"Ârret," was written on the plaque. "C'est l'empire de la mort."
Stop. It's the empire of the dead.
The first thing Grantaire thought when Enjolras pulled him through the gate into the stairway to the Catacombs was, surprisingly, not I'm not going to die. It was, Enjolras' arm is bleeding badly and I don't know what to do, and, oh, god, I've slept through the Revolution.
Grantaire had been drunk, more drunk than usual, and had woken up to the sound of Enjolras proclaiming his devotion to the Rebellion, to France. The cynic had then gathered himself, stood, and made his way over to his leader. The National Guard watched him closely, and as he stood with Enjolras, they took aim. That was when shots fired from below them caused the flooring beneath their feet to cave in, and the both of them dropped through to the first floor. They hit the ground together, rubble all around them. Grantaire felt as though he was covered in soon-to-be bruises, but other than that, he wasn't hurt. Still, he had been shocked out of his mind, but Enjolras was not. Enjolras grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him through the dust and splintered floorboards towards a grate on the side of a building. Without hesitation, the leader yanked off the loosely attached metal and threw himself in, pulling Grantaire along behind him.
Together, they ran down the stone stairs to an antechamber, where Grantaire had finally regained enough mental stamina to comprehend to words written on the plaque. He also noticed the blood dripping from Enjolras' arm as the man slid down against the wall. Grantaire watched as he put his head in his hands, disregarding whatever pain he was feeling from moving his arm.
"Courfeyrac...Combeferre...Feuilly…" He whispered, barely audible. Grantaire felt a sense of dread wash over him. His friends had died. They had died while he had slept, died while he had drunk away his own small problems. He sat himself down next to Enjolras, close, but not too close. Grantaire had been about to say something when Enjolras spoke again. "I led them to their deaths, Grantaire."
"Enjolras," Grantaire started, "it's not your fault." It was cheap, and Grantaire knew it, but Enjolras couldn't blame himself. Especially not while he's practically bleeding out. Enjolras' breaths were shaky, as if he couldn't calm himself, and he shook his head at Grantaire's words. "Enjolras. You need to stay calm right now, okay? I need to see your arm." The younger man, clearly now being struck by the shock of the events, only nodded in response.
Grantaire crawled closer to him across the dusty floor. He lifted Enjolras' left arm and held it up, trying to remember what Joly had taught him about medicine. His sleeve, which was already torn, was the obvious choice for a wrap. He ripped the remainder of it off, and placed it over Enjolras' arm. He wanted to say something, ask if Enjolras was okay, but it didn't seem right at that moment. Grantaire tightened the wrap, and Enjolras winced. Grantaire was silent.