Gunshots rain through the haze of his drunken stupor- distant at first, but persistent and slowly penetrating, growing louder and louder. His eyes flicker lazily open, unbothered with rushing the process. His heart has other plans; pounding desperately against his skin, it alerts him to the tension thickening the air- the footsteps, the canon fire, the cries and calls and screams of his friends- Enjolras!
Stumbling to his feet, Grantaire winces as a glass bottle he had forgotten was in his grasp falls to the floor, smashing obnoxiously in the sudden silence. Silence? He frowns, trying to ignore the mocking echoes of the shattering glass bouncing against his temples. This is swiftly joined by the equally uninviting sound of gunfire in the room below him and he hastens to the door.
He arrives in the doorway just after the soldiers get there, but he doesn't see that. They have their guns trained at the young man in red, their aims are steady and their eyes are cold, but he doesn't see that either. He doesn't even notice his friends- Couferyac, Joly and Conbeferre – those he sang and drank and lived with only hours earlier. He doesn't see their blood stained shirts, their lifeless gazes or anything of their bullet-riddled corpses.
In the centre of the room, Enjolras stands, fierce as ever, the red flag held proud in his fist. And all that Grantaire can see how his hand is trembling violently with fear.
His feet carry him halfway across the room before he remembers the muskets, but by then he's beyond caring. This is where he dies, here with Enjolras; with each step he takes his confidence in this fact grows. None present are ignorant to how this will end, he and in the certainty of his death, he is untouchable.
Then they are side by side and everything changes. Grantaire takes in a deep breath and allows his gaze to focus on the barrels pointing at him, at them. The commander and the cynic, side by side at the very end. For him, nothing could be more right- he had fallen asleep so many nights to dreams where he died by the side of his fair-haired friend, maybe this would just feel like falling asleep, slipping gently under the cool embrace of nothing.
Enjolras gives no word, but the change is obvious; his stance relaxes and his shoulders fall square and confident, his fist grasping the red material a little firmer. Grantaire knows he was never the truest to the cause, nor could he even admit to fully understanding what it was that Enjolras fought so hard for, what he hoped to achieve, but Grantaire knew that he would die willingly in the name of Enjolras' revolution tonight.
Neither of them expected it or could have known who moved first, but one finger touched another and then, as quickly as unexpected rainfall, their hands were joined. Warm palms are pressed close together as their fingers intertwine with comfortable ease, the embrace resonating through Grantaire, unlike any contact he had ever experienced. He is hardly surprised; this is Enjolras, after all.
It was then that Grantaire risked a final glance at the man beside him. The light of dawn casts a yellow light across his face, illuminating his profile to be much younger than his years. The creases of study and passion give way to intensity of his blue eyes, unwavering and defiant to the very end, and Grantaire smiles.
The bullets burn like fire, ripping through him, thrusting and twirling their hate inside of him and destroying whatever they find. There is no embrace, no comforting light or benevolent relief to save him from the sensation of skin sliding against skin as a hand slips out of his own.
He is alone and then, finally, it ends.