Avoir la Foi, a les misérables fanfic

First Les Mis fanfiction, yay! This is Enjolras and Grantaire centric, but IS NOT SLASH. I REPEAT - THIS IS NOT SLASH. ( I know some do dislike slash so that was just a warning.) But anyway, I felt like doing some relationship delving, so here you go. Enjoy!

1813. Paris. Grantaire residence.

"Antoine, you believe in nothing."

At this, the youngest of the Grantaire family pouted. What did his brother mean? He believed in lots of things! He believed in the sun shining bright above them as they sat in the field behind their house together; he believed in the birds that made cheeping noises he thought sounded pleasant; he believed that his mother would live, because Antoine knew she wasn't feeling well; he believed in colors and love and water and grass and lots of other things children his age would believe in. So his brother was confusing him. To not believe in anything was impossible.

"Pierre," he replied back, adamant as he looked into his brother's darkened eyes, "I believe in lots of things. And I believe in you!" Pierre was Antoine's rock, his support; when anything was going wrong, the child knew he could turn to his older brother. He was big and strong and in the military, like he wanted to be someday. He had faith in his brother.

But Pierre only laughed and ruffled the child's curly brown hair. "Merci, little brother. But that's not what I mean. You'll understand when you're older, I promise."

Little Antoine didn't want to wait; however, he hung onto his brother's every word like it was his life's thread. He smiled a puerile smile at Pierre. "You really promise?"

"Indeed I do." Pierre smiled back, the sunset illuminating his face with tranquility.

When Pierre was happy, Antoine was happy too.

June 3rd, 1823. Paris. ABC Café. 8 o'clock, pm.

"Oi, Courfeyrac! Pass me that last bottle of wine, will ya?"

Courfeyrac, sighing yet smiling, reached in the crate next to his seat. Though he sat in the center of the café with Marius and Enjolras, going over last minute barricade details, he expertly tossed the bottle into Grantaire's waiting hands where he stood by the bar, being ridiculous with a few of the other revolutionaries.

"Much obliged, mon ami," Grantaire shouted to him, flipping off the cork and taking a swig, the wine nearly missing his mouth because his vision was starting to double – not that he cared.

"Grantaire, that's your fifth bottle, a think you need to slow down a little," Courfeyrac replied, a hint of laughter in his voice. "You know how Enjolras gets when you aren't being 'productive'."

"Enjolras needs to loosen his tie, he's starting to get full of being a dictator," Grantaire joked, laughing and hiccupping all at the same time, as his equally drunk comrades joined in. He flung himself into a nearby stool and sighed. Revolt? He could care less about it. He was here for two things only: free wine and Enjolras.

Wine was his escape. Enjolras was his sanity. And he had his reasons.

Within five years of that fateful conversation with his older brother, Antoine Grantaire was suffering the worst grief over his brother who died of tuberculosis. Only fourteen, and watching his brother take his last breath at his deathbed! His mother as well passed soon after from, not the illness she had not recovered from, but grief. Grantaire was left with no one but his father to rely on, but he was engrossed in work time and time again so he could pay for his son's college in a few years; half the money went to that, the other half went to paying rent. Now he was somewhat thankful for that, really he was. But that meant he had no time for Grantaire. Combined with the stress of two deaths in his family and loneliness, Grantaire turned to drinking by the time he was eighteen. Wine had quickly gone from an occasional thing to an everyday, all the time act. And it helped – when he was drunk, all his pain faded away, the pain of the death of his support, his strength, his brother.

Then he met Enjolras.

It was about a week into his second year of college. Grantaire managed to keep decent marks, despite his addiction. Rumours started going around about how some rich kid, Enjolras, was planning a revolt against the government and creating a republic. Did Grantaire care? No. Until he saw the face of this Enjolras.

Bright eyes, chestnut brown hair, a square jaw and determined stature. The way his eyes sparked when he talked about the revolution, something he believed in. The living epitaph of Pierre, his brother. Grantaire joined the cause right away, just to be near this man who reminded him of brother so dear. He even stopped drinking for a while, just to see Pierre shine in Enjolras, until it hurt to even look at Enjolras at the meetings of the Les Amis. He turned back to alcohol, the drinking worse than before.

But Enjolras, oh bright Enjolras, how he adored him! Had he not met this man, he may have just slipped into suicide. Enjolras, like Pierre, was his rock, his harness, his tether to this world. When he glanced at the young leader, it was almost as if he was a child again, following with his brother's protective step.

Because without Enjolras, the world meant nothing.

Grantaire gazed at him now, the aching in his heart lessened because his mind was wine-muddled. He was entirely engrossed in whatever he was doing, but Enjolras could obviously tell he was being stared at. Enjolras looked up, and the two's eyes locked, just for a second. Enjolras' gaze flared with passion for the revolt and dislike for Grantaire's laziness, and then he looked away.

Grantaire scoffed, taking another long drink from his bottle.

He seeks nothing outside that revolt.

Within the hour he fell asleep on the bar, oblivious to the hard-working young men around him who stayed up into the night, only seeing freedom in their future.

June 1st, 1823. Paris. ABC Café. 2 o'clock, am.

Grantaire bolted awake, fist in his mouth to keep from screaming.

