Author's Note: This was written as a gift for someone, with the prompt being Enjolras/Grantaire post-barricade where they survived and most of their friends didn't. There may be other parts added to this, but it works well as a one-shot.
To Follow
Grantaire doesn't remember how he gets Enjolras away from the barricade. All he has are confused images, flashes of particular moments in time, and from them he later manages to piece together an idea of what happened.
He owes his own survival to several people, some of whom he's never seen and some he has seen but will never be able to recognize. All the survivors owe their lives to the people who opened their doors, providing an escape for those who still lived when it became clear that the barricade was lost. After that he owes his life to a stranger, a flash of black hair and red blood, who spared the time to jostle him awake before running for the escape that Enjolras held.
And, of course, he owes his life to Enjolras. All the survivors owe their lives to Enjolras, to Courfeyrac, to Combeferre, to Feuilly, to Joly, to Bossuet, to those who held the escape routes while those who could ran.
Grantaire had no weapon. He had no way to fight. He should have run as quickly as he could. He knew, knowledge acquired from the words and screams and general desperation of those running, that they had no chance.
Enjolras did, as well. All the Amis did, but they saved who they could, leaving their own evacuation for last.
Grantaire didn't see any of the rest fall. He was within the house that Enjolras was guarding, shoving people in the general direction of safety while yelling at Enjolras that they needed to go, when a volley of shots finally hit its mark. One moment Enjolras was standing, calling orders, ignoring Grantaire, returning fire; the next he was on the ground, a mask of red spreading across his face, red roses blooming beneath his shirt.
Grantaire doesn't remember hauling Enjolras to his feet, though he must have. He doesn't remember running through the house. He doesn't remember emerging back onto the street. He doesn't remember deciding where to go.
He remembers faces, passing other men running, screaming, bleeding.
He remembers fighting with Enjolras, the man only half-conscious but still trying to head back into the fray, lifting a shaking, bloody hand to aim a gun that he had dropped long before.
He remembers hiding, dodging, ducking, lurking, desperate to avoid all other human contact because it was impossible to tell friend from foe.
He remembers dragging Enjolras along, the man's lips tight with pain, calling for the rest of the Amis in disjointed phrases.
He remembers holding his hand over Enjolras' mouth, holding the man tight to him as they hide in an alley, his heart beating too quickly with the knowledge that the faceless enemy will be upon them soon.
He remembers carrying Enjolras, when the man's damaged body finally dragged his reeling mind down with it.
He doesn't remember arriving at his apartment building. He doesn't remember hauling Enjolras up the stairs. He doesn't remember unlocking his door. All of that must have happened, though, because clear thought finally returns and he is standing in his room, Enjolras draped in his arms.
Suddenly he is not one of the failed insurgents, running for his life.
Suddenly he is not one of the lonely many, the defeated but, miraculously, alive.
He is Grantaire, nominal member of Les Amis de l'ABC, and he is holding their grievously wounded leader in his arms.
He is holding Enjolras, an Enjolras who has been still as death for Grantaire doesn't know how long, and he needs to decide what to do.
They planned for defeat as much as they planned for victory. There are places it should be safe for him to go, places he should be able to find help, but first he has to remember them. First he has to choose between them, and his choosing will be the difference between life and death for the man that he is cradling.
It shouldn't be him here. It should be Combeferre. It should be Courfeyrac. It should be Feuilly. It should be any of the others.
But he is here, and any or all of the others may be dead.
He wants to drink. He wants to cry. He wants to let someone else deal with this, because he is, most likely, incapable of doing so, just as he was incapable of fighting beside his friends when they needed him most.
But there is no one else he can turn to, and he will not let Enjolras die without doing everything in his power to prevent it.
Setting the bloody, still body of the man he loves more than life itself down on his bed, Grantaire forces his blurry thoughts to focus on all he has ever learned about bandaging injuries.
Pain and sorrow and self-recriminations can come later.
XXX
He loses three weeks of his life. All he has from them are a blurred collection of fragmented memories that may or may not be real.
He knows some of them aren't real. Some of them are impossible, and that is how he finally sorts the memories, labeling them maybe-possible and definitely impossible.
