AN: I'm so sorry. Inspired by Laura Marling's cover of 'The Wrote and the Writ' originally by Johnny Flynn.
/
The candle is lit and dinner is steaming at the table. Letters are scattered around his table. There are ink stains on the cheap wood, and his red jacket draped carelessly over one of the few chairs.
To any stranger walking past on such a night, it would appear to be just another night for the small house's inhabitant. It appears to be a dinner spent musing over writing from another, and they would not think any more on it.
It is not just another night. Enjolras will not eat dinner, read words, and then retire to his bed for the night. Rather, he will leave his dinner to go cold, cower from the letters, and stare at the candle until even the flame died, leaving him alone in the dark and the cold.
It's been days, weeks, months since the revolution. And he is yet to eat his dinner right away. He has had the letters for too long to not have read them, and yet each time he sees them, he cannot bring himself to do it.
The candle is blown out by a wandering wind, and Enjolras doesn't move to relight it.
/
"I am to be wed to Madame Fauchelevent in a week."
Marius looks uncomfortable in his presence, and he can't entirely blame him. His house his dusty, cold, and uninviting. His expression, while he can't see it, must surely be even more so.
"I… We, would very much like to see you there," Marius adds softly. "It would do you much good."
Enjolras waves him off. "I am sorry, Marius. I give you many happy regards, but I sincerely doubt I will be able to make it." He doesn't give an excuse; he doesn't think Marius would believe any more if he did.
"That is a shame, Enjolras. We will miss you," Marius says, brushing his coat and placing his hat back on his head. "I will miss you."
Enjolras can only nod and swallow back his replies, because he can't trust himself to speak without crying.
/
Then one night, when the candle stays lit for longer than he can ever remember, he finally picks up the first letter. It's furthest from the candle, which sits flickering in the centre of the table, and it's covered in neat, orderly handwriting. Combeferre's delicate penmanship brightens as Enjolras huddles nearer to the candle, not daring to put on his jacket still draped over a chair, despite the cold.
He reads the words that meant so little when he originally received them. The letter is old, from several months ago, and it regards one of their meetings, and how Combeferre was unable to attend it due to being quite ill. As he read the words, over and over, Enjolras can almost hear his laugh, see his smile etched into the parchment, and that's all it takes for him to put it back down and sob.
So full of life… So easily removed. Enjolras was their fearless leader, and yet it seemed that this captain had not gone down with his ship.
/
Reading through all of his remnants of Combeferre takes a week. The letters go back into a neat box, clearing some room on his table. He doesn't go to Marius' wedding.
Courfeyrac is next. Skewed, jagged writing in bundles of letters takes him 5 days.
Jean Prouvaire's letters, covered in elegant, loopy words, takes him 4 days.
Feuilly, Joly, and Bossuet take him 3 days each. Bahorel's letters only take him 2 days, as he slowly numbs the pain with nostalgia.
When the last of the letters are cleared, Enjolras nearly chokes.
He has nothing of Grantaire's. Nothing. The man who had saved his life, allowed him to live and breathe while he perished, and Enjolras had no letters, not even a scrap of writing.
He doesn't sleep that night.
/
"Madame? I'm so sorry, Madame," Enjolras says, standing at the front door of a shabby, rotting house. A woman bustles in her tattered skirt to the front door, and opens it. Enjolras holds back his tears – Grantaire's sister looks like him.
"I'm sorry, Madame, I'm… I was, a friend of Grantaire's," Enjolras stumbles.
"Oh! Come in," she says. "Can I get you something to drink, perhaps?"
"No, I'm fine, thank you," Enjolras says.
"Sit down," she says, gesturing to a wooden box covered in scratchy fabric. Enjolras sat stiffly.
"I… I was wondering, if you still have any of his belongings?"
"We went to his house after… well, you must know, Monsieur. And we retrieved some of his possessions. You could see them, if it would please you," she says, fiddling with the fraying hem of her skirt.
"Please," Enjolras musters.
She takes him to an empty room, small and dusty, and leaves him alone to his thoughts. Outside, he can hear joyous screams from children running around.
There are bundles of letters from the once members of the Les Amis de l'ABC – he gently sorts through them, picking up on Courfeyrac's handwriting, and Joly's. He does not read what they contain. Even now, when they all lie safely beneath the Earth, Enjolras feels their blood in his mouth, and cannot find it within himself to invade Grantaire's conversations with their friends.
There are paintings, so many paintings – paintings on cheap fabric, on parchment, on empty bottles of wine. The most expensive looking thing in the small room is a thick book, with Grantaire's atrocious handwriting on the front. R's Sketchbook.
Enjolras paces, deciding whether or not he should open it. He feels nauseous. This wasn't a good idea. He should have never come to the house where Grantaire grew up in, the house he frequently visited to see his sister, it was such an awful idea. He's almost going to vomit when he realizes that amongst his worrying, his has put the sketchbook in his hands, and that stops him. He can't vomit on Grantaire's soul prized possession.
Tentatively, he opens it. The pages are covered in swirls of vermillion, cerulean, aureolin, rich colours forming various figures. There are sketches of Courfeyrac, mid-conversation, grinning wildly. Combeferre, studying a ladybird on his finger intently. Jean doodling flowers on the minutes. Feuilly brushing his fingers against the tip of a candle flame. Joly nudging Bossuet with his cane. They're good. Really good. Enjolras feels a rush of affection and pride for his friend, sinking only when he remembers where Grantaire is now.
He flicks through, and as he delves deeper into Grantaire's art, he can't find anything of him. It saddens him – he was one to be harsh to Grantaire, but did he really leave such an impression that made him exclude him from his art?
At the end of the sketchbook, one page is far blanker than the rest. Instead of colours and shapes, Grantaire's handwriting is scrawled in the centre of the page. There's no date for the entry, but Enjolras reads carefully…
I only wish I could do his profile justice. How can I even attempt to recreate such fairness, such beauty, with mere pencil, paint and paper? Our fearless leader in red. My hands are not worthy to draw him, to even try to draw him. Enjolras is a statue, and I can only dream of drawing him, of touching him… He is prepared to give his life to this cause. And I am prepared to give mine for him.
Enjolras has to leave before he nearly vomits for a second time.
/
He keeps no memory of Grantaire in his house. No letters, no paintings… He even disposes of his red jacket eventually, stained with his blood and from an era Enjolras would much rather forget.
The letters from the others sit in a box he only retrieves on winter's coldest nights, when the candle wavers with every gasp from the wind.
But Grantaire's memory is not with them.
'Your blood's between the pages, and I can't stand to see you bleed.' – The Wrote and The Writ, Laura Marling.