Enjolras and Grantaire awoke holding hands.
It was Enjolras who awoke first, in an eerie quiet, a complete silence penetrated neither by hollow wind nor tweeting birds. His eyelids, which had been somewhat glued shut with grime, sweat, and blood, took some effort to crack open - once they both were unsealed, his vision took a moment to settle into clear focus. Dust floated through the air, catching the light. Behind that, the familiar planks and pillars of the wine shop loomed over him. They were dirty, smudged with gunpowder and the splatters of injury.
He looked to his right. There lay Grantaire, looking perfectly still. Dead? His eyes flicked to his chest - no, there was some faint lift there, subtle but there. He was bleeding, stained with crimson. His throat swallowed unconsciously. His gaze moved down to Grantaire's left arm, which, thrown out, was entwined at the end with his own hand. His fingers, like his eyelids, took mild exertion to extricate from Grantaire's, but he separated their sticky skin without too much difficulty, wiping his palm on the thigh of his trousers. He shifted, heaving his torso forward so that he might propel himself into a sitting position, knees splaying, half-up, other hand at his side for balance.
Looking down at his chest, he, too, was wounded. In fact there were multiple tears in his jacket and vest. Though his clothing was mildly torn about regardless, he thought he could attribute at least four of the holes to apparent gunshots, maybe six. All centering in his chest. Was he dead? Having glanced all around the room now, he at last looked directly in front of him. There, brief yards away, stood a full line of infantrymen, rifles at the ready, all looking about three or four feet above his current position. He struggled to get his feet under him, attempting to stand. He had only managed to reach a half-balanced position when, with a loud CRACK! all dozen triggers were shot and sent as many bullets whistling through the air, inches from his temple. The path of the shots was curious in that it seemed to be happening particularly slowly. In fact, he could swear that he could make out every detail of the bullet as it passed him, as though it travelled through gelatin and not air. He stood fully, avoiding the slow propulsion of the ammo. Looked at the soldiers again, bewildered. They seemed to be staring directly at him, but when he cautiously stepped to his right, their gaze did not move. It remained fixed upon that same point; they did not see him at all.
He looked down at Grantaire once more. The man seemed to be stirring. His brow was wrinkled, and the pointed pink tip of a tongue darted out to lick at his lips. He turned his jaw towards his right, brushing against his tight fist there, which clenched the corner of a dirty but still vivid red flag of the republic, unmounted, wrapped between his fingers. His other shoulder began to rise into a hunch, and he rolled onto his right side, then began to curl in a manner that forced his torso up. He looked just as he had when he had first awoken from his wine-sleep: dirty and as though he harbored a great headache.
Enjolras waited patiently for Grantaire to acclimate himself to waking, rubbing his temple and grimacing as his eyelids peeled open. A thin line of crimson, blood, had painted a stroke down from the corner of his dry lips. He looked otherwise the same, apart from the previously noted wounds to his front. His numbered three, and wider apart; though upon closer inspection Enjolras noticed a fourth blossoming of red staining his right shin, just beneath his knee. A leg wound was not fatal, but the other shots had surely penetrated his lungs and stomach; the highest probably shattering his collarbone. They could not have survived, thus the obvious conclusion was that they were both dead.
CRACK!
The rifle fire went off again, and Enjolras ducked just in time. It was exactly the same as the first. The round of shots seemed to be set on loop, repeating every several moments. He leaned down and offered a hand to Grantaire, who seemed to still be focusing his vision. They'd best get out of fire, dead or not. He didn't know what post-mortem wounds could do to a soul wherever they were.
After heaving Grantaire up, he glanced around the room fully again. It was devoid of people or bodies, contrary to how he remembered it. It had been strewn with corpses when he was cornered, he knew. They had not been included for whatever reason. Grantaire, now standing next to him and fully awake, stared at the infantrymen with a sort of baffled horror. He looked between they and Enjolras, begging a question with his weathered eyes of cornflower-blue. "Are they - " he stumbled. Enjolras blinked, waiting for a the other end of the query.