Possible: pain. There is agony, his chest a mass of fire, his stomach a raging inferno, his limbs disjointed collections of burning knives that don't move as they should, his skull a too-small furnace in which his thoughts are shredded.
Impossible: standing in a field with Jehan. The poet walks a barely-visible path through wildly overgrown flowers, smiling up at a moon that is too bright for Enjolras to look at.
"Isn't it beautiful, Enjolras?" Jehan sighs, pausing in his leisurely walk. "I'm glad you got to see this with me. I don't think it's going to stay like this—I don't think it can—but right now, it's absolutely gorgeous."
Enjolras doesn't understand. He doesn't know how they came to be here or where they are going, but somehow getting the thoughts formed into words, voicing the uncertainty he feels, isn't possible.
"Don't worry." Jehan's hands clutch his shoulders, tight, as though the poet doesn't want to let go. "You shouldn't stay here, I don't think, but I'm glad you got to see it. Even here, even at the end, there is beauty in the darkness. Never forget it, my friend. Never forget."
Possible: men hold him down. He tries to scream as their hold redoubles the agony in his chest, but something is shoved in his mouth, a stick, a gag, he can't tell, and no matter how hard he bites down all he seems able to do is cause more pain for himself.
He doesn't know why they hold him. He doesn't know who they are. He can make no coherent images out of the flashes of color and blinding light that are all his mind seems able to process from his eyes.
"Stop! Stop! Just hold a moment, you motherless bastards. Let me speak with him, for God's sake. He's going to hurt himself worse."
He doesn't understand the others, but he understands that voice. It is a voice he is used to listening to, peripherally, used to hearing during better times. He stills, waiting for more information, trying to decide what to do.
"I know it hurts, Enjolras. I know…" Fingers touch his face, gentle, as the voice falters. The voice is determined, though, when it resumes speaking. "But just be still for a bit. Don't fight them. It's going to make things better, I promise."
When the men hold him again, he doesn't fight, even though it feels like knives are flaying him alive.
Impossible: sitting in the Musain with Bahorel.
"Well, this whole thing could have gone better." Bahorel takes a drink and grimaces. "I think I remember this tasting better, too, but I don't remember exactly how it tasted. It's annoying."
"Remember…?" There is something he should remember. There is something important that happened.
"Don't worry about it." Bahorel grins, kicking him under the table, and Enjolras frowns at the man. "I'm glad I got to see you again, though. I mean, not really glad you're here, since someone needs to make sure the damn thing turns out right next time, but it's nice to have a bit of the old before everything changes."
"I'm afraid… you've lost me." It shouldn't be this hard to think. It shouldn't be this hard to speak.
"I told you not to worry about it, so stop." Bahorel sets his drink down forcefully. "Just… if you need to think about something, think about this. You're a fighter. You don't give up. It's one of the things I liked about you—one of the reasons I stayed with you all. So keep fighting the good fight for us. Because it's a fight worth winning, no matter how high the cost."
"I'm… not sure I know how to give up."
"Good." Bahorel raises his glass in a silent toast. "To never stopping the fight, then."
"Until all men are free." Enjolras murmurs the addition before taking a drink from his own glass, a glass that may not have been there a moment before.
"Exactly." Bahorel glances over Enjolras' shoulder, and the world gets a little darker. "But I don't think you're allowed to stay here much longer, not unless you're coming along, which would make me extremely annoyed after what I just said."
"I don't—"
"One last thing." Bahorel's voice seems fainter, farther away, but his smile is wide and true. "If you can manage it, don't give up on him, either."
Possible: fighting to breathe. Every breath is terrible agony. Every inhalation is a struggle to move an ocean. Every exhalation is the taste of blood in his mouth, thick and iron.
"That's it." The voice is terrified, soft, lost, but he still latches on to the rambling like a drowning man. "In and out. That's it, Enjolras. Just keep breathing. Just keep fighting. You can get through this. You have to get through this. In and out. Breathe. Please, just breathe. I'm sorry if we did something wrong. I'm sorry if they hurt you. I'm sorry I wasn't any use. I'm sorry I slept. I'm sorry, so please, please, don't die on me."
