The first thing that Grantaire noticed was the fog that surrounded his feet. Every time he stepped forward, it would circle and swish around his feet. It filled in his previous footsteps, leaving it looking as though he had never been there. He looked up at the sky. The colors were muted. There was no sun, nor any stars in the sky. It was deathly quiet. He could just make out the outlines of people as they passed by. Their features were blurred and they refused to notice him. He reached out to touch the shoulder of a boy that ran by him. His hand slipped through the little body as though it were made of smoke.
His first thought in this new world was that we wasn't drunk enough to be dealing with this sort of thing. His second thought was as simple as, "Where was Enjolras?" Where was the fearless leader who had but moments ago taken his hand and smiled down at him? Where was the man who had refused to fall to the ground, even as eight bullets pierced his chest? He needed to see him. He needed to see him almost as much as he needed a bottle of absinthe.
Grantaire stumbled down the not-so-strange street of the strange world, not paying attention to possible landmarks or his direction. After about ten minutes he stopped and looked up. There was Café Muslin. He couldn't even be rid of the place in this strange world of his. Depression and a desperate longing for alcohol rode through his veins. Self-hatred flared within him. He would always follow the light of his green fairy for as long his lived. Forever he would gravitate towards his drink, no matter how many times he tried to end their miserable affair. No matter how many times his sun tried to blindly show him the path they both knew he should follow.
He stumbled into the bar. He looked at the broken chairs and empty tables. He made a grab for a lone, half-broken bottle. His hand slipped through the mirage. He couldn't stop the bitter chuckle when it passed his lips. Even his wretched beloved refused to grasp his hand.
Do you permit it? He had no right to say those words. He had no right to have viewed that smile. He had not fought. He had not died for their cause. He had sat at his table in the corner, alone, and drunk himself into a stupor. Yet, he had asked for the right to follow his blond Apollo. He had not deserved it. A sound came from upstairs, dragging Grantaire out of his cynical musings. He pulled himself up to investigate.
The lone room upstairs was the only lit room in the café. A lone figure sat beside the stairs. Grantaire had to look closely to see that the man was Marius. The boy had lived. Relief flooded the drunkard's heart, pity soon overtook it. Marius was alone. None of the other had survived. Marius himself looked like he had barely gotten away with his life. His arm lay in a sling and cuts were scattered across his freckled cheeks. His lips were moving but no sound escaped them. Grantaire moved to where his friend stood and tried once more to place a comforting hand on the man's arm. A lone tear escaped the student's sad eyes. Grantaire's hand passed through weakly. A bitter smirk found its way on to R's lips.
"He cannot see you, fool. He will not notice you." He chided himself. A feeling of loneliness crawled over him. Why could he not have simply died and left it at that? There was the sound of another person climbing the stairs. He turned to look, even when Marius did not. His eyes widened as he took in skewed blond curls and deathly tired blue eyes. "Enjolras," He breathed. The once-revolutionary looked up at the sound of his name. A spark of hope entered the dull irises.
"G-Grantaire?" The drunkard stumbled to the other, ignoring the throbbing in his head from lack of alcohol and the hitch in his idol's voice.
"Bonjour Apollo." He made himself smile, making sure that no sarcasm leaked into his words when he said the nickname. Enjolras looked torn between correcting him and crying. With little warning, the blond soon found himself wrapped in the surprisingly strong arms of the supposed drunkard. After a moment, Grantaire recollected himself and began to pull away. Enjolras unfroze and gripped him tighter. After a few minutes, they pulled away from each other. Marius looked toward the stairs. A young and pretty brunette entered the room. He all but collapsed into her arms when she reached him. Grantaire smiled, knowing that this must be Marius's ghost of an angel. Well, even with most of her features blurred it was easy to see that she was beautiful. Grantaire suddenly felt bad for poking and joking at Marius all those times.
"I should not have been so cruel to him about her." He heard Enjolras say, his tone for once soft instead of its normal impassioned cry. "I should have been kinder to them all." There was a pleading glint in his eyes as he looked at Grantaire. "I am sorry."
"For what?" Enjolras covered his eyes with one of his hands.
"Do not make me say it." Grantaire knew when to hold his tongue; at least he did when he was tipsy. He simply chose not to. However, he was completely and despairingly sober and his whole body ached. He didn't have enough energy to sense the atmosphere.
He tried to ignore the spasms in his hands and the dots that danced across his eyes by focusing in on Enjolras and saying, "Say what?"
"You know very well what, Winesack! I led them to their deaths like sheep to a slaughter! They followed me blindly into a hail of bullets and cannons! They trusted me and I failed them! Paris was not ready for change, yet I was too blinded by my foolishness to see it!" Grantaire shrank back, as he always did when Enjolras ranted at him. Yet he saw the haunted look that shone in Enjolras's eyes. Grantaire collapsed to the ground, trying to ease the spinning of his head. He stared up at his sun as he berated and broke himself. It wasn't right.
"Apollo,"
"And what of the families that they left behind?"
"Enjolras,"
"What of Joly and Lesgle's Musichetta? Or little Gavroche's gamines?"
"Enjolras!" Grantaire knew what a nervous breakdown looked like; he just never expected to see his Enjolras, the famous man of marble, in such a state. It was horrible to watch. The blond looked up with such weary and lost eyes. He met dark eyes that were glazed over and filled with a feverous shine. "They knew what they were signing up for. Courf, 'Fere, Joly, everyone. You gave them an opportunity to leave. None took it. Now please, please, return to your normal self and tell me that the room isn't spinning, that there is no blood dripping down the walls, and that we are safe." His shaking became more prominent, almost to the point of convulsing. Enjolras only then noticed just how pale the other man looked, that there was a green tint to his normally pale skin. He carefully knelt down beside him. He thankfully had seen Grantaire like this before. About a year after Grantaire had really started drinking and Enjolras had gotten completely fed-up with his drunken shenanigans. He had told the older man to stop wasting his life away and actually try to do something of importance. Grantaire had tried to stop. It hadn't worked at all. He hadn't lasted two days before giving up. Enjolras knew that this time was different. Grantaire didn't have a choice this time. He couldn't pick the bottle up, even if he needed to.
Enjolras tried to keep his voice calm when he spoke, "The room is still. There is no blood. We are safe, now. You are safe, Grantaire." The drunk fell against him. Enjolras recognized the foolishness of his words. Courfeyrac said Grantaire had seizures last time he tried to do this. He was most definitely not safe. He could very well die again, leaving Enjolras alone.
Contrary to popular belief, Enjolras had felt fear many times in his life. Once again, it entered him and numbed his sense. Carefully, he placed Grantaire's head on his lap. Delirious brown eyes looked up at him, begging with him for something that he could not give. Enjolras swallowed and brushed his knuckles across the contours of that too pale face. His left hand buried itself into thick dark curls. Brown eyes darted around the room in fear, seeing invisible phantoms that Enjolras could not chase away. He continuously tried to get up, though Enjolras refused to let him. He pleaded with the blond, half of his words slurred so badly that Enjolras couldn't understand them. Enjolras watched as Marius and the girl left, leaving the lone revolutionary and stricken drunk alone. Enjolras continued to pet at wet bangs and clasp Grantaire's hand tightly. It took a turn for the worse when Grantaire began to speak.
"There is nothing and everything in the world. Ashes to ashes. Maggots eat at once beautiful bones. Bones break. Burning. Fire. Fire! Bullets rip at skin. Skin, skin, peeling and chipping away. Show them what's truly beneath. Hate! They will hate! Useless. It's all useless!" Enjolras looked down with, pity etched upon his face. His friend was lost in his head. Lost in his self-hatred and doubt.
"It's not all useless. You're not useless."
"Alone! Alone in a sunless world!" Grantaire yelled, anger clouding his features. Enjolras only shook his head.
