you so sure that it is wrong? Who are you to define good from evil, right from wrong?”
Enjolras turns to him, surprise on his features for a moment as if finally realising that they have a new addition to their small back room group of revolutionaries. Then he frowns. His gaze is terrible and nearly strikes Grantaire down but he clutches desperately at the table and remains standing.
The startlingly blue eyes sweep him up and down. Lips purse in frustration. Then, with only a pause for a breath, Enjolras launches into another of his lengthy speeches but this time there is a vigour behind it that was not there previously. He is not speaking to inspire but instead to persuade. In one brief moment he has seen the cynic that lies deep within Grantaire and he is now burning with righteous indignation. As if he cannot understand how someone can fail to believe in the ideals that he is preaching.
Grantaire is utterly still against the onslaught of words thrown at him and before long, Enjolras isn’t even looking at him anymore. He has become caught up in a tangent, arms gesturing widely as he speaks to the others who surround him. They offer smiles and words of encouragement and Grantaire stands to the side. He suddenly feels as if he is intruding and so he quietly sits back down, unable to look away from Enjolras as he hears the rise and fall of those lyrical sentences.
And this time, when he is left without words to fall from his tongue, Grantaire sits there with that feeling once again spreading within and pulling the corners of his lips into a grin. He doesn’t know what it is. Not yet. But he understands, in this moment, that something has irrevocably shifted. And his fingers stray, unheeded, to his covered wrist and the words that lay beneath.
-
Some say that the words written on their skin are a blessing from God. Others say it is a punishment for the sinners that walked the earth so that they can suffer throughout their lives. Grantaire does not believe in God but he does believe that there is some force out there, screwing with the human race. If there was ever any proof of that, it was the idea of soulmates.
People spoke of love and the notion of a perfect match. They told stories of true happiness that could only be found through their soulmate. Perhaps in another lifetime that would be the case. But not here. Not in this life.
These words would be the last words your soulmate would ever say to you.
Grantaire had seen the pain and terror the words caused. It was inevitable. Realising who you were meant to be with, only moments before you would never see each other again, seemed to be a cruel joke. Those words sprawled across every wrist were marks that gave you a look into what could have been but by the time they were spoken, it was far too late.
Grantaire had always scorned the notion of soulmates. He hid his wrist from his own prying eyes and carried on with life as usual. For him, there was no chance that there was someone out there who was perfect for him. He was certain that they would pass him by, perhaps uttering words that he would never know and then he would continue on with his life. This was what he believed would happen. It was what he hoped. The idea that simple words could cause such devastation was too terrifying for him to even consider otherwise.
And then, he had met Enjolras.
-
It takes him the space of several weeks to gather up the courage to broach the subject of the marks. For any other topic, Grantaire would have long since spent time elaborating on his feelings about it amongst this group of friends that he has carved out for himself. But the subject of soulmates is something he is unwilling to mention. Not while Enjolras himself stands so close, always ready with a disapproving look.
So it is only when Enjolras is standing off to one side of the room, talking fervently with Courfeyrac, that Grantaire slides into the seat beside Bahorel and pulls a face at the rest of his friends. “Now, I know we spend most nights here discussing politics but I can’t help notice that the topic of soulmates has not yet come up once.”
The others share a look that he cannot interpret. He frowns. “Do you all have a particular aversion to the topic? Or is it the choice of your fearless leader that the topic has not yet been mentioned?”
“He is your leader too, don’t you forget that.” Combeferre points out.
“I’ve been a good Parisian gentleman so far” He pouts. “Why do you feel the need to cut off my legs all the time?”
“Someone needs to.”
He sends a half-hearted glare towards Combeferre who merely shrugs and so Grantaire sighs as he picks up a few of their scattered cards.
“I know everyone says that it is not polite to ask another about their mark, but everyone does it. Everyone wants to know. Have they looked yet? Do they know who it is? But you guys haven’t even sent a glance at my wrist!”