He can barely breathe, so speaking is impossible, but he listens to the voice, and he continues to breathe long after he wants to simply let the ocean wash him away.
Impossible: Grantaire's lips on his. There is the salt taste of tears along with the lips, rough stubble against his cheek, and this memory is even more disjointed than the others.
"Don't die." Grantaire's voice is husky and rough. "Please don't die. Everyone else is dead, Enjolras. Everyone but Marius, and he looks just about as bad off as you. If you die… I'm keeping things together for you. I'm keeping myself together for you. I'll do anything that you want, if you'll just keep breathing and not die for me."
Arms wrap around him, warmth presses against his chest, and he is suddenly cradled against another body. For a moment it's impossible to breathe, and he gasps, gagging on blood; then something shifts in his chest, and he can suddenly draw breath much easier.
Possible: someone feeding him. The broth is thin, and like everything else in the darkness it tastes like blood. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want the difficulty of figuring out how to swallow and breathe at the same time. He doesn't want the possibility of choking, and he keeps trying to turn his head away.
The person with the spoon is determined, though, and the liquid keeps finding its way back to his mouth.
"You have to eat, Enjolras. You have to eat, my beautiful falcon, my fierce warrior, if you want your body to heal. Think of it as Idun's apple. Every bite, every small morsel, brings upon you youth and health and stamina. Without it, you grow old, you grow grey, you are described in words to make the children laugh and whimper, but with it, with it you are magnificent. With it you can harness lightning from the sky to delight Combeferre. With it you can be free of any illness, and delight Joly. With it you—with it—…"
There is a break in the rambling, a silence during which sounds of terrible, lonesome grief assault his ears.
Moving is agony. Moving is difficult, far more difficult than it should be, but it is necessary, and so he does it.
He still can't see. There is something wrong with his eyes, he thinks, something wrong with the way they are working, because they give him nothing useful. But his ears seem to be working just fine, and he sends his fingers groping until they find the arm of the person crying.
"Enjolras…" Fingers crush his in a grip like a vice, and the unseen person clears his throat noisily. "Right. Onward. You still have to take your ambrosia, my burning phoenix. Brought by doves to the halls of Olympos solely for your pleasure and health…"
The person keeps talking, moving from topic to topic seemingly without rhyme or reason. It's all right, though. He hasn't the strength to focus on one topic, anyway, and he allows the voice to soothe him as he struggles to find a way to both eat and breathe.
Impossible: lying on a darkened hill, his head pillowed on Combeferre's shoulder, Combeferre's fingers in his hair, both of their eyes on the array of stars shining brightly above them.
"They're not quite right." Combeferre's voice is a soft whisper against Enjolras' ear. "I know that they aren't quite right, but I don't know what's wrong. Hence why they're not right, I suppose."
"I don't understand." He doesn't mind, though. Leaning against Combeferre, it's hard to worry about anything.
"That's all right. It's better that way, actually. It means you're still more a part of that world." Combeferre's fingers stroke through his hair. "You know that the years I've spent following you were the best ones of my life, right?"
He's suspected. He's hoped, even, that Combeferre has enjoyed their work as much as he has. "I'm honored."
"The honor was all mine." Combeferre's fingers drop to his shoulder, tighten, drawing them closer together. "I would gladly follow you for eternity, Enjolras. I will follow you, if it is possible. I don't know what's to come, but if there's any way we can all be together… any way I can find you… I will. Because I can't, in good conscience, let you follow me here."
Enjolras frowns. "What—"
"You have work to do still. You have people to find." Combeferre pauses. "Because you need people with you, Enjolras. You need to give them somewhere to fight, somewhere to stand, someone to follow. This business is going to be bloody. It can't be otherwise. But you need others with you so the world doesn't burn too much. So you don't burn too much, my friend. And I wish it could be me, but it can't. And the more I talk of it the worse it's going to be for you, so I'll stop there. I'll stop there, my friend, and give you what I can… a moment of peace under the beauty of the stars."
It is peaceful. It is beautiful, and he smiles as he leans more heavily against Combeferre, his eyes scanning the stars. After a moment he frowns. "The Pleiades aren't supposed to have nine stars, are they?"
