Sorry that the formatting is wonky here. I'm going through a lot right now and felt a need to post this, a fic I wrote almost a year ago. It isn't edited much, but here it is.
After the barricade fell, nothing seemed to be left in one piece. Chairs were broken into splinters as they hit the street, the bodies of hopeful revolutionaries were torn by gunshot, and housewives' hopes and dreams were smashed, the women sobbing openly into their aprons, the children wondered why their mothers were crying so hopelessly, why their fathers weren't home yet, laughing from their seat at the head of the table and telling countless stories of life at the ABC.
No one had survived, except for the one who was truly convinced that his life didn't matter.
Enjolras was not supposed to be alive. He'd been shot at, had fallen backwards and hit his head against a window, and since his vest was so red and there were already bloodstains from his scrapes and minor injuries, they'd left him there, passed out and looking very much dead. But some hours later - he didn't know how long, and didn't want to guess, although the smell told him that it had been quite a bit of time - he awoke and, looking around him, had to blink several times.
Everything was red. The pools of blood on the wooden floor of the cafe were currant, the faces of his friends were smeared with ruby, and the curtains hanging from every window, placed there by Eponine's careful hand, were cherry with an edge of merlot. Enjolras stretched, making sure he could feel all his limbs, and was shocked when he felt a warm, soft… something in his hand.
He looked to his left. There lay the lifeless body of Grantaire, and if it hadn't been for the bullet holes in his chest Enj would have sworn that he was only sleeping from a heavy intake of liquor. Enjolras opened his palm, and Grantaire's hand fell lifeless to his side.
How curious, that Enjolras had been able to provide a little bit of relief to R at the time of his death, when in retrospect all he'd ever given him had been stress and heartache. It was now quite evident that, from the peaceful, almost happy look on Grantaire's face, that he had had strong feelings for Enjolras. Not romantic love - Grantaire had a girlfriend, and Enjolras was sworn to his Patria, his homeland. But filial, brotherly love… yes, that in itself was so different, but so beautiful!
To think that true friendship had been so close, and yet Enjolras had never seen it! He leaned over Grantaire's body, weeping silently, and eventually covered R's face with a piece of linen. Standing up, Enjolras swayed like a drunkard but didn't care. All he could see were his friends, and the blood that seemed to almost be a part of them, and it was making him sick. He turned to the window and leaned outside, breathing in deeply. The fresh air relieved him, and as it came into the room it relieved some of the stuffiness and diluted the stench. Enjolras looked down at the street, and upon seeing the fallen barricade was reminded of the past few years. He'd thrown everything - all his heart, soul, time, and resources into the revolution, to the point that it was all he saw, all he thought about. He had wanted a better world, but in trying to grasp that flimsy dream had lost hold of what really mattered.
Five minutes later, Enjolras found himself wandering the abandoned streets, seeing the ghosts of his friends walking past him, hearing their voices and their laughter echo between the shops lining the cobblestone way. He came to a stop before the remains of his barricade and dropped to the ground, pressing his forehead against it and whispering to himself. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed something that stood out against the dry brown buildings, and slowly raised his head to look at it more closely. A corner of red peeked out from under a table, moving slightly with the wind. Enj got to his feet and walked towards the curious object, being careful not to trip over a piece of wood. He tugged on the corner, but the fabric was trapped under the table's weight. With a sudden burst of energy, he braced his feet and pushed the table upward until it came loose and toppled down from the pile, releasing the flag. Enjolras grasped it tenderly and rubbed it against his rough cheek, wiping his damp face with the bloody cloth. The flag must have blown from the window, and snagged on a splinter. Recalling a scene from a few months prior, Enjolras sank onto a bench and twisted the flag between his hands like a security blanket.
It had been a hard week, and nothing was going the way it was supposed to. Enjolras had been in a terrible mood, and had raised his voice more than a little when Grantaire tried to crack a dry joke. Later that evening, when the cafe was empty save Enj and his ever-active mind, Grantaire came through the door after a particularly lively round of drinking. He noticed Enjolras' depressed face, and taking the flag from its place of honor on the highest shelf placed it like a blanket around Enj's shoulders. Normally Enjolras wouldn't tolerate such disrespect, but in that case he was almost touched. That was when he had started to notice R's deep respect for him, but to him it had always been respect, nothing more.
Stirred by such thoughts, Enjolras unfolded the flag from its messy tangle and ran his eyes over it. It was covered with the blood of his friends - it had originally been red, but now it seemed poignantly even more so. Red, the blood of angry men… it was that. Except his friends hadn't been angry, most of them anyway. They were just boys, had never held a gun, but were in the cause because they believed in it, they believed in him.
Enjolras flipped the flag over his back and pulled it tight against his chest. To him, it felt like a final caress, one last hug from his good friends.
And as he sat there, overwhelmed by memories, the clouds above cleared and the sun shone down once more.