"You are not alone. I am here, Grantaire."
"Alone and together, one and the same. Hated and despised." Something in Enjolras's mind was able to piece the words together. He finally understood. Fingers buried themselves into thick curls.
"I have never hated—"
"Lies. No point in this," the sick man said, suddenly furious. "Leading without an end. Hope fails!"
"Grantaire…" Those words stung. Blood-shot eyes widened at the tone, then closed. Even in his sleep he muttered venomous words under his breath. Enjolras just continued to watch over him. It was going to be one of the longest nights of his life.
Grantaire awoke to soft humming. How long had he slept? How did he feel so empty yet so free? He tried to lift himself up, but hands immediately fell to his shoulders, keeping him down. "I am here. You will be fine, Grantaire. You are fine, you are safe. Not one of your demons will reach you. I will not let them. Calm. Be calm." There was a soft note in Enjolras's voice that Grantaire had never heard him use before when talking to him. It was so unlike his normal chiding voice that Grantaire had a hard time believing that the man he was beside truly was his Apollo.
"E-Enjolras?" His tongue felt too big and his voice was hoarse from over-use. Blue eyes looked down in shock.
"R? Are you alright?"
"Y-Yeah." He realized that a hand had met his own. He watched as Enjolras smiled down at him and he felt as warm as if it was the sun that was shining upon him. He turned his head to the left. "Can we just stay like this for a while?" He took the fingers twining in his dark curls as an affirmative.
By the end of what Grantaire thought was the sixth day in the new world, Enjolras had gotten restless. Grantaire was slowly regaining his strength, only lapsing back into unconsciousness twice on the first day of reawakening. So they went outside. Grantaire had to pull the blond in the opposite direction when they spotted the barricade. Only he took a wrong turn. They found themselves looking down at a line of dead bodies. They knew the bodies well, too well. Enjolras's foot could have touched Combefere's head if they had been in the same world. Enjolras just stared. He didn't cry or fall to his knees. He just stared vacantly at his friends. A young woman passed through him, but he didn't seem to notice. Grantaire watched her. She walked a ways down and stopped in between two bodies. Joly and Lesgle. Grantaire could just make out her dark, tear-stained face as she bent down to kiss both of their foreheads. She moved to her knees and clasped her hands together in prayer. When she finished a hand moved to her stomach and she looked up at the gray heavens. Enjolras finally broke out of his trance. He stumbled over to her. "I am sorry." Grantaire heard him mutter, "I am sorry." A miracle occurred. Musichetta looked straight at the blond. She then looked around, as if she had heard his words but was unable to find him. Then she turned back to the sky and closed her eyes, a small smile upon her face. A ray of sun peaked out from behind the clouds, only to be covered after a minute. She walked away probably looking for someone to help her get her boys ready for a funeral. Enjolras stood still. Enjolras watched her retreat into shadows. He continued to stare after her, even when she had long disappeared into the fog. Grantaire stepped up to stand by his side. A shaky hand was placed on his cold shoulder. Enjolras found that he no longer minded the drunk- no, he was no longer a drunkard- artist's touch. In fact, he found himself enjoying the warmth of the contact. It kept him grounded. After a minute of hesitation, he managed to shake himself away. He forced himself to ignore the hurt expression that crossed Grantaire's face like a fleeting shadow of the night.
He was quickly finding that when he looked Grantaire in the eye his chest tightened. It made him want to wrap a comforting arm around his friend, perhaps bury his face in those dark curls... Kiss away the pain that furrowed brow held. But no, that was impossible. He had given his heart to his beloved country. His Patria. Even if she had refused him and his nearly desperate attempts to help her. He had to focus on the cause.
What causes? A voice in his head sneered. There is no cause anymore. It died little by little each time a bullet or bayonet had taken down one of his men (his poor, dear, foolish friends). Now it was no more than a mere murmur in the air.
"I would like to go back to the café." He whispered, his shoulders drooping as the conflict raged in his head.
"Of course." Grantaire muttered, deciding that he wouldn't mention that he had found their bodies. Never did he mention that there were two women, one old with long blond hair that had turned gray, and one young, with grime on her face and tears in her eyes. Even if the women were standing that the feet of their bodies. He would never bring himself to whisper that he watched as the little girl knelt down and reconnected their hands.
Instead, he turned to follow that beautiful God, statue, human back into the building. He didn't have the courage to reach for the blonde's clinched hand.
Days turned into months, and soon two years had passed. Whispers of discontent began to spread, but their passion did not rekindle the fire that had once blazed in Enjolras's eyes. The Café remained vacant, though word had spread that it was haunted by vengeful spirits. Grantaire wanted to laugh at the people's foolishness. Children began to dare each other to creep into the building.
One day, Grantaire awoke to the sound of glass crashing to the floor. Enjolras was already up and about, frowning worriedly as he looked down the stairway. Grantaire turned to look at him, his eyes still full of sleep. "Apollo?" He mumbled, missing the other's presence by his side as they slept.
"Hush. Oh, the little fools, they are going to get themselves killed!"
"At least then we will have some more company." Grantaire shied away from the glare that was sent his way. Another glass shattered. The floor boards groaned. A younger boy's voice whimpered. Grantaire and Enjolras looked at each other in shock, for they had heard the sound.
"Alex can we please go back? You've had your fun."
"Oh come on Camille, stop being such a baby."
"Seriously, Alexandre! This place is creepy."
"Alright, alright, but let's check this out first!" Small feet rushed up the staircase. Enjolras took a step back. But then there was the chilling sound of wood cracking under the weight. There was a child's cry of terror when the stairway gave way. Enjolras rushed forward. Grantaire rose to his feet. The old spiral-staircase had collapsed to pieces on the first floor. Dust filled the air. The boy, Alexandre was dangling from the second floor by one hand. Camille jumped, trying to reach him, but he could barely reach half-way up. Enjolras reached down. Skin contacted skin. Alexandre looked up with shocked eyes as a person shimmered into his vision. The boy was lifted into the room by his wrist. Camille was still down stairs, screaming. Alexandre collapsed to his knees and began to shake. Enjolras moved back to where Grantaire was. His face was a mask of marble, but his eyes told the true story. They were endless vortexes of confusion, shock, fear, and hope. So much hope. Though he had never said it, Grantaire was sure that Enjolras was getting tired of having no one to talk to besides a depressed cynic.
Brown eyes peaked out from behind drawn knees. Alexandre scuttled over to the newly made hole in the floor.
"I-I'm alright, C-Camille." He called down. The smaller boy nodded and began to desperately search for a latter or something similar. Grantaire took pity on him.
"Tell him that there is a ladder behind the bar. Hopefully it hasn't rotted as well." He said. The brunette relayed the message. There was a clatter downstairs as the adventurer turned back towards them.
"Are you angels?" he asked.
"No." Enjolras said. Grantaire decided it would be fun to disagree with him.
"Oh come on Apollo, we all know I'm not, but you, all you need is a halo and some wings and you could become the guardian angel of this wonderful city of ours." The glare he received made him go quiet. It cut into him slightly: he meant those words.
The boy got up, dusted off his knees and pulled himself up to his full height. "Well, if you are not angels, then I am going to have to ask you to leave. This is going to be our fort."
"Sorry but we can't do that, see kiddo, here's the problem, we were here a long time before you." Grantaire said, chuckling at the annoyed expression on Enjolras's face that was normally reserved only for him. There was a sound downstairs, and soon the other boy, Camille had joined them.
"What do you mean you were here first?! No one's lived in here for years!" Camille frowned at his friend's outburst. Grantaire thought that he saw Joly's worrisome expression cross the boy's face.
"Alex… who are you talking to?" The brown-haired boy looked at his friend with an irked expression.
"What do you mean? They're right in front of you, Cam!" He pointed straight at Enjolras. His voice was getting weaker, more muffled. He continued to talk, but they soon couldn't hear him. He turned back towards them and looked confused. Camille's expression was more and more terrified with each second that passed. Alexandre reached out for Enjolras. His hand passed straight through him. The blond just stared down sadly. Camille let out a silent scream and ran back down the stairs, his footsteps ringing in both the men's ears. Alex followed after him, but when he reached the latter he looked back one more.
He blinked, as if finally understand something. "I get it." He whispered his voice muffled but there. "You guys were the first ones. The ones who died. Well, don't you worry!" A bright smile spread across his face. "We'll keep your fight going! We'll keep trying until we win!" Enjolras reached for him, but he had raced down the rungs, calling after his friend.
Grantaire looked at the blond that stared down at the now vacant spot. "Enjolras?" He called out, slightly confused.
The blond looked back at him with a broken expression on his face. "They will keep fighting. They will keep failing. They will die."
Grantaire frowned, "Maybe… but maybe they won't. Maybe the people will join them."
"No. They won't." There was so much resignation in the blonde's voice. Grantaire found that he hated it. He got to his feet.
"No come on, Apollo, I'm supposed to be the cynic here, not you."
"It's not cynical if it's true, Grantaire! History just repeats itself over and over: how many times have I heard you say that?!" The raw anger in Enjolras's voice hurt. The blond sat down on the ground and buried his head in his hands. Grantaire walked over and made his way to his sun's side.
"Enjolras, look at me." He caught the other's chin so that he could bring blue eyes up. "The people have had more time to think. If there was ever a thought with your planning it was that you were moving too quickly. You needed to slow down. You didn't let their anger brew. You didn't give them time to make their decisions. But they have had time. Maybe you're right. Maybe history will just repeat itself. But one day, it might break free from that circular orbit. Now, please, leave the depressing thought-trains to me."
One rebellion rose and fell. It was followed be many skirmishes. The discontent whispers had become a battle cry. Red blood fell upon blackened cobblestone. Night came all too quickly those days. Still the people continued to rise. They refused to be halted. Enjolras refused to leave the café. Then the nightmares started.
Grantaire would often be awakened by screams and names of the dead. He then would find himself cradling the shaking blond in his arms. Their roles had reversed. He would find himself whispering comforts that he half-believed to his once supporter. Yet, though it all, his beautiful Apollo never cried, even as he trembled and whispered broken fragments of thoughts.
"Don't leave me. Thou mustn't leave me."
"Never, never, I would follow thou into the depths of Hell." They never talked of these late night occurrences when the gray morning came.
Years passed by slowly. Rebellions occurred with ever increasing frequency. Enjolras would sometimes go out onto the roof and watch the proceedings. It reached a boiling point. One day as the dusk was starting to fall, gunshots rang out and screams filled the air. The boarded doors to the café burst open and two teens burst in. One fell to the ground and was quickly helped to his feet by the other. Even after they were both standing, they held on to each other's hands. The national guards swarmed into the building with muskets ready. There was a commotion outside.
The boys quickly rushed up the ladder and pulled it up through the hole. Soldiers began pointing their guns at the ceiling. Camille and Alexandre turned to one another and smiled.
"Together?" The two ghosts heard one of them whisper.
"Together." Enjolras stood frozen where he stood. Then he rushed forward.
"Don't you dare!" his voice was lost in the screech of bullets. Boy boys jerked back and away from each other. The ghosts somehow managed to catch them. Enjolras had forgotten what the feeling of touching another person had felt like. Grantaire had forgotten what blood felt like. Camille seemed to have taken most of the bullets.
Alexandre turned weakly in Enjolras's arms. "C-Camille?" He voice was panicked, as if he just now realized what he had gotten into. He looked up at Enjolras, "Angel?" He muttered, confused and disoriented. Enjolras batted his hand away. Soldiers were reloading downstairs.
"Where can we take you two that is safe?"
The boy swallowed, dazed, "Home?" he whispered.