Combeferre laughs quietly, his fingers stroking through Enjolras' hair. "I think I like it better that way, for now."
Possible: knives against the bare skin of his arm, and he moves from asleep to fighting in the space of a single breath.
"Hold him!" The voice is male, gruff, authoritative, but it isn't his voice. Grantaire's voice, the constant in the darkness, and that means he can ignore it and continue to fight. "For pity's sake, can't you hold a half-dead man?"
"He's not half-dead! And let him go. Please." That is his voice, and Enjolras stills, waiting for Grantaire to continue. "He's been doing better, and I told you he wouldn't take well to blood-letting."
"You're the one who keeps telling me that he's delirious half the time, that he doesn't respond as he should, that he doesn't seem to see properly. I've exhausted every other option, and we should really have done this much sooner, but—"
"He's already bled so much… can he really have that much more left in his body?" Grantaire's hands are gentle on his shoulders, and Enjolras lets the man help him into a sitting position, though it makes the broken colors that should be the world twist and tilt alarmingly. "You're certain it will help?"
"There are no certainties in medicine." The first voice—the doctor's voice, he will think in retrospect, but for now there is only Grantaire and all others—sounds sad, now. "I am trying to help him, Grantaire. We all are. I swear to that. If I didn't want to help you, I would have turned you both in two weeks ago. So let me do my work. Or would you prefer him dead or half-mad?"
"No. No madness for him. I may be a poor Pylades, but I'm not pitiful enough to leave Orestes mad in the underworld." Grantaire pauses, his breathing ragged. "All right. Do it. But let me hold him. He seems to respond better to me than to others, though God knows why."
He responds to Grantaire because Grantaire is one of them. He listens to Grantaire because he is the only one of the Amis that seems to be talking to him, currently, and any of them are infinitely preferable to the unseen, maddening voices of the unknown.
He trusts Grantaire, though he couldn't put why into words.
He's not certain he's been speaking much at all, lately, and perhaps he should change that.
"Enjolras." Grantaire shifts, so that Enjolras' body is leaning against him. He takes both of Enjolras' wrists in a firm grip. "They're going to cut you, all right? It's just a small cut. It won't hurt much. It's to help you. I'll be right here. So please, don't fight us."
"Why?" The word comes out thick and wrong, so he tries to clear his throat and start again. "Why? What's wrong with me?"
There's a pause, a long pause, and Grantaire's breath is ragged when finally he speaks, as though the man's fighting tears. "Nothing, my phoenix. Nothing that time and the doctors can't heal."
"Joly…" He swallows, and it tastes less like blood than he expects it to. Why does he expect his mouth to taste of iron and salt? "Does Joly say it's all right?"
Enjolras is certain that Grantaire is crying when he finally answers. "It's a doctor Joly approved of, so yes. Joly says you should allow it. Please, Enjolras. Please don't fight me."
There are things he's missing. There is information he doesn't have, can't seem to hold in his mind, as he can't seem to make actual images out of the maddening flashes his eyes give him when they're open.
He will have to trust his people.
He will have to trust Grantaire.
He doesn't fight as Grantaire stretches out his arm and a sharp blade slices into his flesh.
He does shiver, though, as blood begins to trickle down his arm.
Impossible: dancing with Courfeyrac. The fete is beautiful, the dancers all lavishly dressed, and for a moment he is lost in a sea of color and music and soft fabric.
Then Courfeyrac's hand is on his arm, drawing him away from the throng, and he goes happily, with a sigh of relief.
Courfeyrac turns them in one swift motion, his hands finding both of Enjolras' as a grin spreads across his face. "Dance with me, Enjolras?"
"Courfeyrac, you know that I don't dance." He doesn't pull his hands away from Courfeyrac, though.
"Ah, but I know that you know this dance." Courfeyrac tugs on his hands, leading him into the steps, and Enjolras allows it. "I taught it to you, remember?"
"I remember you insisting that I learn it, so that you could drag me along to one of your festivities." He smiles at the memory, though, lifting his arm and twirling Courfeyrac. The other dancers move in tandem with them, too perfectly, too accurately, and Enjolras frowns as he studies them further.
