They tell you revolution is glorious.
That's what they always say, isn't it? Revolution, the topic on everyone's lips what everyone wishes they could have the courage to do.
Oh, it takes courage. And lots of stupidity.
What's glorious is the feeling of a hot drink on a cold morning when the mist hangs in the streets like a thin layer of gauze someone's pulled over the city. What's glorious is when the sun sets fire to the sky at the end of the day. What's glorious is living, caring, and being able to continue doing so.
It was that damn mattress. Literally every single problem I have I can attempt to trace back to that mattress. Bought at Mattress Warehouse for five dollars. Well technically I didn't buy it. It was in the alley behind Mattress Warehouse because it was defective. And the five dollars was spent on the coffee I bought Enjolras and me in celebration of finally finding something to sleep on after camping out on his couch for more nights than I can count. That couch was more comfortable than the stupid mattress. But Eponine was his sister so she got the extra bed. And I was left to sleep on the mattress under the huge artiste windows. It left a crick in my back every night. It's springs cut into my legs. There was only one night I had a good night's sleep since I moved in with Enjolras and Eponine. And that wasn't a night anyone talked about but it was the night on my mind every time my head hit the thready pillow on my mattress.
Enjolras created a roadhouse for us all I suppose. Eponine was the first to move in with him, before I did. Then after me came Combeferre and after him came Cosette. Mariuswas the last straggler. Enjolras was such a good sport about it, in his patient way. When he came home from university he'd just smile and chuck the day's newspaper at Combeferre and I as we played cards or smoked. Those were the nights he might sling his leather jacket across his shoulders and sit down with us, maybe even pick up a fag. Cosette would come throwing cards at everyone, promising a kiss if we could beat her at poker. Eponine would laugh and rub the student's tired shoulders, saying she'd be damned this wasn't the first time she'd ever seen her big brother smoking. We all laughed at that and when Michael ducked his head in amusement, his blue eyes would touch mine for a moment, remembering all the nights before Eponine came to stay, before my mother died and I'd come over Enjolras' every night to smoke and drink and make plans for the future. Those were the days. Before the future actually came.
We don't play cards in the evening anymore. Now Eponine's constantly coming home with some guy on her heels and they don't appear out of her bedroom until well after dark. Combeferre smokes his cigarettes too fast now, he doesn't enjoy them with me anymore. He's too serious-everyone is. Marius and Cosette don't talk ever since their break-up; and Enjolras is my only solace. He'll come home from the university and just stand in the doorway, not speaking. Those are the nights I grab my jacket and we walk out, wandering the streets of the city until dawn. He talks and I listen, he preaches and I receive. He wants to change this world, he tells me. He wants to make a difference. All I can do is listen in rapture as his blue eyes light on fire and he grips my arm so tightly it hurts. And I promise to stand by his side.
Now Combeferre spends his time hacking into every government site he can find, trying to uncover information to use. "For the people" Enjolras always says but now I know it's not for the people. It's for him. Our guardian angel, this is who it's for. But we go along because we love him. Because I love him.
And we thought revolution was glorious.
Now we're facing the firing squad.
Enjolras is crying, his tears silently running down his cheeks. He doesn't make a sound and his silence is more terrifying than any gun pointed at me. If I knew he regretted this, any of this, my heart would break. So I reach out and do something I've never done before. I take his hand. I take his hand, his unwavering, steady hand. His and mine. Black and gold. Contrasting but melted together. He grins at me, some of his old flame leaping into his eyes despite the tear tracks on his cheeks.
Because I remember that night.
The night he finally got drunk for once instead of Cosette or me. Everyone else was out it was just me and him as I carried him into the flat, his arm slung 'round my shoulders. He was quoting Shakespeare then, Hamlet, I think. He'd looked at me and begged me to never leave him and I told him I wouldn't. Until he closed the space, I didn't even realize our faces were inches apart. He was so beautiful. And in his drunken haze, he'd thought the same of me. That was the night I'd gotten a good night's sleep. Because it had been in his bed, with him. And he didn't regret it. I know that now.
They tell you revolution is glorious.
But it's not.
Revolution is a ghost.
We're glorious.