"Are we...?" was what he tacked on instead, voice faint and shocked.
Enjolras nodded. "Death," he pronounced. "Of some sort."
Grantaire stared at him for an uncomfortably long moment, seeming to scrutinize him up and down. At last, his shoulders fell in some kind of relief.
"I see," he breathed. "You too, then?"
"Yes."
"I thought you were an angel at first," admitted Grantaire with a dry laugh and a run of his fingers through his hair. "Had me thrown off - that wouldn't have made much sense for me."
Enjolras felt his jaw twitch faintly. "Well, wherever you are, I am too," he said stiffly.
Grantaire's eyes widened again, then barked out another laugh, which Enjolras found slightly inappropriate. "That's right! Well..." (A chuckle.) "Welcome, friend, to whatever realm I now call my home." He dipped into a mocking curtsy, arms lifted and wrists out in a grandiose gesture.
Enjolras straightened his back, unamused. "Well, we'd best be looking for -"
CRACK!
Enjolras pushed Grantaire out of the way first, but failed to get out of the path of the bullet himself - but Grantaire had leapt back in his way, hand outstretched to block it from penetrating his side. The bullet buried itself right through Grantaire's palm and out the other side, too slow, looking unnatural. It had successfully diverted it from Enjolras, though, and he stood, breath startled out of him, staring at Grantaire's hand. He looked back at his face, seeking a reaction.
"Wow," was Grantaire's only word, his eyes equally fixed on his hand, which he turned over in fascination. The whole of penetration was bloody, but the flow had stopped what seemed like immediately, for there was neither splatter nor drip. He didn't appear to be feeling pain, or was disguising it well - but then suddenly stumbled, with all the look of a stepstool falling over. Enjolras lunged over and caught him in his arms before he could hit the floor, helping steady him straight again. Grantaire's smile this time was thin and false, his eyes crinkled as he looked at his leg.
Enjolras gathered that while injuries may not cause pain here, their physical presence was still exact.
"Whoops," murmured Grantaire forlornly as Enjolras dragged him over to an empty chair.
"Let's not stand there again," muttered Enjolras tersely, sitting him down and then setting about to acquire bandage and wood for a splint. It didn't take excessively long to rummage makeshift supplies from amongst the rubble, and Grantaire tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling as Enjolras tightly bound his shin in his best approximation of a walking cast. It took several minutes to get it right - he caught himself wishing Joly was here - but after a few tries, he tied off the wrapping and stood back, satisfied for the moment.
"You know I'm already dead, right?" joked Grantaire.
"Yes, but you need to walk," said Enjolras, not in the mood for jokes.
"Why?" he mused, and Enjolras shot a sharp glance at him. He held up his hands defensively. "Just saying. Am I supposed to go anywhere? If this is just death now, methinks I could rather just stay here and drink wine forever."
CRACK!
A glance back over his shoulder, then returning to Grantaire. "You'll not," said Enjolras firmly. "The first matter is to ascertain exactly where we are now, and whether the others are here too."
A pained expression fleetingly overtook Grantaire's face, but it disappeared just as quickly.
"Well, you do that, I'll stay here," said he.
Enjolras looked down, feeling a tightness in his throat and a disagreeableness on his tongue. "I'd... rather you joined me," he said flatly, trying to keep any unkindness out of his tone.
Grantaire's expression was as flat now, looking at him with no identifiable response.
"..." Enjolras sighed. "I would feel better accompanied. We don't know anything about this place. Besides, you..." He frowned.
Grantaire raised a brow.
"... You demonstrated... a truly courageous act, which I hold in the highest esteem, and I would be... obliged if our mutual company doesn't part so soon." His voice was softer than usual, low, and he hoped that Grantaire could sense his sincerity.