The other dancers have beautiful dresses, and dance as gracefully as any man Enjolras has seen, but they have no faces.
Courfeyrac's hands cup his face, bring his eyes back to meet Courfeyrac's. "Don't look too closely, Enjolras. Don't pry too far. Even my memory of faces and people only lasts so long here, but I wanted to dance with you one more time."
"Here…" Shaking his head, he frowns as Courfeyrac takes his hands again. "Where are we, Courfeyrac?"
"I can't rightly say. Between, I suppose." Courfeyrac shrugs, though the smile on his face is sad. "You keep sliding back and forth, but there is no back for us. Not anymore. Only forward, into the unknown, but we don't want to leave until we're certain you're safe."
There is something important he is forgetting. There is something about Courfeyrac he is forgetting.
A shower of blood, a sharp cry, the glint of white bone, and—
"No. No, Enjolras." Courfeyrac's lips are against his forehead, the other man embracing him tightly. "Don't bring that here. That's part of what we're trying to protect you from. There will be time enough to deal with that when you're well, when you're solidly in the world that still so desperately needs you. You have to live, my friend. You have to finish what we started."
Courfeyrac pulls back, slowly, and the music of the ball changes, slows, though it refuses to fall into sadness. Just as Courfeyrac's smile refuses to fade, though there is a melancholy edge to it that any who know him would recognize. "You have other tasks, as well. You have to take care of him. He needs you. He saved your life, you know."
"No." He sounds helpless. He sounds lost, and he doesn't like that, so he tries to clarify. "It's so hard to think, Courfeyrac. It's so hard to remember anything. So no, I don't know."
"That's all right." Courfeyrac takes his hands, takes the lead, and the music picks up speed again. "You'll heal, I think. You're too stubborn to do otherwise, after holding on for so long. And when you're better, when you're properly alive again, then you will be back to yourself. You will remember. You will plan. And you will see the world reborn into the paradise that we know it can be." Courfeyrac's lips graze his cheek, gentle, as Courfeyrac's voice falls to a whisper. "And though I hope I will miss you dearly, my friend, and I fear you will miss us dearly, as well, it is far better that it ended this way."
"I don't understand."
Courfeyrac smiles. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm being a poor host, bringing up the things I'm supposed to be distracting you from. One final word, then I'll leave it be. We love you, Enjolras. The living and the dead, we love you dearly, and we will do everything we can to help you achieve our dreams."
He doesn't understand all of it, but he understands enough, and he holds Courfeyrac close to him for a few seconds. "I know. That's one thing I know very well."
After that he allows Courfeyrac to lead the dance, for as long as it lasts.
Possible: cold.
He can't ever remember being so cold. It is a sensation that starts at his bones, at his too-quickly-beating heart, and radiates out to every corner of his body. He shivers, convulsively, uncontrollably, but it seems to do nothing against the cold.
"There, Enjolras." Hands help him to stand, drag him since he can't seem to make his legs move to walk, and settle him down on the ground. "A fire, warm as I can make it. Be warm. Be still. I'm sorry. I don't even know what I'm sorry for, anymore, if it's the injuries or the blood-letting or something else that's causing this, but I am sorry, and I will make any bargain that the universe will offer if only you'll be all right. I…"
The voice continues to talk, a soft background susurrus such as he is used to, and Enjolras finds himself unable to make sense of the sounds. There's something far more important calling him, drawing his attention.
There is warmth. Somewhere in front of him, in the shifting reds and blacks and dusty browns that used to make sensible images, there is a source of warmth, and he desperately wants to be warm.
"—wish that I could change what happened, would give anything to take their place, to take your place, but—no!"
There is absolute horror in that one word, that one sound, and hands clamp around his arm and jerk him back roughly.
"Enjolras, no." Grantaire's grip loosens immediately, his fingers smoothing the places that he had grasped. "That's fire, Enjolras. You'll be burned."
Burning doesn't sound so bad right now. "I'm c-c-cold."
"I know. I'm sorry."
Something settles around his shoulders, a blanket, thick, but it's too cold still, too cold by far, and the fabric against his skin just seems to leech away what heat his body has managed to generate.
