Smoke wafted lazily across the already suffocating landscape, subtlety masking Enjolras' powerful form as he prowled, majestic and proud as ever, atop the barricade. With a gasping breath he dodged his assilants' murderous intent, bullets streaming past the Les Amis' leader, Enjolras smirking with a child like enthusiasm as he taunted death's beckoning grip.
Grantaire, his eyes scanning the carnage, the blood-soaked streets, maimed and bleeding children, tattered clothes and skin. He'd known that Enjolras could not have won, that he'd most likely suffer a fate as awful as that poor Gravoche child. Indeed, the forgotten son of Thernandier lay a snarled corpse, a skeleton of a boy with no more breath to give or song to sing. His tattered yellow hair, almost as fair and soft as his youthful skin, draped over his stilled expression, the muscles slack with the rush of blood. Fine lines bracketed his cracked, impoverished lips, a lifetime of parentheses Grantaire was not around to hear.
Glancing up at Enjolras' slowing posture, the sluggish dodges and composure he'd put on throughout the entire revolution, and his eyes misted as he knew it'd only be seconds away. The thought of another innocent person's blood needlessly spilled, a canvas of red on harsh cobblestone streets, was more than enough reason to commit to the idea. Not for the rebellion, he knew, but for Enjolras himself, and his admiration glittered wildly as he steered himself towards the broken scene.
"You said it yourself, Enjolras," he whispered, his black mop of curls wisping over his dark eyelashes and his midnight blue gaze stung once more as if Enjolras had found a way to set him on fire. "'The blood of the martyrs will water the meadows of France.' Now it's our turn, old friend."
He pressed forward, the sorrowful expression of his chaste and exhausted leader almost too much for Grantaire to bear, and he felt himself recoil slightly. The small, inviting grin that Enjolras presented him with, however, was enough to make Grantaire's chest heave with pride. As he grasped poor, lonely Enjolras' trembling hand within his own, his dark, haunted gaze flickered with hope and wistful admiration, taking comfort in knowing that they could be together.
Together in death, for they surely did not have a chance in life.