The café was poorly and haphazardly boarded up, different sized boards weakly nailed into the windows. It was already rotting, having been abandoned for almost a year, the smell of decaying wood strongly evident. When he pushed the door open, it gave way easily. The familiar ding of the bell above the entrance echoed in the empty room, almost giving Enjolras the sense of home again. As soon as he took a step inside, the thin layer of dust on the floor resurfaced, floating frantically in the sunlight streaming through cracks of the boarded windows. It was bare. Completely bare. He and the boys had taken all of the furniture for the barricade, and it seemed that people had taken the leftover possessions of the place: the mugs, cups, and plates from the bar, the candelabras that used to sit on the numerous tables, etc. As he looked around, he almost smiled, remembering the rush of the revolution, and their ideas and plans. He felt the familiar sense of nostalgia, mixed with guilt, and fear, and pain—both physical and emotional. As he looked around, his eyes became moist, but he willed himself not to cry—not yet.
Grantaire used to sit over there, in that small corner, drinking himself into oblivion, yet still able to somewhat pay attention to what was going on around him. He'd often yell out nonsense during Enjolras' speeches, making everyone in the café laugh. And in the middle of the room, they would always push together three small tables, crowd around it, and study maps, books, notes, etc. They'd stay at the café late, discussing plans and possibilities by candlelight, often surviving on coffee and adrenaline. Joly would often flirt with Musichetta by the bar, which Enjolras found ridiculous and a waste of time. Jehan loved to post his infamous poetry on the walls of the café for everyone to see, though they were usually taken down as a joke. Even now, there were two scraps of paper tacked to the soft wood by the bar, and as Enjolras walked closer, he noticed that they had yellowed around the edges. He removed the tacks and tucked the two papers into his coat pocket—he never cared for poetry, really. But he didn't care if this poetry on these scraps of paper was good or bad—he took them anyways. Courfeyrac, Comberferre, and Gavroche used to sit on the stairs near the back of the café, talking day and night, cracking jokes—yet they were all crucial parts of Enjolras' revolt. And Marius. Often, during Enjolras' speeches, Marius would stand next to him, as a sign of support, as his best friend, as his brother. Marius was always there for him, ever since they were in their teenage years. Marius was all over the place—always talking to everyone, endlessly friendly and open. His shadow, Eponine, went where he did, and she never seemed to notice anyone else, except for her younger brother, Gavroche.
Even in the days of tension and danger, the boys managed to have fun. They managed to laugh and drink and be positive during their many meetings and gatherings. Enjolras never understood it, really—his mind was too focused on politics—but he admired them for it, and loved them for it. All of them were his brothers. And he led them to their death. People praised them at first—glorified them, really. But there was nothing glorious about death or war. They had begged for mercy, cried for their mothers, prayed to their Lord. They watched their own friends and family die right before their eyes, killed within moments. There was so much fear around the barricade that night—fear and excitement and a buzz of hope. All for nothing.
Enjolras wished he had died. More than anything. There was nothing and no one left for him now. Marius had been shot dead right in front of his eyes—his best friend, his brother, gone. Never given the chance to marry the woman he loved. Gavroche, the little warrior, had fallen limp in a matter of seconds.
Enjolras walked slowly to the nearly-broken staircase at the other end of the room, and up the stairs to the second floor of the café. During the days closer to the revolution, the entire upper floor had been practically theirs. Enjolras used to stand by the window—the same exact window where he had been shot, with blood stains on the floor and rail—and speak in his authoritative voice, raising hope and pride in these men, hope and pride that had failed them. He walked over to that window, and faced his back to it, standing in that same position, imagining all of his friends, his brothers, sitting around tables, drinking cheap alcohol, smiling and joking amidst the tension of war and hope. He remembered giving countless speeches in this same exact spot. Rallying up his men just to fail them and lead them to death. Enjolras had to fight the urge to let himself fall out of that window just one more time.
I'm sorry, he thought. I'm so, so sorry. Whether they could hear him or not wasn't his concern. He didn't beg for forgiveness or mercy—he knew that he deserved none. A single tear escaped his eye before he could stop it, but he let it fall, down his cheek, onto the dusty floor.
After he left, he never returned. He often passed by the café, just to look at it, but never again walked in. He wanted to—oh, so, so much—but he knew he couldn't. It would be pointless to lie and say that he lived a happy life—a fulfilling one, even. He just…lived.