He locks eyes with him across the war torn street, blue on grey meeting for the first and last time in this reality, fate apparently deciding that it's feeling particularly cruel this time around. Enjolras' face is tear stained and red from the still spewing canisters lying around the scene. There is smoke wafting through the hazy midnight air, and his golden hair is set ablaze by the fires burning all around them. Unbidden, images of a different place, a different time, flash through his mind—the cries of his friends, the echo of cannon fire, the unmistakable scent of gunpowder, the firm press of a hand in his as a broken room lights up the night one final time.
Before he even knows what he's doing, Grantaire is sprinting across the street, shoving people out of the way in his haste to get to Enjolras. He can see Enjolras' eyes widen in recognition and his lips start to form the shape of Grantaire's name as he turns.
Boom.
The last thing he sees before his world turns to ash is his Apollo, engulfed in an inferno, every inch the righteous god he once was long ago, but for the flash of panic and desperation in his eyes.