It was a silly thing, to be afraid of living.

At some point in the night, it seemed, almost all of them had simply resigned themselves that death was not just an option, it was their future, inevitable and yet terrifying. Plenty of bottles were passed around, whatever they could conjure up from the once endless stores of Corinthe, and they would laugh and sing and joke as they always had, but even the incorrigible Courfeyrac had no smile in those grey eyes, as he stared down into the deep red wine and saw only blood, splashes on white shirts, on skin, on the cold stone, and he felt sick. Of course they all feared death, indeed they were quite terrified, but Courfeyrac wondered if they understood, truly, what their deaths meant, that death might not be a beginning. It certainly didn't seem that way to him, peering through the barricade only to see bodies, bodies of comrades, people they'd laughed with and planned with. He couldn't tell, in that dim light, which of those belonged to his once friend, a poet who believed in a brighter future,whose ways were quirky and quaint but who loved enough for all of them, although he would always object that was Courfeyrac's job.

And it was, wasn't it? Caring too much, oh, far too much.

His heart would be his downfall, Combeferre had joked before, for he could take the entire city, every gamin and woman of the streets, every beggar in the cold, and take them into his heart that was always filled with such warmth, fight for them to be free. He was the passion, the blood running in the veins of their movement, a source of warmth that others could gravitate towards, their center. It was his heart, too, that almost killed him, so many times on that fateful night, once when he moved his head up too high, in search of a friend, another when he moved out after the child that he had held so dear, so innocent and bright, and it was that moment that he realized the true fear that always comes with death, that cripples you until you cannot breathe. Enjolras and Combeferre had held him back, in his desperation he fought so hard to save him, save this child or he was worth nothing, his ideals and hopes and dreams, but he could not save even a child.

But it was not a warm heart that would save him.

It was coincidence, or so he thought, that Enjolras had ended up at his side. They should have been in the cafe, he felt they were meant to be there, a final stand, but then Courfeyrac felt a pain in his side and a cry left his lips unbidden, in panic or pain or terror he was not entirely sure. Enjolras turned, and for a moment Courfeyrac saw that he too was afraid, as he watched him freeze, a hand going down to his side, coming away scarlet.

"Well, how about that?" He breathed, laughter on the verge of hysterics, or perhaps shock, but he didn't anticipate Enjolras turning back, stepping forward and raising his pistol, using what Courfeyrac knew was his last shot, taking out the man who had bayonetted him. Courfeyrac managed to remain standing by some miracle, and he laughed weakly as the gunshots and cries around him seemed to fade.

"This is a rather awful way to go, isn't it?" He said, and he heard Combeferre's outcry from the door of the cafe, urging Enjolras to come inside, to grab him and go, until he saw the dark stain on Courfeyrac's grey vest, and they locked gazes one final time, and Courfeyrac wished he had the strength to shout something, perhaps a "goodbye" of sorts. However, at that moment his body betrayed him, knees giving out from under him, but he landed not on the torn up streets, but against something warm, tangible, and he blinked, and as he looked up it was as if Enjolras' hair was a halo in the dawn light, and he laughed.

"Alas, forgive me, Apollo, I have ruined your magnificent execution." He murmured, and he could've sworn he saw the other's lips twitch at the name, shaking his head despite the noise around them, the gunshots and screams piercing the air.

"It is sure to happen yet, my friend. But come, you will not die of this, it's but a flesh wound."

"'fraid you think too much of me, for I am a coward in the face of death." Courfeyrac replied, keeping his voice light and strong, he wouldn't falter not even in the end. His hands, however, betrayed him, trembling as the cane-sword he'd been using clattered to the ground. Enjolras looked grim, and Courfeyrac could see his glance moving down to the wound, instinctively covering it and pressing down, a strangled whimper escaping the dark-haired boy's lips, but it trailed off into forced laughter.

"Go, fearless leader, I won't deny you your last stand."

"Courfeyrac-"

"Go, please-pro patria, remember?" he whispered, reaching up with what strength he could muster and taking Enjolras' hand, squeezing it with a weak smile. He knew Enjolras would agree, it was what they had decided to do, if they would die they would do so facing their foes, fighting to the last man to prove-prove what exactly? He wasn't entirely sure anymore, for the people that had not risen? His thoughts were vague, now, jumbled, and all he saw was this angel, this god of hope above him.

Enjolras looked around them, at the bodies of their friends, the door they'd blocked and all he could hear was muffled shouts and gunshots, but he knew that it would be over soon. Somehow, in their little corner of the world, no one had disturbed them. However, just as the thought crossed his mind he saw a soldier coming toward them, the same who had been shouting orders with a tremble in his voice. He held his musket high, pointing at them, but Enjolras could see an uneasiness in the way he walked, and he raised his gaze to look at him instead of the friend in his lap, breathing choppy and accompanied now by little whines of pain as Enjolras shifted to sit straight, but he kept his hand in his own, knowing it would be a comfort to him.

