Note: This is based on/inspired by a very specific video of David Thaxton in the London production of 2008. I don't own any of the characters. If I did, I doubt I'd be writing fanfiction.
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It's clearly more than we'd bargained for, the strength of the National Guard. How could it not have been? We must have underestimated them- you would never have sent us into this to be slaughtered. Oh, we all knew how likely it would be for us to die. We had planned on it, but the plan had also included others- the citizens of Paris who would rise up and fight with us until the last of the enemy had been defeated. That's what was supposed to happen.

You haven't given up, though. You keep shouting things at us, bits of inspiration to keep us going. Unfortunately, though, I don't hear any of it, the sounds of battle too loud for anything else to make its way to my ears.

Someone falls at my feet, and I drop to my knees beside him, what few instincts I have taking over as I search for a pulse on his wrist. I can't make out who it is through the smog. It's a student, one of our own little group, though I can't tell who, no matter how close I get. I choose not to blame the alcohol from the nearly empty bottle in my hand, though I know that it's why my vision swims and, no matter how hard I stare at the dirty, bleeding face, his features refuse to register in my mind.

You're there in an instant, landing lightly on the ground- an impressive feat considering that you must have jumped from fifteen feet up the barricade. I hear you mumbling a name as you crouch over him, your hands frantically searching for a pulse. but a burst of gunfire drowns it out. Courfeyrac? Combeferre? Feuilly? Who is it? I almost ask- almost. But, the stentence sticks in my throat when you look up from him, and I am struck by the way those blue eyes of yours seem to glow through the thick smoke. It feels as if it sobers me almost instantly, my vision clearing enough for me to focus on you.

I don't remember when I started crying, but I am nonetheless, sobs wracking my body as I tear my eyes away from our dead, anonymous friend. Your hands grab at my wrist, at the back of my neck for the purpose of pulling me closer. You're still outstandingly beautiful, completely uninjured. Of course, it takes a bit of effort to damage marble. I know that you can see the bottle in my hand, are forcing yourself to not look disgusted with the fact that I didn't even put it down to assist our friend. It means the entire world to me that you're doing that- we're all going to die, and I don't want the last thing I see of you to be the usual sneer that you offer in my direction. I never find out what brought this on- this sudden display of friendship. I'm not sure if I would have wanted to know.

That fool old man in the national guard uniform is trying to pull you away, shouting something about his being able to handle the dead boy between us. I grab at the side of your face, not willing to let you run back into the battle just yet. If this is the last time I'm going to see you before I die, I want to remember you correctly. My forehead touches yours for a moment, and I take the opportunity to memorize the exact shade of your eyes, the color of the sky on a cloudless day, framed by lashes of what must be pure gold. You press your lips to one of my temples, and, for the first time, I feel as if you don't actually hate me. It's almost as if I could be your friend, rather than the drunken cynic who follows you wherever you go.

You're close enough to me that I can hear anything you say, now. I think you know that, since you take advantage of it. The last "Vive La Republique!" I ever hear you say leaves your lips just before the old man finally manages to get you away from the body, back to the barricade.

It was meant to inspire, I know- that's all you ever wanted to do. Inspire and change, save the people from opression, make a better tomorrow- all the things that you've been striving for for years, and you can see it all about to fail. I could see that much in your eyes, moments ago. There was the oddest expression on your face, and isn't until a moment later that I place it- the face of a man who knows he's about to die, but will fight it with everything he has left. I don't realize that until you're nearly to the summit of our barricade- your barricade. I shouldn't say 'our', as I had no part in building it. It was all built upon your ideals, your dreams. I don't have any right to include myself in the ownership to any of it.

I start to run up the pile of wood and metal after you- you've abandoned your gun in favor of the huge red flag, are waving it as if the world depended on it. I shout your name, trying to get you to duck down, out of the open- it's as good as suicide, what you're doing. I'm not five feet up the pile when the flag drops over the side, not eight when you fall after it.

I scream- everyone is screaming, but mine are the only ones I can hear as I fight my way to the top. I refuse to believe that they could have shot you- mortals cannot kill a god, after all. An explosion knocks me down a few feet, but I manage to cling to the barricade, keep myself from falling to the ground like several of the others do. As soon as I regain my footing, I'm climbing again, somehow unaware of the fact that I'm still clutching that damned bottle.

I see you the moment I look over the side. I go numb, staring over the edge, oblivious to the continued gunfire. Didn't the damned soldiers realize what they'd done? I want to shout at them, to swear and scream, for they kept shooting as if they didn't care, did not understand the sheer horror the the act they had just committed.

It would have made a splendid painting, the Death of Apollo, with that red flag beneath you. Even hanging upside-down from an outcropping of wood, you don't look the slightest bit vulnerable. You still look like a statue, like the god I always saw you to be, and something about that fills me with relief. I don't know why I was so afraid that I would see you as someone else, when I looked over the edge of the barricade. But, you're still our fearless leader, merely looking as though you are sleeping. You are still the same Enjolras, still Apollo.

I am aware of how easy a target I am up here, yet I don't care. Why should I? Why should a mortal live where a god dies? It's no time at all before I feel the impact of gunfire, the bottle in my hand flying over the side of the barricade as I'm knocked back a step.

I refuse to fall over the side myself, though. No, that resting place is yours- it feels too sacred for my body to even consider falling anywhere near it. So, with the last of my strength, I clutch at a board, keeping myself just at the top as I crumple to my knees, then to my side, until my head hits the very place where you had been standing, only moments prior. I can see you from here, and the sight of a sleeping Apollo is more than I could have asked to be the last thing I see.