He seemed to; or at least saw something which pleased him, for it was with a lighter smile and jaunty tone that he folded his arms and pronounced, "All you had to do is ask."
Determined to stifle his pride, Enjolras stated truthfully, "I'd like to have your company. Please join me, if just to ascertain those two answers? I promise that afterwards, should you so choose, you may return to this place and drink all the wine you please for the rest of your days." He offered a small smile.
CRACK!
"Ah, very well," consented Grantaire, with the faintly smug air of one who had been meaning to assent all along. "I'll need some help getting up, though."
"Of course," said Enjolras, and he quickly flocked to his side to assist him. Grantaire was rather heavier than himself, built of stockier substance, but Enjolras had determination, a straight back, and good balance; he managed to hoist him with an arm over his shoulder and thusly, hand at his waist for support, walked him behind the line of soldiers and to the door, which he maneuvered open with the help of his boot.
The outside was not what he had expected.
Where there had been the narrow street and a piled barricade, now lay but a few feet of cobblestone and a steep drop. He stepped up to the edge and looked down. The cliff went down at a perfect vertical angle, and at the bottom of it, about seven yards from the top, rushed a wide river. The opposite bank was featureless, landscape painted in a foggy, vague, smudged representation of the streets of Paris, just distinctive enough to be familiar, just generic enough to be unrecognizable. It did not look reachable.
"Is that the Seine?" queried Grantaire, looking over his shoulder in a bemused manner.
Enjolras take a second look. It did look like the Seine, though not the way he was used to seeing it. Apart from the strange arrangement of their surroundings, what looked like the previous formation of their barricade was floating piece by piece down the river. There flowed tables, trunks, chairs and flagpoles, all manner of furniture and belongings, bobbing along consistently.
"I think that's the barricade," murmured Enjolras.
"... death is queer place," muttered Grantaire at his back.
There again rose what Enjolras was realizing felt suspiciously like a reflexive contrariness, but he bit it down. Was he really so accustomed to disagreeing with everything that came out of Grantaire's mouth, regardless of its relevance or accuracy? This was a queer place, indeed.
He wondered how often he had snapped at the other thoughtlessly, and made up his mind to attempt to curb this compulsion in the afterlife. (Was that what this would be called?) He heard the muffled crack of guns from inside again.
Suddenly he became aware of a lightness of his shoulder. Without his noticing, Grantaire had extracted himself from Enjolras' support and lowered himself down to the edge of the drop. He was leaning over it curiously, sitting, legs both lame and sturdy dangling above the water.
"What are you doing?" blurted Enjolras, attempting to drag him up again from the back of his collar, but his hand was swatted away.
"Just looking," Grantaire whined. "There's a bed down there; it's stuck."
Enjolras followed his outstretched finger, and saw that he was right. In the corner, apparently snagged on some underwater debris, floated a set of wooden bedposts, mattress and all. He thought it was one of the beds they had commandeered for the injured; here, it seemed to be reassembled and now stagnant in water, as though it were waiting.
Grantaire seemed to echo this thought. He shifted closer to the edge dangerously. "I bed that would hold us," he said eagerly.
Enjolras rounded on him with furious brow. "Grantaire, don't be ridiculous. Your leg is broken, you cannot get down there. Nor is there any reason to think you ought to."
"Well, there's not exactly anyplace else to go," he pointed out, and Enjolras had to curse his correctness. It was true. "Anyway," Grantaire went on, precariously pushing himself up to standing again, "We could get down there. We've got that flag."
"Flag?"
"Yeah, the flag from inside."
The image of it clenched in Grantaire's fist reoccured to Enjolras; then, something he had forgotten to remember, the last moments of the cynic's life: he had held up the flag, proclaiming Vive la Republic. Something in him gave way in an uncomfortable manner. Grantaire had died for a republic he hadn't believed in; the least Enjolras could do was humor his curiosity.
"What about it?" he said.
"It's like bedsheets, yeah? Tie 'em together, escape from your second floor window to see your nonny?" He flashed a smirk his direction. "Oh right, I forgot you never had lady lovers. Imagine it's for Patria then, yeah?"
Enjolras frowned, but could picture to what his companion referred. He tried to visually compare the length of the flag to the height of their current standing. He wasn't sure whether or not it would make it.
He turned to glance back at the shop, then started. Again having escaped his eye, Grantaire had started limping without a second thought towards the door again. Enjolras threw out a hand to stop him.
"For God's sake, Grantaire," he exclaimed, "Can you go a minute without furthering your injury? I'll fetch the flag."
Grantaire seemed sufficiently put back by this, though his expression was not negative. Shaking his head, Enjolras pushed back inside, pausing in time for another, full volume once more, CRACK! He went around the soldiers this time, dragging the huge red fabric from its place lying half-twisted next to the wall. Wrapping the end around and within his fist as had done Grantaire, he threw the trail of the cloth over his shoulder and around his waist to save it from getting further soiled. He walked back out to where Grantaire was waiting, leaning on his good leg. Upon seeing Enjolras, the former beamed with delight. Unaccustomed to this reaction, Enjolras nodded humbly, throwing the fabric off of himself to its full length, over the river to test its length.
To his surprise, the dangling flag could very well, if held strongly, support a person down far enough that the resulting drop would be comparatively insignificant. He began to ponder the actual possibility of using the river for transport. What was it that Grantaire had just said? 'It's not like there's anywhere else for us to go.'
He followed the river with his eyes pensively. It did not seem to have a visible edge. If this was death, where did that lead? Perhaps they were meant to follow it. If this was some Christian afterlife, then perhaps the river was his path to God and Heaven. Had people not spoken of tunnels before, or lights? Passages, of sort? Was this one of them?
He looked back the other way. Just muffled city skyline, with no apparent way to reach it.
"Very well," he said stoutly, making up his mind. "Give me your arms."
"What?" Grantaire blinked.
Enjolras was busy unknotting his own red sash, intending to use it as a sort of body noose to put around Grantaire. He glanced up at him once the extra length was free.
"Your arms," he repeated. "We can't exactly drop you by your leg, now can we?"
Though he looked bewildered, Grantaire lifted his arms agreeably, and Enjolras looped the now fastened fabric around his torso and under his arms, tightening it the best he could without being overly injurious. Understanding now, Grantaire helped adjust the sitting of the sash for his own comfort.
"You should probably sit at the edge," recommended Enjolras. Grantaire lowered himself agreeably, though he did use Enjolras' arm to steady his descent, balance still imperfect. He perched on the edge above the torrent, watching the river pass, square hands gripping Enjolras' trouser legs.
Enjolras was straightening out the length of the flag, twisting it where appropriate in order to strengthen it. He fastened his grip tightly at an appropriate height, tugging upwards to test that it would support a man's weight. Grantaire quickly dropped his hands to the cliffbank, steadying himself. He in counter to Enjolras' efforts assisted by also pushing himself, up and slightly out. After a few moments of precarious balance, he was supported by nothing but his own strained hands and Enjolras' flag.
"Ready?" said Enjolras.
Grantaire nodded shortly, failing to speak.
Carefully, Enjolras moved his fists out over the water, Grantaire removing one hand, then another, a quick and short slip of about a foot as his weight dropped and settled completely in the stretching fabric. A strained noise escaped him, and he clutched onto the sash at his armpits and sternum.
Grantaire was heavier than Enjolras had anticipated, but he was strong enough to hold him, and began to cautiously lower him, length by length, shifting grips one hand under the other so that the lowering occurred in a smooth manner. Something like an entire minute and a half of this precarious test of strength, wincing from Grantaire and strained neck muscles from huffing on Enjolras' end, and at last his toes breached the water.
"Get on that chair first," gasped Enjolras, as the bed was on the opposite side of the river.