Enjolras nodded, surprised at his own patience, "Where is home?" The boy whispered the address, and shakily attempted to stand. Blood ran down his face from a bullet graze. His pupils were mismatched. There was also blood coming from a wound on his left arm and right thigh. He paid no attention to his injuries; however, instead, his eyes were focused upon his friend.
"C-Camille," He whispered again, and then he turned to Enjolras, "He needs to go home. He is hurt." Enjolras nodded, looking at Grantaire, who was checking for a pulse. The artist nodded, making Enjolras sigh a breath of relief.
"Then let us help you." He whispered offering the boy a shoulder to lean on.
They exited the building through a window, right when the second round of gunshots rang out. Enjolras focused on keeping his wounded charge awake and talking. Fortunately that wasn't too difficult. Unfortunately, all the boy seemed to be able to talk about was all the infections one might get from a gunshot wound.
"And then there's gangrene and staph infections… death may occur in four to ten days if he gets one of those. Monsieur, does Camille have any puss coming from his wounds? Is he bleeding excessively?" The teen also refused to think about his own wounds, instead coming up with possible diagnosis for his friend.
Grantaire called out a question from behind, "Is your last name Joly and or do you believe in reincarnation?" The boy looked confused and tried to turn around to look at the cynic, but Enjolras refused to let him.
"My full name is Alexandre Joly- Lègle de Meaux." Enjolras did not know whether to laugh or cry at the name, so he decided to stay silent. Grantaire said nothing, even as they approached the house. The name Pontmercy was written in elegant golden script on one of the pillars leading up to the house. All the lights in the house were on, causing it to nearly glow in the dark like a beacon. Enjolras hastily climbed up the steps and placed the boy on the doorstep. Alexandre reached out for Camille, who had been unconscious for quite a while, when the boy was put beside him. He curled around him slightly, as if trying to shield him from any further harm. Enjolras reached for the knocker, but it slipped through his grasp. He tried again, desperation beginning to circle in his mind. He managed one knock. That was all that was needed. A middle-age man threw open the door and let out a panicked cry when he saw the two boys. He rushed back into the house, calling for help. Soon two women and some servants came out as well. Enjolras saw both Marius and his wife sob in relief as they gathered Camille into their arms and took him inside hastily after sending a servant out to get a doctor. Alexandre let them take him. But the fire in his eyes soon diminished once the boy was taken from his grip. Another middle-age woman who looked to be a lady's maid or housekeeper came to rest beside him. Enjolras immediately recognized her to be Musichetta. He was relieved that she was in such good care. She carefully took in the extent of her child's wounds and carefully led him inside. None of them had even glanced at the two former-revolutionaries. The door shut. Enjolras did not know what inspired him to laugh. It barely covered up the fact that he was crying. Grantaire, of course, was not tricked. Immediately, he was by his leader's side, worry etched clearly upon his face.
"Enjolras?" he whispered, his voice alarmed.
"They didn't even notice me. Of course, they wouldn't but… they didn't even look up." There was another laughing sob. Grantaire placed a hand on the other man's shoulder.
"If it is any condolence, they didn't notice me either."
Enjolras didn't even look up when he started to speak, "You?" The words were stated in a scathing tone and were accompanied by a scoff. "Of course they wouldn't pay any mind to you, Wine-sack." He immediately bit his lip when the nickname passed into the air. If there was one thing that the two had silently pleaded to each other, it was to never mention the other's previous blunders. Grantaire would not mention the useless death trap that had been the barricade, if Enjolras did not bring up his past addiction. Brown eyes widened and the narrowed into slits. A bitter smile crossed his lips. He backed away, into the darkness of the shadows. It was his turn to laugh.
"Here I was thinking that these past years of being your constant companion would brighten your opinion of me at least a little, great Apollo." Those words dripped with sarcasm and anger. "I see that hope was foolish. Once a drunkard, always a drunkard. I understand." Enjolras wanted to vehemently disagree, to say that what he had said was a horrid, spur-of-the-moment blunder. He wanted so desperately to apologize. But something kept him still. Shots and shouts echoed in the streets of Paris. Enjolras prayed that it was his imagination when he thought he saw Grantaire begin to fade away into dark. Terror filled the blonde.