They were pointing the guns at me and Pierre – no, Enjolras, remember that – he was holding that flag. That red flag he loves so much – I was next to him and he smiled at me – at me! – and then there was pain for a second and suddenly I was falling but Enjolras was falling too –

Dying—

Making a noise like a scared animal, Grantaire looked around at his environment. The empty chairs and tables were all pushed to the side of the café and he was laying in the floor near the bar in the near-pitch-black, save for a candle a few feet away. Most of the Les Amis were scattered across the floor, curled up with coats as blankets, obviously asleep. Grantaire figured they must have worked well into the night and hadn't had time to go home.

Sitting up on his shoulders, he called out to the figure nearest him in a whisper. "Combeferre!"

Combeferre stirred and turned on his side, wiping the sleep from his eyes and brushing tousled brown hair out of his face. "What do ya want, Grantaire? I'm tryin' to sleep."

"I just had this dream, about Enjolras and I and we—"

"Just stop there." Combeferre held out a hand to silence his comrade. "It's just a figment of your wine-infested mind, all right? Now go back to sleep."

"But Combeferre—!" Grantaire said a little too loudly as the philosopher turned back over. He heard a few other people stir from his voice, specifically Feuilly who blurted:

"What in the blazes, Grantaire, shut your mouth! Some of us are trying to sleep!"

"Sorry!" Grantaire replied, a little softer, seeing Enjolras rise from the floor and start walking over to him, avoiding other's heads as he walked. Grantaire gulped and bit his lip. Now he had done it; Enjolras was peeved.

The boy in red crouched in front of the drunkard (who surely wasn't drunk now; more like nervous, that was true). Enjolras looked straight into his eyes, hazel locked on blue, and said firmly:

"Grantaire, I know you aren't the most interested in this revolt. I know you don't care. But, probably to your dismay, the rest of us do, and the rest of us would enjoy some quiet so we can get up and plan again tomorrow."

"But Enjolras –"

"Shut it," Enjolras cut him off, his brow furrowed. "I don't even know why I let you join this revolt in this first place. All you care about is drinking and girls. I believe that the poor should have a voice. I believe in freedom. You think that life is a game just to be wasted. You believe in nothing."

I believe in lots of things. And I believe in you!

Grantaire felt the words roll onto his tongue, but he couldn't let them roll off. He couldn't say that Enjolras, the man he believed in. Not now. He was too scared he might start to cry, because Enjolras was being slightly Pierre-like right now. Grantaire missed his brother, so, so much. And Enjolras wasn't helping his grief.

"Do you understand?" Enjolras asked, rising.

Teary-eyed, Grantaire nodded. Enjolras walked away to lay down and Grantaire sat against the bar, feeling terribly alone. He believed in Enjolras. He believed in what he could do, even if Grantaire didn't care about making a republic itself. He believed in Enjolras, and because Grantaire never showed it, Enjolras hated his worthless guts.

I believe in you. I do. And I always will.

The candle blew out softly as tears rolled down the young man's cheeks.

June 6th, 1823. Paris. A wine shop. Midday.

Grantaire awoke to the sound of dying gunfire outside. Wine bottles lay scattered before him as sunlight streamed in the window of the bar. And suddenly, it hit him. He had missed it all! The barricades, the fighting, everything! His mind flew into a state of panic as he bolted up from the table he sat at. Where were all his friends? Enjolras? They hadn't all died, had they? He almost felt close to tears again, but suddenly the door flew open and in came Enjolras being loudly pursued by a small horde of National Guard officers. They headed up the stairs and Grantaire didn't stop to think – he ran behind them, a little slow because he was still slightly drunk.

When he reached the summit, he saw Enjolras nearly cornered at rifle-point, covered in blood, his back to an open window, his eyes wild with excitement and a twinge of fear. The National Guardsmen turned, guns still at the ready to face Grantaire, and Enjolras looked up; a scowl crossed his features.

Grantaire wanted to say: I'm sorry it did it again. I'm sorry I'm late. I sorry I can't control myself from drinking. I'm sorry, so sorry.

But if he saw his brother again, is that what he would say? Would he apologize to the man who was his best friend until he died of tuberculosis?

No. He wouldn't.

Grantaire came forward, passing through the armed men, speaking only to who was Enjolras in flesh but also Pierre as well. Now he understood what his brother meant. Believing wasn't just seeing; believing was feeling, in your soul, that something – someone – was more than just what they seemed; they were something beyond the confines of life. Like freedom.

"You say I believe in nothing. Well, Enjolras, you know what? I believe in you."

Enjolras stared at Grantaire for a moment. Then he smiled. "That, mon ami, I'm glad to hear."

"Surrender now or I swear you will be killed!" Cam the voice of one of the men.

At this, Grantaire walked to stand side by side with Enjolras, his support, his rock, his friend, his brother. He stared at the guns in front of them, not afraid. This was his dream, he knew. He knew what was going to happen. But he couldn't be afraid. Because by his side was the man who would make freedom possible.

He would be free from grief, from pain, from his addiction. With Enjolras by his side.

"I'm giving you one last warning!" Said that same man's voice.

Enjolras said nothing, only raised the proud red flag with a smirk.

"Long live the Republic!" Grantaire added, taking Enjolras' free hand. And their eyes locked again, hazel upon blue, their smiles bright, ready to give one last stand together.

The shooting of the guns was the last sound Grantaire heard before he fell with the bravest man in the world.

Adieu, mon frère.

Adieu, mon ami.

Reviews are appreciated!

-Anais