Grantaire haphazardly kicked his feet, toe catching the leg of the mentioned chair and sweeping it underneath him. Enjolras lowered him until both of his feet were supported on the furniture, which was mostly submersed now but close enough to the edge of the bank that it was not swept away.
"Okay," heaved Enjolras, dropping the remainder of the flag in a great toss across the river. Fortunately the point they were at was narrower than it was further down, and the loop he had fashioned at his end landed barely across the closest post to Grantaire. Grantaire tugged at the cloth, and the loop secured. He pulled it harshly, and the chair beneath him toppled with a splash. He gasped loudly at the sudden submersion into the water, spluttering and throwing out an arm before he started horizontally climbing the flag length towards the bed, which was simultaneously being tugged towards him, almost freed but not quite.
Enjolras watched him with nervous jaw, pacing unconsciously, wondering whether he should have allowed this. After some struggle, though, Grantaire successfully pulled himself to the edge of the bed, and threw his legs over it to drag himself on top. The edge dipped down but did not submerge completely. The shift of weight did, however, loosen the far post from whatever had been stoppering it, and the bed began to float freely down the river at an alarming pace.
"Enjolras!" shouted Grantaire, waving at him from below, kneeling. "Jump!"
Swallowing thickly and realizing he may not have thought this thoroughly through, Enjolras stepped forward quickly and halted, hesitating.
"Jump!" he shouted again.
The bed was quickly moving away from him. He would lose it if he did not act.
Taking a breath, Enjolras stepped a few paces back, then sprinted to the edge and off, flailing his limbs. There was a brief moment where he couldn't see anything because he was falling too fast, and then it was an awkward clattering thump, a splash of water, and strong wet arms clasping his tightly.
"You okay?" yelled Grantaire. The river was louder once in it, but not that roaring; part of the tone likely was an effect of panic.
"Yes," responded Enjolras, equally loud. (Had he been panicked too?) "Yes," he repeated in a strong but calmer tone. He clasped his hands to Grantaire's forearms to balance himself, shifting to support himself on spread knees as the other man was, looking at the rushing river around them. The bed was still dipping and rocking, but seemed stable enough that it wouldn't flip.
Carefully rearranging his legs to sit fully, Enjolras released Grantaire. He returned one hand to his knee to grip for balance, turning and using the other to drag in the now soaked red flag, gathering it in a sopping pile at the edge of the mattress. Grantaire watched him silently.
There passed about five minutes of settling, them both accustoming themselves to whatever position was both comfortable and balanced, and as the bed-boat turned a few times before maintaining a position. The widening river was also a quieting one, with less rocking for them, and further-spread debris. As Enjolras unbuttoned his vest, glancing also around at the gray landscape as they moved past it and away from the wine house, Grantaire reached out far enough to snag a long pole, bringing it over to his lap and occasionally using it to push away tables that threatened to interrupt their path, or to prod at the wall when they veered too close for comfort.
In time, the building they had left behind was no longer within sight. It was only the gray stone of the walls on either side of them, and the grayish-blue water (only marred by the seemingly endless barricade debris; a barrel here, a dresser there). Enjolras leaned against the foot of the bed, one knee up, upon which his correlating arm rested; the other lay vaguely out to his side. Grantaire eventually settled into a horizontal position, lying down with his head on the farthest end by the opposing headboard. His hands were folded underneath his neck, lame leg stretched out and the other propped on top of it forming a triangle.
Silence reigned between them. The first brief interruption was Enjolras: "Should we be expecting to stop at a certain place?"
Grantaire's answer was frustratingly vague and equally practical. "Can't know till we get there. I say rest up, ready our eyes for when we'll need them. Wherever this goes, it can't end for a while."
Enjolras consented to admitting his right, and spent his time gazing out at the lack of scenery. Grantaire's eyes closed quickly, and he appeared to doze off with envious speed.
It was not long, though, before Enjolras allowed his lids to draw shut too.