He doesn't realize he's fighting until Grantaire has managed to pin both his arms behind his body and is sitting on him.
"—stop stop please stop, Enjolras, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but you're going to hurt yourself, you're going to burn yourself and you need the blanket and—"
Grantaire's fingers burn against his skin, and Enjolras forces his chattering teeth to form coherent words again. "Warm. You're warm."
"I—" Grantaire pauses. "I am. It feels good?"
Craning his head, Enjolras stares in the vague direction of Grantaire's voice. He tries not to sound too impatient as his teeth continue to chatter together. "Yes."
"Then sit with me." Grantaire loosens his grip slowly. "Sit with me by the fire, and we'll get you warm, too."
He isn't able to sit up on his own. His side hurts, badly, and breathing too deeply brings the taste of blood into his mouth again.
It doesn't matter. Grantaire helps him, hands gentle as they both settle under the blanket, and eventually the cold fades slightly.
Impossible: walking around the breached barricade with Feuilly.
"We did well." Feuilly's eyes study the ground—the bloodless ground. "They all did. We killed enough and enough of us died to make an impression. There was no shame in saving who we could in the end."
They died. He watched them die, his friends, guarding the retreat of men who had been happily willing to die until escape was unexpectedly presented to them.
"Enjolras?" Feuilly's hand lands lightly on his shoulder, tentative.
Straightening, Enjolras forces his eyes to meet Feuilly's. "You're dead. I saw you fall. Guarding the retreat, I saw—"
"Yes." Feuilly's hand drops away. "We're all dead. All but you, and that was a close thing, given how long you've spent visiting us these last weeks. Don't ask me how this works, or what's to come. I don't know."
"None of us do." It's Courfeyrac's voice, cheerful and certain, and the other man is suddenly lounging in a broken chair on the broken barricade. "We're just making it up as we go along, and trying not to damage us or you too badly. Which is why we had agreed to leave this entire mess alone, Feuilly."
"We're losing ourselves, Courfeyrac." Feuilly stares up at Courfeyrac, his expression both determined and apologetic. "Bit by bit, piece by piece, the longer we stay here, the less we remember. And remembering this is important. Giving this to him is important. Other than his life, it's the only useful thing we can really give him."
Enjolras knows Combeferre's hand on his shoulder, even before the man speaks. "Are you well enough for this, Enjolras? Can you think well enough for this, now?"
He can think more clearly than he has in… in a long time. Well enough to know that this is madness, that all these men are gone, the he watched them die. He expected to die, as well, and a vague memory of shots and pain tells him that his body is broken, somewhere, and seeing this doesn't bode well for his mind, either.
On the other hand… on the other hand, he is here with his friends. He is here with Les Amis, and they are asking him to do something for them. "I'm well enough. What were you planning?"
Feuilly smiles, an expression of gratitude and love that rips at Enjolras' heart. "You're going to do it again. You're going to keep fighting. So let's look at what worked and what didn't this time, and help you do it better next time."
They all come. They tell him what he couldn't see, filling in the gaps about what happened at the barricade. They discuss their actions, the actions of their men, the parts of the barricade construction that worked well and those that didn't, the weapons that were most useful and those that caused difficulty. They argue, they tease, they joke, and for a little while it's like it was in 1830. For a little while, everything's fine.
They fade, though. One by one, they leave him alone, disappearing between one sentence and the next, until only Feuilly is left once more.
"I'm sorry, Enjolras." Feuilly smiles again, a softer, sadder expression this time. "I'm sorry we can't keep fighting with you. I'm sorry I can't continue to be at your side. I wasn't certain of you, when I first saw you. I didn't think a rich bastard could really understand or want to change things for the better. I have never been happier to be completely, incontrovertibly proven wrong."
"The honor in fighting with you has been entirely mine." He holds out his hand to Feuilly.
Feuilly grins and slaps it away. "Come here, you."
They embrace, Feuilly's arms tight and fierce around him. Tears that he hasn't acknowledged prick at his eyes again. "I'm sor—"
"I'm not." Feuilly whispers the words into his ear. "It's what France wanted, Enjolras. They didn't come to us, but they opened their doors so that we didn't all die. Martyrs she wanted now, fighters for later, and if we're to be the martyrs, I've no doubt you'll be a damn fierce fighter."