"Give yourselves to us, cease this pointless bloodshed." The man said, expression grim, but he looked almost as young as they were and Enjolras wondered if he simply wanted it to be over, to stop killing.

"You could have ended it before it began, before you senselessly slaughtered one of our own, and then the others. The time for talking is over." He said coolly, it should've been different but it was if something had changed, having the warmth and light of the group in his lap bleeding out, and all for nothing. The people had not risen, the people they had been fighting for, and now they would pay the price, and he could only hope to serve as an example. He heard a weak, pained chuckle from Courfeyrac as the Lieutenant raised his musket higher.

"Looks like I did not deny you your execution in the end, dear friend."

"Hush." Was all Enjolras uttered, staring up into the barrel of the gun, his gaze full of what he always held, defiance, determination, a pure optimism and hope for a better world, even by his death. He held Courfeyrac's hand, feeling the other's trembling, despite his strong words he was getting weaker and he was afraid, he knew, because it was the same fear in his own heart. The Lieutenant pointed his gun, his finger on the trigger, but there was something about the way Enjolras looked at him, holding a bleeding man in his lap that had surely been laughing and drinking with the best of them, and he faltered.

"Go." He finally said, gritting his teeth, lowering his weapon, and Enjolras didn't understand, it didn't make sense to him for this man to let them go, not in this sea of blood and horror, it didn't make sense that he, the cause and the leader, to be allowed to go.

"But-"

"I will say it once more-go, there are places that will shelter you. If you are caught, I will not tell them to spare your lives, for there is surely an execution waiting for you already, but I'm giving you a chance."

"Just answer me one thing-" Enjolras cut off at the sound of a volley from the café, and he winced, but his expression remained strong. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

"Because I am giving you a chance, to you and this boy." The man said, pulling a small pistol out of his coat and setting it on the ground. "A slim chance, unlawful and not right for me to make, but there is something here that stays my hand, now go! Others will discover you yet."

He turned and moved away, likely to bark more orders or shoot more innocent insurgents, but Enjolras remained frozen for a little while, scarcely willing to believe what had happened, but he was drawn back to the moment by Courfeyrac's grip going slack. His heart stuttered in a panic he didn't hold himself to having, looking down, but he was breathing, it was shallow and harsh but it was enough. He grabbed the gun and then stood, keeping an arm around the slightly larger man's waist, dark curls tickling his neck as he tried to keep him upright, there was no way he could carry him fully, for all his grace Enjolras had too small a stature. He was able to move, albeit slowly, although he didn't know where to go he knew that at least away from that corner, from the barricade, they slipped out through the little back street, his heartbeat thrummed in his eardrums but he couldn't allow fear or panic to overtake him, he had one single chance to save a life, at least one, and he would take it.

Enjolras went down the twisting roads, trying to make sure they would not be caught, he ran into only a handful of soldiers but he was quick to fire, the tense night had sharpened his nerves, and finally all was quiet but the staccato of Courfeyrac's breath, which he feared only grew softer. He needed a shelter, somewhere they would be safe, and finally ended up at a small church. How ironic, he would think later, the man who believed only in his beloved Patria, turning to god in this final hour of desperation. He knocked on the door, slumping against the frame in his exhaustion, although he would not beg for the grace he wasn't entirely sure they deserved he would knock for a whole minute, until the handle turned and he was greeted with the face of a young priest, who looked startled by the sight before him.

"Monsieurs, may we help you?"

"My friend was gravely injured, at the barricade at Rue de la Chanvrerie, I know it is much to ask but we need shelter, and a doctor if we may. Please, Father, I fear he doesn't have long, we have walked too long."

The priest looked at them, a bit frightened when he saw the dark stain under Enjolras' hand, his hand lingering on the knob of the door as if he was debating whether to shut it in their faces, but he then nodded and opened it wide for them, nodding.

"Come in, I shall send for the doctor immediately. You will have rest here, for the Politics of the world have no bearing here."

"Thank you, thank you, for your kindness." Enjolras murmured, bowing his head, he would never have let himself get so desperate but there was a life in his hands, and he wanted to believe that even if he was captured, locked away or presented to a firing squad as an example, at least this one bright light would not go out.

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A/N: Hello! This is a new story I'm starting, obviously it's centered on these two, I know this idea is overdone but I have a lot of things I've been wanting to do with this idea so bear with me. It'll be a mix of book/musical canon, although probably more of book/my own headcanons so hopefully you guys stick with me! I'll try to actually update c: