Bonjour! The title of this fic comes from "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables," and the line in the summary is from "Why Have You Brought Me Here/Raoul, I've Been There" from Phantom of the Opera. (Thanks to Guest for correcting that.) Just to be on the safe side, trigger warning: graphic violence. I started writing this and most of it just came to me, so let me know in a review or PM if the song was too much, I wasn't originally going to include it. Thanks, and enjoy!

-Vroche

Enjolras sat at a half-rotting old wooden table, motionless. He'd been there for the past four hours, and even his entire left leg had fallen asleep, yet still he hadn't budged. Why should he? His friends were not only missing their legs, but also their lives.

His partially-glazed-over blue eyes surveyed the back room of the cafe, which had served as a home and meeting place for the Friends of the ABC. Over in that corner was where Courfeyrac proposed to Jehan. At the large table under the map of France was where he and Combeferre had planned their triumph over France's unjust government. That floorboard near the door had tripped Bossuet almost every time. And that creaky podium had given voice and height to him as he led meetings, and had been the location of so many of Prouvaire's poetry readings. Joly's medical books still lay scattered on one of the tables. Bahorel's sparring equipment was still in its barrel near the doorway. Nothing in the room would ever be used again.

A single large, unscented candle sat in front of him, illuminating most of the room in a pale, musky light. There was no light shining in through the iron grates near the ceiling at this time of day, nor had Enjolras bothered to light another one.

A man with curly black hair soon stepped into the dimly-lit room. Enjolras heard him come in, but didn't acknowledge the man, who proceeded to pick up Joly's medical books and the various textbooks and stray novel that was lying about the room. "Enjolras, it's almost time to go," he said.

It pained the man, whose name was Grantaire, to see a person who had once been such a strong, independent, fiercely optimistic leader be reduced to a man who stared with empty, joyless eyes at everything. It hurt the most because this particular person used to be - and still was - the person he dedicated his life to.

Enjolras finally stirred, the first motion he'd made in hours. "Sure, R," he answered in that calm, cool, and collected voice that he was famous for.

The corners of Grantaire's mouth tugged upwards when his idol said his nickname, although he knew it was silly. He ambled towards the barrel by the doorway, the books abandoned by their owners weighing him down. He was familiar with Bahorel's fencing equipment, as they had sometimes held small tournaments against each other. Never again would they spar, though. He tucked a couple foils under his arm and precariously placed the masks on top of the books before turning to Enjolras, who was still staring into space. "C'mon, Enj, it's time to go. They're not coming back, and you need your rest."

Enjolras shot him a glare, probably because of Grantaire's usage of his nickname. The antagonizing worked, however, and Enjolras blew out the candle stood up slowly and made his way towards the door. Grantaire stepped aside to let the revolutionary though, before casting a last longing look towards the darkened back room of the cafe, then shut the door.

The pair finally made their way through the broken glass and debris of the Cafe Musain, where much of the fatal battle had taken place. As they stepped outside into the frigid January air, Enjolras averted his eyes from the street, where the barricade had been built and destroyed in two day's time. Where his friends had fallen.

Going back to the Musain had been Grantaire's idea. He was prompted by the new year's approach, although he had never been one for New Year's, or any festivity, really. That had been Courfeyrac.

They finally arrived back at the apartment they now shared. Each man knew exactly what the other had been through, and there was no one else in the whole world who knew (besides Marius, who was rescued from the barricade and was now off prancing around with his new wife, Cosette) or could help, so why suffer alone?

Enjolras said nothing, as was his habit these days, but nodded at Grantaire in a sort of thank-you, his eyes softening for a moment. He knew that the event had happened more than six months ago, but he still couldn't get the images out of his head- and most of all, the what-ifs. What if part of a table had been blocking the fatal shot to Combeferre's stomach? What if Enjolras had noticed sooner that Joly was unable to fight off three National Guardsmen at one time? The endless questions swirled around in his head.

Grantaire sighed as Enjolras made his way to the bedroom. He had tried, at least. The loss of the only friends he had ever known still hurt him on a daily basis, but the pain had lessened from a relentless and violent and painful jab in the heart to an ache that came and dissipated in waves.

Never before in his life had he been the strong one, the one who had to be a shoulder to lean and cry on for someone else. It was a new experience for Grantaire, and he wasn't sure if he hated or liked the burden.

Grabbing a bottle half-full of absinthe off the counter (although he had been trying to cut down recently), Grantaire sat down at the table and thought while he drank, as he usually did. He mused over people's different ways of coping with loss. Enjolras, for example, just shut everyone out, shut the world out. Grantaire, personally, tried to drown out his sorrows in absinthe, as he had done in the month or so after the rebellion, before pulling himself together for the first time in his life. Others shoved it off or tried to joke about it while hiding the pain deep down inside.

As he drained the last drop of alcohol, Grantaire sighed. He desperately wanted more, to drink until his throat was raw and the unnaturally straight lines of the room had softened and become wavy.

But he didn't. Grantaire dug his dirty fingernails into his palm, the pain distracting him from his craving (and besides, Enjolras probably wouldn't want to deal with him hungover in the morning), and instead maneuvered himself towards the bedroom, where Enjolras was fast asleep. Grantaire didn't see how he could be tired after sitting stock still for four hours straight, but each to his own.

He smiled again at the sight of Enjolras's peaceful face, the lines that had been etched there by deadlines, worry, and grief almost invisible.

Between the two of them (mostly Enjolras, though), they had bought a two-bedroom apartment for a multitude of reasons- Grantaire not wanting Enjolras to get the wrong idea, Enjolras needing space, the relative cheapness of this particular apartment, et cetera.

Grantaire went to his room, right next door, and changed clothes quickly before collapsing into bed.

Enjolras was standing on the barricade,a bit below the flag holster, rifle in hand. A National Guardsman, the enemy, separated himself from the rest of the uniformed men and got within Enjolras's firing range. He pulled the trigger, and the man fell, blood spouting in a crimson fountain from his chest. Enjolras knew that the man probably had a wife and children, a whole life, but he tried to push the thought out of his mind. What if that National Guardsman had gone on to kill one of his friends?

He turned around to check on how said friends were faring, and was alarmed to see that a few of the king's men had breached the large barricade and were fighting hand-on-hand with some of the revolutionaries. Combeferre was fighting off two on the barricade's apex, but he didn't look like he need help. A few of the unnamed volunteers were fending off Guardsmen who had tried to come through to their side via one of the surrounding buildings.

All was going well, Enjolras thought. The Guardsmen weren't showing any sign of retreat, but neither were their men.

Suddenly, he heard a yell from the opposite side of the barricade. "Cannons!" A pause. "Fire!"

Enjolras muttered a hundred curses under his breath. The first cannon let loose, and a huge chunk of ebony cannonball flew through the air and blew a hole through a part of the east section of the barricade. "Take cover! Shoot for the men manning the cannons!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. So not fair- a barricade and an army of fifty with low ammunition against a professional army of hundreds, with cannons? Still, the freedom would be worth it.

Enjolras heard a scream that sounded oddly familiar. He turned his head quickly, but was a fraction of a second too late. Prouvaire, the poet, the most sympathetic and peaceful Amis, had been directly hit by one of the cannonballs. Enjolras watched, frozen, as the poet's body was blown nearly to pieces, crimson spraying everywhere. The scream still rung in his ears…

Enjolras, wide-eyed, sweaty, and shaking, briefly managed to form a coherent thought regarding the fact that the scream had still not dulled, until he realized it was his own. He screamed loud enough and long enough to wake the dead (oh, and how he wished he could), until his throat nearly bled. It was too soon after the nightmare to realize that it was just a dream.

Grantaire awakened from his usual empty, dreamless sleep with a start. His mind, foggy from sleep, took a moment to recognize the sound, a scream, and he was immediately out of bed, tripping over the tangled sheets in a desperate effort to reach Enjolras.

He bolted into the blonde's room and was met with the sight of Enjolras sitting upright, stiff as a board, clenching the sheets so tightly his knuckles were a ghostly white. The rest of his body was shaking uncontrollably, and Grantaire could see the rare panic in Enjolras's eyes, which were streaming silent tears.

He rushed over to the bed and pried Enjolras's chilled hands off the sheets and took them in his own. Enjolras did usually have nightmares, both about his childhood and the rebellion's failure, but they weren't usually this bad. When they were, however, he knew there was nothing he could do but sit and wait for the panic and terror to ease its grip on the revolutionary. Grantaire muttered soothing nonsense under his breath and rubbed Enjolras's stiff back, hoping to calm him down. "Shh, Enj, it was just a dream. It didn't really happen."

After a while, Enjolras calmed down enough to become mobile and rational again. He spoke in-between sobs. "I-it was t-terrible. W-we were fighting on the b-b-barricade, and then the cannons came, and J-Jehan...they blew him a-apart." Enjolras hated himself, so much, for letting his friends die and for showing such weakness in front of Grantaire, of all people, but he couldn't help it.

Grantaire said nothing, just continued stroking his back, and so Enjolras continued, desperate to let it all out and tell someone, to be reassured. "H-he screamed, really loudly, and I, I wasn't there to s-save him." He pressed his hands to his face.

Grantaire's voice cracked as he spoke, "What you heard was a dream, and nothing more."

They sat in silence a little while longer, until Enjolras stopped trembling and was able to push the still-vivid nightmare to the back of his head.

Grantaire finally figured Enjolras was calmed down and ready to go back to sleep, and got up to leave, but Enjolras grabbed his wrist. "Stay with me, please." I don't want it to happen again were the unspoken words, but Grantaire understood, and he climbed back into the bed. He sat, watching Enjolras fall back to sleep, the rise and fall of his chest, and finally drifted off himself as the sun began to peek through the windows. Everything would be okay.