“Maybe we are just too polite?”
The frustration that seems to have coiled within him disperses as he slumps. “A few months back, perhaps you could have fooled me.” His mouth twists upwards. “Of course, I now know better. You are all more than willing to yell in the face of a politician. Why would you be polite enough to not mention the marks?”
“Truth be told,”Jehan nudges him with his shoulder, “most of us don’t put much weight in the idea of soulmates. Especially Enjolras. So it rarely comes up in our debates and as such, it feels strange for us to talk about it even just amongst us.”
“You don’t really care about soulmates?” Grantaire frowns. He thought that at least Jehan and Courfeyrac would have said otherwise.
Bahorel shrugs and grabs the cards from Grantaire, who is still fiddling with them. “It seems kind of arbitrary to worry about the marks when we have far bigger fish to fry.”
“But have any of you looked?”
Bossuet merely arches one eyebrow, expression amused. “With my luck? Of course I haven’t looked.”
“Most of us haven’t,” Jehan interjects with a smile when it seems as if Bahorel is about to speak. “Only Courfeyrac and Enjolras have. But Enjolras won’t talk to anyone about it since he believes that the marks are a waste of time. Although, I feel as if you already knew his opinion on the matter”
Grantaire leans back in his chair to look over at Enjolras. He thinks of the moment when he had first seen the fiery leader. Remembers the way his breath had stopped, heart caught in his chest. He feels the tingle of that strange feeling on his skin as he takes in the look of indignation on Enjolras’ face. So many times over the past months he has tried to draw that gaze towards him, to make Enjolras just see him for once. But the attention of Enjolras is given sparingly and always slips away to whatever matter is deemed more important.
For those brief moments though, when his eyes catch that righteous gaze, he still feels like he has woken from a dream. He longs to feel it again.
Grantaire tears his eyes away with a wince to see Jehan giving him a pitying look. “Yes.” He looks down. “I suppose I already knew.”
-
For all he knew, most of Paris has never seen their marks. Perhaps it is better to never know.
But Grantaire knows what his mark says.
It was a mistake, one made during another of his drunken nights as he stumbled from the steps of the Musain and onto the streets of Paris, head hurting and heart aching. That casual dismissal from the one whom he would willingly follow into death struck even more deeply that night. Unable to be forgotten in the usual haze of wine.
He had fallen heavily against the bricks of a rundown building, uncertain of how he had even come to be there when his eyes caught on his covered wrist. A burning desire rose within him and before his thoughts could catch up, he rolled up his sleeves to leave his wrist uncovered. The cold air washed over his skin and he screwed his eyes shut for a moment.
What if Enjolras had been right? What if he was truly destined to spend eternity alone, haunted by a wrist that was forever blank?
But, drunk with liquid courage, he forced his eyes open and stared down at his wrist to see dark words etched in an elegant scrawl. His breath stuttered. He reads, silent. Those words...over and over he read them, as if somehow they might perhaps change. Yet they remained.
Those who knew the words that they were marked with often spent years guessing who would be the one to finally say them but as Grantaire looked down, he knew without a doubt who it would be. There was only one voice he could hear saying those words, tainted in anger and a fraction of despair as blue eyes burned into him with a ferocity unrivalled in all of France.
His breath stuttered in the cold. He had always known, somehow. Grantaire had spent countless hours staring with undisguised longing at the face framed by golden curls, the face of an angel. The words that fell from his lips stirred the adoration within. Even his familiarity with absinthe could not dull the wants of his heart. How could it be anyone else but Enjolras?
But he understood, even as he looked down at those words with a mixture of relief and horror, that this was destined to be unrequited. Enjolras, who had already seen the words on his own wrist, would belong to someone else. That someone could never be Grantaire, not the cynic who tripped over his own tongue in his frantic attempts to catch the attention of those startlingly bright eyes.
The man was too focused on his dreams of revolution to even concern himself with trivialities such as love and soulmates. It had been so long and he still had not even noticed Grantaire’s own feelings. That, in itself, was telling. Perhaps one day Enjolras would hear those words spoken to him. He would turn, give them a long look, and then he would nod once and continue on his way.
The image sit far too easily in Grantaire’s thoughts and on good days, he regards the idea with a degree of amusement. For of course Enjolras would be the only person within France to ignore his soulmate. There was no need for such ideas in the mind of one who fought for the rights of the people. Love would only be a burden and for all he knew, Enjolras might have already seen his soulmate come and gone. Despite numerous attempts at goading him into revealing what the etched words say, Grantaire has failed at eliciting anything other than a stern look.
Courfeyrac is the only one who seems to notice Grantaire’s sudden interest in soulmates and their conversations always inevitably steer towards the words etched into Grantaire’s wrist. Others have mentioned it on occasion. But as soon as the question leaves their lips, they take one look at his face and back away. He wonders what his expression does when he remembers those words sitting beneath the thin white sleeve.
Still, this does not dissuade Courfeyrac who only seems to grow more insistent with each mention of it.
"Come on Grantaire! It's just words. Why won't you tell me?" Courfeyrac turns his wide eyes on him, beseeching.
"There isn't enough wine in my bottle to make me talk about such things." He grins but it turns bitter as Courfeyrac pierces him with a questionable look. "Talk of soulmates and such bores me. Why would some people spend such a long time obsessing over it? If they are in love with someone, they should not look at the words on their wrist. For then, the end is spoiled. I think it is a mistake to look and a mistake to put such weight on simple words on skin."
Courfeyrac turns his bared wrist skyward with a thoughtful expression, the words there already familiar to both of them. He was never one to truly put much stock into the fact that he knows the words that his soulmate will say to him before they are gone. He'd already made that clear. But it doesn;t stop him from being curious about others.
"You would tell me if the words had been scratched off, wouldn't you?"
Grantaire laughs, fingers wrapping around the bottle. "Rest assured, they are still there, hidden beneath my sleeves and they are words no one else will ever know. My soulmate is alive but I will tell you nothing more than that"
"Alright, alright". Courfeyrac holds up his hands. "Enough talk of that for today. Enjolras will have my head if I get too drunk to see straight, let alone ramble about political thoughts."
"I think you're already far past that stage."
"Tease."
But he drops the topic, leaving Grantaire to a few moments of blessed silence before he stands up to object to something Enjolras has said. He’s not even sure what it was this time. But that burning need to have a few moments of attention is nearly too much for him to bear. So much so that when Enjolras turns to him with a frown, he grins, wild, and unabashed. Do you see Enjolras? Do you see how much I love you?
-
There are stirrings on the wind. The death of Lamarque is spoken about in hushed whispers as Grantaire staggers through the filthy streets, mind whirling. What will happen next? This was exactly what Enjolras both wanted and needed. Something to stir the hearts of the people. To rally them together for the promised revolution. Paris will never be the same.
And neither will his friends. Of this, he is sure.
His steps thunder across the stones as fear strikes him cold. There is a growing certainty sitting heavy in his chest that this will not end as they all dreamed it would. But for now, there is no use worrying. Instead, he will find his friends and drink in their joy and laughter. It is the only thing he knows how to do. It is the only thing he can do.
-
“Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! Hoy!”
Bossuet grins as he notices their friends making their way up the street. They are shouting something indecipherable and Grantaire spins in his chair, conversation forgotten as his gaze alights on the guns in their hands. His gaze sweeps from face to face until he sees Enjolras marching at the front. He has that determined look on his features and it is one that Grantaire finds all too familiar. But this time, there is a fervour in his eyes as he leads the group up the streets.
Courfeyrac looks up and sees them sitting there. He grins towards them and Bossuet shouts down “Where are you going?”
“To build a barricade”, comes the reply.
