Disclaimer: Regrettably, I own nothing. Based on The Brick, and named after the line in the musical "Will the world remember you when you fall?" Enjoy, and please drop me a note if you want to see more of this!
June, 1832
The sun was setting on the Horizon, and as Grantaire took another long swig from his bottle and set it down on the table, he experienced the sinking sensation in his stomach that even the liquor could not relieve. This was an inescapable, oppressive feeling that was weighing down on him like a load of heavy bricks. As much as he would have loved to remain oblivious to the events that would unfold the next morning, he knew that they had to be faced. He knew that the courageous ones would face them without any protest; running headlong into the line of fire as they so often did.
He knew that he would lose his Enjolras. His muse, his constant companion: the man who never seemed to want him around and yet filled Grantaire with a kind of awestruck wonder whenever he spoke. He was so bold in what he believed in. He knew exactly what he wanted, and he possessed both the courage and the haughty independence to bring his dreams into motion. Enjolras was everything that Grantaire was not.
However, Grantaire had firmly established long ago that living life in the shadow of this possessing, inspiring revolutionary of a man was better than living it on his own terms. And he had turned to the ale to comfort him when Enjolras could not; when the moral perfection of this golden-haired angel did not extend to the graces with which he treated his comrades.
He had no idea of the effect he had on his closest friends, particularly Grantaire. Enjolras and Combeferre could discuss military tactics and strategies for hours on end, leaning close into the candle on the table so that their papers would be illuminated in the darkness of the tavern when the hours grew late. Their systematic relationship, which was based upon the bond they both shared in severing the unjust ties that held France captive, was exactly what one could have expected from two well-learned, patriotic, bright-eyed conspirators.
Grantaire could never share that bond with Enjolras. He had contented himself with sitting on the sidelines, examining the manner in which Enjolras operated things, the passion that was so engrained in everything he did, and the eloquent grace with which he spoke, attracting all those around him like moths drawn to a lamp. Grantaire was often to be found sitting in the tavern, watching Enjolras from afar and sipping his ever-constant bottle of wine. Enjolras became infuriated with him at times, saying that the revolutionary quarters were no place for a skeptic, and telling him time after time to abandon his wine. He released his rage on the poor man like he did on no one else around him.
It wasn't Grantaire's indulging, pleasure-seeking nature that caused him to resort to the bottles day after day. It was the misery. He had become something he had never wanted to become, and every time he saw Enjolras in the café rallying his men together, talking excitedly about their next conquest to communicate their resistance to the king, he was reminded of this. He watched the man's face, alight with excitement, his blue eyes sparkling with every punctuated syllable he uttered, his curly, golden hair tied away from his face, the gestures which he used to communicate with people the ideas that were contained in that extraordinary head of his. More than anything in the world, Grantaire regretted the fact that he was nothing compared to this man, and that every vain effort he made to become worthy enough of Enjolras would be useless.
As he sat in the waning darkness though, a profound feeling of despair began to overtake him and make him feel even more alone than he had in his whole life. These men knew what was coming for them, and yet they were facing it with broad, extended arms; they welcomed their death as if it were the only way to guarantee them freedom. It made no sense to him.
However, it didn't have to make sense. It was an idea that had claimed Enjolras entirely, and become an obsession. This was something he was passionate about, and throughout this entire ordeal, Enjolras remained Grantaire's sole passion. That was something to Grantaire that seemed worth dying for.
A hand rested on his shoulder and Grantaire's heart skipped several beats as the young man himself came to sit by his side, kneeling in the rubble that had been strewn on the ground in the assembly of the barricade.
"You are still awake," he stated briefly, looking up at the sky above them, which was now almost entirely black, save for a few sprinklings of starlight in the expanse of darkness, and the moon, which illuminated the silhouette of the blonde man. Grantaire nodded, and took another large swig of his bottle, being sure not to look Enjolras in the eye. He didn't know what kinds of emotions might overcome him if he did.
