The sound of gunfire still scorched his ears like light burned on the retinas of the eyes lingers after they are closed. Now that he was alone in the café, the full reality of what was happening boiled white hot in his mind. He ran his cool hand over his wide, white brow to try and gain relief, but none came.

Jean Prouvaire was dead. He knew that. He also knew that they would all be dead soon. And, he knew it was because of him. Something suddenly felt broken. He'd prepared himself for martyrdom, some would fall, but he never thought that the uprising he'd planned would consist only of himself and his friends, and he never conceived of defeat.

Their band suddenly seemed so meager and helpless. This wasn't death to achieve a victory, or even to give others a point at which to rally behind. That would have been something. This seemed something different and completely unexpected. Suddenly it was no longer a noble cause, but a slaughter to be washed off the pavement in the morning like the gore on the floor of a butcher's shop, and with as much notice or importance.

And he'd lead them to it. His mind throbbed against his skull feeling swollen with scalding reality.

His composure finally fading, Enjolras shook his head violently as the inside of the cafe flew in and out of focus before his eyes. He staggered forwards like a drunken man and caught his weight with his hands on the table in front of him.

A wild, hoarse cry tore itself from his throat.

The table was one of the ones they'd used to hold the dead. The congealed blood of the corpse slid through his fingers and over his long white hands. He recoiled like a stricken animal. The dead, empty eyes of the girl on the table stared blankly at nothing. He groaned and wiped his hands on a table cover.

Death seemed to have crowded out all air from the room. Stifled and trembling, Enjolras mounted the staircase to the vacant room above the café.

From the window of the upper room, Enjolras could look down at the barricade. It was the barricade he'd built with ideals and speeches, but now it was a tomb for the still living but soon dead. It was as though he was seeing it for the first time, and it iced his blood.

"The God is looking down on his creation, is he?" asked a rough, gentle voice behind him.

Enjolras jumped. He'd forgotten he'd banished the drunkard to the café.

"Grantaire…" he murmured.

"What's the matter?" came the soft question.

Enjolras starred like the corpse did. His mind snatched at words to explain, but they escaped.

"What's wrong?" He asked again. "Everything is as it should be."

"It isn't!" Enjolras spat back disdainfully. "I mean… I didn't want…"

"What didn't you want? Or didn't you expect this?" Grantaire's voice sharpened.

Enjolras exhaled. "No…" he whispered. "I never expected it to be like this."

Grantaire laughed: gentle, condescending, and affectionate, as one would laugh at the harmless misgivings of a foolish child of which one is fond. "The problem with angels is that they never see darkness." He laid a rough, calloused hand on the fine marble cheek. "My poor innocent, but there's a sad humor to it."

"I fail to see it."

"Of course you do. You wouldn't appreciate the irony. But, you, who lead them all to the slaughter, were the only lamb. One must laugh."

Enjolras raised his eyes to the man opposite him, taking in the heavy brown hair, the fleshy face, and the earthy eyes before him. "What do you mean?"

"You are like a child, aren't you? I mean that they knew. That girl knew. Provaire knew. They all know. Moreover, they all believe you knew as well."

"I didn't!" Enjolras cried his mind beginning to burn again. "God forgive me! May they all forgive me! I didn't know! They knew… and they still followed me here? Oh… mercy! Will they all forgive me when this has all ended? Am I damned?"

"Shh… be calm. There's nothing to forgive. They weren't any of them deceived. This is what they expected."

Enjolras felt a heavy arm move across the back of his shoulders and himself being pulled towards the other man. Grantaire smelled of alcohol and sweat but Enjolras leaned into him, limp as a doll. The golden head fell against the earthen shoulder and Enjolras closed his eyes, his mind aching for peace and not caring that this was where he found it.

"They all knew to expect this. They knew what they were getting into, even if you didn't. It's all right. All is forgiven." He whispered the way a parent does to a sleeping child.

Enjolras sighed faintly, his pure lips parted. Before he understood what was happening, he felt the hard hand of the drunkard against his neck, then under his chin shifting the angle of his head, and then the rough lips against his own.

In his stupor, Enjolras yielded to the kiss for a moment, tasting the acrid flavor on the other man's lips. Then broke it and pulled back to stare in shock at Grantaire's tender gaze.

"What were you… I mean…" Enjolras tried to muster up outrage, but he didn't have the strength just then to manage such an emotion. He merely sputtered in dull surprise.

Grantaire laughed affectionately again, rubbing the ball of his thumb over Enjolras' tender mouth, removing the shimmer of saliva on his lips. "Like I said, you always were an innocent. I never expected you to understand. I don't expect you to understand now. No matter. Go."

"What?"

"Go back to them now. They need you. They need your voice and your presence and your beauty to guide them. Go. They're waiting."

"Waiting to die you mean."

"Yes, but for what they believe in."

"What I believed in, you mean. All those words… If I'd only known…"

"You didn't have to know. You had faith. You still believe in all your lofty ideals. You were never afraid to die for them. Go with them. Hold onto them."

"And what do they hold on to?"

"They hold onto them, and to you. That's why they need you."

"And you… you never believed."

"I didn't need to. I believed in you." Grantaire smiled again and, taking Enjolras by the shoulders, turned him to the stairs and directed him back to the barricade.