“Why not here? This is a good place”
“You’re right” Courfeyrac waves the others over and they converse for a moment before Enjolras nods. It is decided. Grantaire places his hands on the table, wondering if the others can tell that he is shaking ever so slightly. Joly sends him a look he cannot decipher and Grantaire shrinks back, hiding his hands underneath the table once again.
When the clamouring from outside finally draws Bossuet from their table, Joly turns to him again. This time, his eyes are wide with tears. Grantaire starts and a thrill of fear runs through him. "Joly… what's wrong?"
"Oh god oh god" The young man grips Grantaire's hand as if it is his lifeline.
"Joly..?"
"She said the words to me this morning!" The words burst from his mouth, tears already splashing his red cheeks and Grantaire freezes.
"Words?"
"Musichetta. I... I was worried a few weeks ago about what our dreamed of revolution could mean so I took a peek at my wrist and... Musichetta said my words before I left this morning." He sniffs, head bowed. "I can't do this Grantaire! If she said them, then that means that something will happen to one of us and I don't know how I can do this."
"Breathe. It'll be alright."
"No it won't and you know it! I knew we were going to die here."
Grantaire holds the man in his arms, feeling the sobs shatter through his body and he feels empty. Then, he gently pries Joly's wrist away from his arm and looks down at it. A thrill of surprise runs through him as he sees that there is not one sentence there but two. "Joly..?" His voice holds a note of fear. "Has anyone said the second sentence to you yet?"
Watery eyes blink up at him but Joly shakes his head. Relief floods through him. “Then there is still time. It is not over yet.”
Joly slumps against him and goes quiet.
"I shouldn't have looked." The words are spoken against his chest, so soft that he almost misses them and he feels his heart tremble.
"It is far too late for such wishes." A pause. "Does Bossuet know?"
"I couldn't bring myself to tell him."
"You should."
"No..." Joly looks out the window to where their friends are slowly building something that resembles a barricade. Chairs and tables are being dragged out to be placed there. Enjolras is yelling something incomprehensible. His eyes are wide and he is flushed with passion. The revolution is finally happening. He sighs. "I should go."
Grantaire sends him a frown. "Will you be alright?"
"Somehow. This is what we've been waiting for after so long of dreaming about it. The revolution." Joly gets to his feet and gives him a small smile, hands shaking. "Whatever happens here, at least I can spend these moments with my friends. At least we are all together."
With that, he heads down the stairs and out to the crowd that is growing as Enjolras stands tall and proud. Grantaire's hand slips around the bottle and he takes a long sip. His own hands are trembling as he wonders about what the future holds for Les Amis de l'ABC. So, listening to the sounds of his friends building that barricade, he slowly slips into the warm haze of drunkenness. At least this way he can pretend to be fine.
Before long, he is on his feet, arms gesturing wildly as he grins down at the bar mistress. Words fling from his mouth, spilling out onto the chilled air before he has a chance to reel them back in. It is only once he spins on his heels and his gaze is drawn outside that he pauses in his bitter words.
"Grantaire, go and sleep your wine off somewhere else. This is a place for intoxication but not for drunkenness. Don't dishonour the barricade"
The words pierce through the warm haze, shattering the illusions his mind has built and he sits down heavily at the table beside the window, dark eyes fixated on Enjolras who is looking up at him with a stern expression.
Something twists inside and he forces his mouth into a smile, taking in that fierce look directed towards him. "You know I believe in you." It hangs in the air between them, soft and far gentler than he had intended.
He wants Enjolras to understand, he needs to make him know the true depth of his feelings. If this is the end of their revolution, he cannot sit idly by and ignore what he feels.
But Enjolras only lets his frown deepen. "Go away."
Fingers tighten against the window frame. To ask that of Grantaire. Surely Enjolras must know the cruelty of that request.
He pleads. "Let me sleep it off here"
"Go and sleep somewhere else"
"Let me sleep here, and if need be, die here"
Finally, Enjolras snaps and whirls on him, voice filled with fury.
"Grantaire, you're incapable of believing or thinking or willing or living or dying"
He freezes. The words ring in his head even though the owner of them has finally turned back to more important tasks.
Grantaire had been right.
He has seen those words etched onto his skin and there is no mistaking their meaning.
It could never have been anyone else really, not from that first moment that he felt the sweepings of love and obsession tingling beneath his skin. The burning desire to have those blue eyes look at him for just a moment longer. Even if they turned to disgust. Even then.
They would die here, all of them would, their lives taken one by one.
He drew himself up, and Enjolras turned his attention back to him, face blank. "You'll see.." Grantaire said, voice low and lacking its usual mirth. How could he laugh when all he could see was blood staining his fingertips?
"You'll see."
There is no recognition in Enjolras' expression as he studies the drunk for a moment longer and it is only once he turns to speak to Combeferre that Grantaire lets his breath rush from him. Joly was right. One set of words spoken could mean nothing. But two? The knowledge settles heavy in his heart. It was as if with those scathing words, Enjolras has doomed them all. The lofty ideals of a revolution becoming one that appears to be unreachable. But still he stands there, voice confident and eyes blazing with righteous conviction.
Grantaire sighs, the sound long and soft. He wants to be merry. To stand up and laugh with his friends so that he could stay with them until the end. But the terror that gripped his lungs when those words were spoken has only grown worse. He has always known Enjolras would say them, the scorn evident even written as ink on skin. Yet, somehow, hearing it has cut deeper than he had imagined. It was merely a confirmation of what he had been telling himself for months now.
With thoughts weighing heavily upon his skin, Grantaire sinks further down into his chair and lets his fingers find the bottle resting on the table.
-
Amidst the blood-spattered barricades, Enjolras collapses against the broken remains of a door-frame. He can hear the screams in the distance. So different from the sounds on the streets only hours earlier. Where he could once hear the joyful laughter of his friends and their inspirational words, now he only hears the fear and horror that has infiltrated his revolution. No. Not a revolution, not any longer.
His head falls into his hands as his breath shudders and stutters against his skin.
This is it. Already, Bahorel and Jehan have fallen prey to the harsh truth of what they were trying to do. Countless others have been slain. Their blood mingling between the cobblestones. How many more would not make it through the night? They were students, playing at something far greater than their lofty ideals. In the hope that somehow, something would change and that they would be the ones to set it in motion. Instead, Enjolras has killed his friends.
He can hear the soft humming of song coming from inside, the wounded and last of those left spending what could possibly be their final moments alive, together. Enjolras looks up at the soft glow coming from the windows and wonders if he should join them. But something tugs at him to remain here, sitting on the remnants of the barricade as the night draws to a close. He will leave them to their last farewell. A last celebration of life itself, before dawn comes and the entire world shifts.
And so Enjolras waits.
He waits in silence as the sounds of the night grow ever softer and he glances down at his clasped hands. Enjolras blinks. His sleeves are pulled down over his wrists, but now, he gently rolls them up and takes in the brief words written like shadows into his skin. Fingers dance around the mark for a moment, reading and softly speaking the words to himself again. Again and again, words that are already familiar to him.
He wonders if he has already missed his chance.
And so he waits. Alone.
-
It is so utter silence that Grantaire wakes. Something cold washes over him as he draws a breath, tasting the blood in the air, and in that instant he understands what has happened. He abandoned them. He should have fought with them until the end. Now they are all gone and he will never know what they had spoken of in those last moments with each other. He will never know if Jehan found his soulmate, or if Bossuet had yelled that second sentence written on Joly’s arm with his face twisted into a grin, like Grantaire had thought would happen. He will never know.
It is too late.