"I will do my best." It's all he can offer.
Apparently it's enough, as Feuilly pulls back. "And we'll be with you in spirit all the way."
Enjolras wakes from that impossibility with tears on his face, but his thoughts are slightly clearer.
Possible: waking, and he can see.
He can't see clearly. Colors still seem too bright in some places, too muted in others, and details are still impossible for him to focus on.
But he can see. He can look at the window, and understand that the blue is the sky and the white is clouds and the brown is the wood of the windowpane in the foreground. He can turn to the side, in a blur of agony as something in his side protests, and see the rest of the room. He can see glasses of water and bowls that, at one time, probably held soup. He can see Grantaire asleep on a mattress on the floor.
Grantaire looks terrible. His beard is growing in, ragged and uneven. Dark smudges like bruises surround his eyes. The remains of a true bruise stands out yellow on his right cheek. His hair is unwashed. Only his clothes are clean, and even those have blood stains on them.
"Grantaire."
Grantaire starts awake, springing upright. "What? Enjolras, did you need something?"
"No." Enjolras allows a slight smile to cross his lips. "But you need to shave."
Grantaire rubs a hand along his jaw. "Ah, I suppose I should. I haven't—"
He can see the moment that Grantaire realizes what his statement means. Grantaire's eyes widen, and he scrambles to his feet, a wild grin making his face almost handsome.
"You can see! Enjolras, you can see!"
"Guilty as charged." Allowing his head to fall back onto the pillow, he grins back at Grantaire. "I couldn't read, not with how poorly I can focus, but I can see."
Grantaire's fingers hover near Enjolras' eyes, his expression still radiantly happy. "One step at a time, Enjolras. One step at a time."
He's too tired to respond to that, which is ridiculous given how little he's done, but he smiles anyway as he closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep.
Impossible: sitting in the Musain with Joly and Bossuet.
"The others?" He asks as soon as he sees them.
"Gone." Bossuet shrugs. "We will be, too, as soon as we've seen you off."
"You've been coming here less and less." Joly's fingers dance atop the lip of his drink. "You're getting better, quickly. It's been days since you last dropped in here. You don't need us anymore, and we don't have much left to offer you."
"I will always need you." He doesn't hesitate to take a hand from both men, squeezing tightly. He doesn't know how long this will last, and he suspects from the way they're talking that he won't have many other chances. "I will always have you. Anywhere I go, any battle I fight, you will all be beside me."
"I'd wish you luck." Bossuet squeezes his hand in return. "But given my luck, you may be better off without me there."
"Never." There are tears burning at his eyes again, but he blinks them away.
"I know." Bossuet smiles, standing and releasing his hand. "A poor joke to make now, I suppose, but I don't know what else to say. The others have already said it all. Be healthy. Be healed. Be fierce, as you always have been. And know that we loved you and all that you stand for."
"You're a strong man, Enjolras. In body and spirit and mind. Not many men could have survived what you've survived, not with their sanity and soul intact." Joly stands, as well, taking Bossuet's free hand in his. "And if that's the last gift we can give you—our thanks and our love and your health—then I pray that it's enough."
"Just one request, before we go." Bossuet pulls gently on Joly's hand, and Joly slow, reluctantly untangles his fingers from Enjolras'.
"Name it. If it's in my power, I will give it to you." Standing, Enjolras keeps his hands balled into fists at his side so that he won't reach for his friends. They are doing this with dignity, with respect, and he will not do anything to denigrate that.
"Be kind to Grantaire." Bossuet shrugs, his expression sheepish. "I know you don't understand him, that he irks you sometimes, but he cares for you deeply."
"He's saved you, I think." Joly's smile is one of fond reminiscence. "I don't know how else you survived. I saw where they shot you before I… well, you know. You should have been here with us, though I am very glad you aren't."
"You're going to be all right if we leave?" Bossuet tightens his hold on Joly's hand. "Because I don't think we can stay much longer, even if we wanted to."