"Why must you carry that thing around constantly?" Enjolras asked, making himself comfortable on an overturned, wooden supply box and motioning to the bottle out of Grantaire's hand.
"I have a feeling this is not an event I want to be sober for," Grantaire replied curtly.
"The early stages of the revolution? Who wouldn't want to experience that in all of its glory without the hindrance of intoxication?"
"You and I have always looked at the revolution in different respects." He took another drink, and was granted a scowl from Enjolras, whose face seemed older, weary and weather-beaten in the light of the pale moon overhead.
"And why is that?" he asked, rather unnecessarily. He knew very well the reasons why Grantaire didn't support the revolution with the same amount of zeal that he did. What he didn't understand was why Grantaire still frequented the Musain, and spent so much time with him and his friends, when clearly their only goal in these meetings was to instigate a rebellion.
"We see death differently," he responded in a sobering tone. He was not as intoxicated as he would have liked to have been. Although he had seen this coming from the moment Enjolras sat down next to him, he hated discussing the matter of a martyr's death with this man. That was clearly the only way in which Enjolras would depart from this earth, but it made even less sense to Grantaire than the man's willingness to stir up a rebellion that would be both dangerous and most likely ineffective.
The truth was he was afraid of death. Grantaire, that lonesome coward who could never bring himself to amount to anything worthy of Enjolras, feared the moment when he would leave this world and be transported into the next. It wasn't the pain that scared him. He was subject to a great amount of pain every day, both emotionally and physically. He was afraid of the fact that he was no man of virtue, no man who fought for something he believed in, no man of any courage who would lead an army blindly into the hands of the king's soldiers. He didn't believe in anything. He only believed in Enjolras. He had a feeling that this loose set of moral standards would torment him to no end in the afterlife; that he would pay for every misdeed he had ever committed, and every lie he had ever told to convince Enjolras that he was worthy enough. He knew that he wasn't.
But what scared him the most was that he was journeying into a place in which he couldn't follow the lead of the man who had been his vision for the last, and most important, years of his life. The void of the afterlife would separate their souls. He would no longer be able to indulge in the beauty, the motivated courage and the unattainable passion of this martyr.
"No one is asking you to die, Grantaire," Enjolras spoke quietly, his head bowed towards the pile of rubble below their feet. "You don't have to throw your life away when it isn't necessary." He sensed the fear in Grantaire's tone when he spoke, and averted his gaze from the dark headed man. He was weary of how to confront Grantaire, and probably realized that it would be one of the last confrontations they would encounter.
"I know you think me a coward," the other man began, meeting Enjolras's distracted gaze firmly, and not backing down when Enjolras looked away, "But I'm not afraid of dying. I fear many other things, but all things on earth are conquerable: all things but love, and passion, and spirit. Living in a world and being deprived of the one you love is a fate worse than the most terrible form of death."
"And what of loyalty? What of patriotism, devotion, fighting for one's freedom? Forming a new generation where people are no longer enslaved to those who govern them? Does none of that matter to you?" His blue eyes finally met Grantaire's dark ones, and for a moment, the latter man held the gaze, refusing to speak, and simply taking in the last pleasure that he would have of viewing his Adonis before the morning rose and brought his inevitable destruction with it.
"Yes," he replied, his voice softer than before. "They do matter, because the encompassing love I feel in my soul matters. I am loyal because I love, I am patriotic because I am passionate, and I have a zealous spirit within me, leading me to fight, because I know that is what you want for me." He did not let his gaze falter; the reputation he had earned as a coward did not extend to his courage in delivering earnest truths to those who would listen to him. He was a corrupted philosopher, and although Enjolras could not believe everything he said, he knew that his heart was honest. "I was not content to die until I found meaning in my life," Grantaire continued, his voice echoing in the darkness around him. "And now, after all this time, I am satisfied."
A/N: Thank you for reading! I'm considering doing more short drabbles like this in the same genre, so let me know if you'd be interested to see more of these. And as always, please tell me if you enjoyed it, or how I can improve my style!