No one awoke from the revolution. No one but Grantaire.
He had fallen asleep into a drunken slumber after being sent away from the barricade and now he was alone in a broken up bar, dried blood plastering down a patch of his curls. A quick glance around the room quickly confirmed that the Les Amis had raided this room for furniture- chairs, tables, window frames were all missing. He stood, grasping the counter for several minutes before he was confidant that he would be able to walk his way from the stool to the entryway (the door had been taken off).
The greatest way to describe what he saw outside would be to ask you to imagine if it had rained, but not water. Rained blood. Pools of the runny crimson liquid was spilled across most of the pathways and It took all Grantaire had to tell himself that it had not come from his friends. It couldn't. If he, the worthless cynical drunkard, had survived the almighty battle, they must have surely.
It was like a ghost town. The town that he had grown up in, usually full of life and people, was now empty and destroyed. Bullet holes could be seen around door frames, fired when people had tried to run. Now certain that he could hold himself, Grantaire stepped out into the streets, tiptoeing around the blood pools. The sky told him that it was early morning, It was all over. As soon as the Musain came into sight, he choked on his breath.
There hanging out of the grand window on the second floor, practically dangling over- supported by only one foot, was Enjolras. His Enjolras. Well, that part was a lie. He had never been his. Despite the several months of fawning over the other, Enjolras had kept oblivious. So no, Enjolras wasn't his. And now he never would be. Grantaire wanted to plummet up the stairs, hold Enjolras, run his fingers through his blonde curls as he searched vigorously for a pulse. And he did. He cradeled him helplessly in his arms, pressing his hand against the wound as if to stop the blood which was no longer oozing. His body was cold, and no pulse was ever found. Enjolras was gone and nothing would change that. There was nothing he could do now, except go in search of his friends. Standing once again was a struggle, this time even more so as his vision was blurred by the abundance of tears which he refused to let fall. It it was his blood that had been lost in the battle, Enjolras would have continued. Would have persevered and stayed strong to help his remaining friends. His friends. How Grantaire longed to see Courfeyracs cheeky smile, or feel one of Jehans hugs- he'd even go as far as saying he longs for Joly to worry over one of his injuries. Anything. He just wanted his friends, more specifically Enjolras, but he knew that his was a face he'd never see smile again. Never see it light up with the joy of a debate, or his eyes grow fiery with passion as he spoke of what he cared for. And now he'd died for it.
A fresh burst of tears filled his eyes, this time he was unsuccessful at holding it in and they cascaded down his cheeks. Though he would stay strong, he needed to find his-
They were lined there. All of them laid down in a row, as if mocking him. Everyone of them looked peaceful, perhaps even happy, in the face but the wounds and blood told him otherwise. What broke him the most though was to see little Gavroche unbeaten Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Not even a teen, and yet his cold corpse was displayed on the streets of France for all to see- to prove to civilians that he had died a rebels death. Whether this some kind of warning by the French that this was what would happen to revolutionaries, or if they were just there because no one cared enough to move them, Grantaire didn't know. And yet he didn't care.
These were his friends, his everything, all he cared about. The flowers in Jehans hair had wilted and spilt petals covered his shoulders. He'd have batted them off with a small frown as he usually did, but now he couldn't. Grantaire kneeled down beside him, not caring for the blood which stained his ragged trousers- the blood of his friends. Picking up each petal individually, Grantaire took much care, glancing over at the rest of his friends. His hands steadied as he continued and his tears dried. A small smile then grew onto his face, and then a full blown grin.
His friends would not have wished for him to mourn their deaths, but to celebrate it. They died martyrs, fighting for what they believed in. How Ironic, that Grantaire, the non-believer, was not to die. Non-believer was a strong term. Of course, he did not believe in any of the causes or anything they had protested for, but Grantaire believed in them. Believed in his friends.
And with that thought, he stood and left the scene. Walked away from his friends with his head held up. People had begun to vacate the streets now, cleaning up the blood and trash. Grantaire ignored them and continued his walk, smile still there. As he reached his destination, he stood on the bridge, glancing round at all of the city, at what it had become. His friends had died for what they believed in, and so would he. He fell off of the bridge, memories of all he loved in mind as the air pushed past him. It was quick and he could see that bright light as he neared the end of his journey when-
They had all been conversing in the Musain as usual, when a strangled cry was heard from besides them. Grantaire had fallen asleep due to the bottle, which was not much of a surprise, but this time when they looked to him his face was screwed up in anger or pain and tears seeped out between his eyes. A nightmare of sorts was terrifying him, Joly helpfully added. He looked to be in so much pain, so much discomfort. Enjolras had soon forgotten what they were debating about. "Grantaire, Grantaire! Wake up!" Enjolras grasped the boys shoulders firmly, though not enough to harm him, and shook him. His struggles to awaken him seemed to be unsuccessful until finally his damp eyes shot open, revealing his scared eyes- bloodshot from crying. He threw himself back, as if to get away from Enjolras, to get away from everyone. "Grantaire, what-" He begun but was interrupted by his shouted. "You were dead! All of you, y-you died! I tried to... To..." He faded off, the sobs taking over his body once more as he pressed his hands up to his face. Joly began to whisper his worries that Grantaire was in hyperventilation, just as he began to speak once more. He hiccuped and stalled due to the tears, but the message got out. "You were gone. I tried to save you but..."
"Grantaire." Enjolras began firmly, "I am here, I will always be. Nor I or any of your friends are gone." He held a hand up, and rested it gently this time on the boys shoulder. "I promise, we aren't going anywhere." This was the most sentimental any of the boys had seen their powerful leader, and it silenced all of them. Grantaire simply nodded slowly before leaning up and grasping Enjolras into a hug. Maybe one day now Enjolras could be his.