"I will be fine." It hurts, to say the words, but saying them makes it true. He will miss them, dearly, but they have given him their dreams, and he will see them come to fruition. To be less than fine would be a betrayal of all that they are.
"Good." Joly glances toward the door. "Take care, Enjolras."
It's the last thing he hears before the world dissolves into blackness, and he wakes, once more, with tears on his face.
Three weeks of his life he loses to the fever, to the dreams, to the memories that couldn't be true.
Eventually, though, he wakes, his thoughts clear, his vision still blurred but at least functional. The dawn light is gentle on his face, and he forces himself slowly into a seated position.
There's something wrong with the ribs on the right side of his body. They protest gently at each shallow breath, much more strongly at each movement, but he can move if he's careful.
There's something wrong with his head, a bandage covering an uneven shave, and he will need to find a mirror to see exactly what kind of damage was done.
He is alive, though.
"Enjolras?" Grantaire's voice is slurred, sleepy, and the man raises his head to blink uncertainly into the light.
"Good morning, Grantaire." Moving slowly to the edge of the bed, Enjolras tests his balance before forcing himself to his feet.
The world tilts alarmingly, and Grantaire's arms grab his shoulders, but he stays upright. After a few moments he can even see semi-clearly again, and he nods before taking an uncertain step forward, then another. Add something wrong with his right leg to the list of problems, because it twinges and aches at every step, but it does as it's told. He also seems to have bruises everywhere, or perhaps that's just the stiffness of unused muscles suddenly being called back into service.
"Enjolras?" Grantaire's voice is hesitant, uncertain. "What are you doing?"
"A self-inventory. Seeing what I need to work on." Pausing, because walking and breathing at the same time is apparently too difficult for his appallingly weak body, he meets Grantaire's eyes evenly. "Because I need to know where I stand and where the world stands."
"You're standing." A tentative smile crosses Grantaire's face. "You're standing under your own power. I'd say the world is looking fantastic."
"We lost. They died."
Any trace of a smile vanishes from Grantaire's face as his eyes drop to the ground. "I'm sor—"
"No." Shaking his head, Enjolras places a finger across Grantaire's lips. "None of that, not right now. We will grieve for them, but we will not sully their names. We will honor them."
Grantaire's eyes widen in unspoken question.
"I need to find out what the political situation currently is. I need to find out which of our contacts are still available. I need to find out who's been writing, and what. I need to start writing again, myself, to try to salvage anything that can be salvaged."
He needs to write notes, to their parents, to their lovers, but he is not ready for that. Not yet. Not when his own grief is still too aching and fresh. Any attempts to share his grief with others, with those who didn't stand at the barricade, would result in falsehood or pain, and he doesn't want either.
"I need to work." He meets Grantaire's gaze evenly. "I need to honor them by completing our work."
"I…" The back of Grantaire's fingers brush across Enjolras' forehead. "You're not feverish. You're not delirious. You really mean it, don't you? Just like that, from death's door back into hell's fire, that's what you want to do?"
It's what he has to do. It's who he is and who they were. "Yes."
Grantaire licks his lips, his eyes haunted, troubled. "And me? What do I do?"
That isn't Enjolras' question to answer. He can be gentle, though, because Grantaire has been kind to him and because it's what the others would want. "What do you want to do, Grantaire?'
"I want…" Grantaire swallows hard, tears standing in his eyes, and Enjolras knows what he wants.
He wants the others alive. He wants them together. He wants to go back to before.
They can't. None of them can. There is no gentle way to say that, though, so Enjolras simply lays a hand on Grantaire's shoulder and waits for him to answer.
"I don't know how much I can help." Grantaire tilts his head back, his eyes studying the ceiling. "I don't know if I'll be any use, or if I'll just fall apart, or if I even want to. It killed them all, Enjolras. This dream of yours, of theirs, it killed them all. It almost killed you."
"It may still kill me. It may kill you."
"But it's you. It's them, and it's you, and…" Rubbing a hand across his brow, Grantaire laughs, a soft, sad, lost sound. "It's you. And if you will permit it, I would like very much to do everything I can to assist you."
Taking Grantaire's hand in his, Enjolras smiles. "At the moment, Grantaire, I would like nothing better."