All around him lies the broken bodies of his friends and the tears sting at his eyes as he gazes around, searching frantically for those golden curls. He pushes against the rubble and lurches back as he uncovers an all too familiar face. He sobs. It is Courfeyrac.
“Why did I leave them to die alone? I should have been there!” As gently as he can, Grantaire closes Courfeyrac’s eyes, his fingers shaking. He wonders if it would have made a difference if he had tried to help them. Would he also be among the dead? Maybe it would have been better if he had died with them, saving himself the pain that gripped his chest now.
He sits back and presses his hands to his face. He takes a breath and lowers his arms to look around once again. Grantaire cannot bear to find his leader gone like the others but he knows he still must look. He holds his breath. He cannot find those golden curls. His mind is assaulted with images of the leader dying alone and afraid.
Fear settles deep within Grantaire and he scrambles to his feet, knocking rubble back in his haste.
Enjolras. Where is Enjolras?
Grantaire suddenly hears the sound of feet above him and the murmur of soldier’s voices. The world stops for a moment. He is paralysed. He needs to get up there. He knows what he will find. But like usual, that feeling beneath his skin pulls him and he screams out.
“NO!”
It takes him seconds to leap up the stairs and when he does, he is faced with the very scene he had feared. His heart stops in his chest.
Enjolras. He is standing there, framed with sunlight, head raised in defiance towards the soldiers that aim their guns at him. His back is straight, his eyes furious. A trail of tears make their way down his face and it makes him all the more terrifying. Even in his final moments, he is a glorious angel come to avenge the deaths of his friends. He is the revolution. The heart of it all. The passion and beauty of the people bursting out from one lone mane.
And it breaks Grantaire’s heart.
"Take aim" The soldiers cry.
He steps forward.
"Long live the Republic!" The words slip from his tongue and he is powerless to stop them. "I'm one of them." He cannot do it. He cannot let Enjolras die alone, with the knowledge that his revolution had been destined to fail. The thought of a life without those passionate words and bright eyes in them is too much to bear.
"Long live the republic" He repeats, fingers shaking as he watches Enjolras, begging the man to look at him. But those blue eyes remain fixed on the guards, burning with fury.
He doesn’t hesitate. With long strides, Grantaire crosses the floor and takes his place beside his leader in red. With a look towards the guards, he grins. "Might as well kill two birds with one stone." Then, he turns back to Enjolras and takes a breath. He can feel the weight of his words in his fingertips.
"Do you permit it?"
Enjolras finally turns looks at him, eyes wide and for a fleeting moment, Grantaire is terrified that he will refuse. That he will shake his head in dismissal as he so often does. But this time, he doesn't. Instead, Enjolras smiles. A soft, warm look that steals his breath away as Enjolras holds out his hand, palm upwards.
Grantaire looks down at his bare wrist and sees the words that he has just spoken, etched there in an untidy scrawl. Oh.
And he slides his fingers into that palm, gripping it tight as if he could somehow convey the myriad of emotions that is surely splashed across his features.
He knows, they both know, that they will die here. No words are necessary. That feeling within him is finally singing as if everything has been leading up to this one moment. Standing with the sun framing their faces and guns echoing into the morning as the last sounds of resistance stutter and stop. This is their final stand, the last of the barricade left to die at the hands of the National Guard.
But he pays them no attention, his eyes fixated on the one that stands beside him. Enjolras is still looking at him, eyes filled with something like wonder and if he looks close enough, he can see the beginnings of affection blooming there as a rare and wondrous flower, meant only for him. He tightens his grip as he sees it, returning that smile with a gentle one of his own as he struggles to contain the tears.
It is too late for them, far too late for something like friendship, let alone love, to sweep them off their feet. It was always destined to end in fire. Thoughts of rebellion burning in their minds.
But, Grantaire finds that he does not truly mind. He is here, with Enjolras, standing equal for the first time in his life with the man that he loves.
In another lifetime, worlds away, perhaps they could have been something more. But this, this, is somehow enough.