"Grantaire! Grantaire, wait! I didn't mean it!" Grantaire slowly continued backing away. "Please, don't leave me. Thou promised." Grantaire flickered, hurt still clear on his face. Yet he had stopped. People ran down the street with guns blazing and smiles upon their faces.
"We won!" They screamed, hugging, kissing, and drinking with one another, "We won!" Enjolras did not pay them any attention. He was trying desperately to reach the spot where he had last seen the artist.
"Grantaire! Grantaire!" No one answered him as he pushed through the crowds of revolutionaries. "Grantaire! Please! Please answer me!" A hand grabbed his own and began to pull him off to the side. Brown eyes looked down at his own. Grantaire brought them both out of the sea of people. They stumbled into Marius's yard. Enjolras was still shaken and slightly panicked. His hand held the other's in a white-knuckled grip. Grantaire smiled, trying to be reassuring, as he brought them off to the side to sit on the grass. Enjolras refused to let him go, so Grantaire moved close to sit down beside him. He rested his head on the blonde's shoulder.
"I'm sorry." He heard Enjolras whisper softly into his neck. His heart swelled in happiness when he realized that Enjolras was swallowing his pride in order to say this. The artist shook his head.
"I would follow thee into the depths of hell . Even if thou hates me."
Enjolras watched fire glow in the street. It was reflected in his eyes. "I don't hate you. I have ever truly hated you. I never will be able to." Grantaire stared at him, the after a moment, began to laugh silently. Enjolras looked up confused.
"It is good to see that fire back in your eyes... You have finally gotten your Patria's freedom." They watched the people celebrate in the streets. Their hearts began to beat to the sound of distant drums. Grantaire looked at Enjolras from out of the corner of his eyes. He couldn't help himself. He leaned down slowly, and gently connected their lips. It was over within two seconds. More shouting came. Familiar cries. Enjolras's eyes widened as all of the Les Amis came running into the yard area. For a single moment, the world stood still. Then it exploded. Gavroche raced forward, and with a flying leap, slung his arms around Grantaire's neck.
"'Taire, 'Taire, we found you! We've finally found you!" He cried, burying his face into the older man's neck. Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Bahorel rushed at Enjolras and lifted him into the air. Joly and Bossuet were scouring the bushes of the house in order to get a look into windows, hoping that they could catch a glimpse of their son. Jehan kissed Enjolras's cheek repeatedly, tears in his eyes. Combeferre walked up more calmly, but the smile in his eyes said all that needed to be said. He wrapped an arm around the blonde's shoulder.
Gavroche jumped down to the ground when Eponine approached. She offered Grantaire a smile, and then turned her attention to their fearless leader.
Grantaire felt as if he was watching the reunion from his spot in the back of the café. Enjolras would be fine, now. Now that his fellow believers and friends surrounded him. He took a step back and turned away. He was finally happy.
But as he began to walk away, a voice rang in his ears, calling his name. Who was he to refuse that voice? The voice of his sun. A hand wrapped around his arm. Blue eyes looked into his with confusion.
"Grantaire? Where are you going?" He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He tried again.
"Wherever thou shall go. if thou permits it." Enjolras smiled and held out a hand.
"Never leave." His sun whispered. A ragged old, red flag hung in his other hand.
"I never will."
What the did I just write? I am going to ignore the fact that I can't write Enjolras in character or romance for the life of me.
A few of the people how I have shown this to got confused about why I used 'thou' and 'thee' at some points. Thou and thee were once used as informal ways of saying you or your. They showed intimacy, disrespect, or closeness between the people using them. Cosette uses them a lot in some editions of the Brick. Which confused me... as she used them with, well, everyone.
Any way, please review or PM me your opinions.