It was never meant to go this far. He knew there would be casualties, it was a given, but not this much. Not all his friends. It was a total massacre, all for the sake of the poor. The same poor who had abandoned them in the much needed hour. Around the cafe, bodies littered the ground. Little pieces of shrapnel were everywhere, larger pieces of furniture had squashed people beneath them, killing them little by little.
The pavement was wet, soaked even, deep puddles of liquid that splashed every time someone went running, trying in vain to escape the national guards. Yet it wasn't water, it was blood. Thick, deep red blood spread for the love of France, in hopes that one day, it might become a Republic. In hope that their barricade, their sacrifice, had not been in vain.
Gun powder filled the air, making it hard to breathe and see. If he focused hard enough, he could feel the specks of his friends' blood on his face, smell their sorrow and pain in the air. If he focused hard enough, he could imagine that they were still there, shouting at him, trying to get him to focus, to run, to save himself while he could. It wouldn't make sense for him to die with them. The poor needed a leader, needed the encouragement.
But for him, it wouldn't make sense to continue this revolution without his friends by his side.
He would never fend alone, never could, never will. Especially now. How could he face Combeferre's parents? So gentle, so loving. How could he tell them they had to bury their son just because he had joined him on a revolution doomed to fail from the very beginning? How could he ever tell Musichetta that both her lovers were gone? Drowning in their own blood as he spoke? How could he ever remember their friends alive, when all he could see was their dead faces staring him down? Shouting at him that he had caused this, all this grief, all this pain, this sorrow.
Gavroche, so young, so innocent, a mature man stuck in the body of a 10 year old, never to be taken seriously except for those who really knew him. No young boy should be thrown out to fend alone on the streets at such a tender age. Especially the Parisian streets. No 10 year old should have ever experienced his sister dying right in front of him, consequence of their ruling system. A 10 year old should be playing with his friends, learning at school, going to sleep with no worries about finding a bite to eat. It was a traumatic life ended before it even started.
He would never hear Combeferre's exasperated sigh when he refused to take care of himself. Would never hear his friend begging him to eat, drink, and just take a break. Would never feel the doctor's fingers go through his golden curls when he fell sick and begged for comfort, clinging to his best friend in hopes to get out of his misery. Would never hear Combeferre's gentle baritone when he awoke from yet another fever-induced nightmare, scared out of his mind and downright sobbing. He would never be able to hug his friend again, to feel the sure, warm heart filled of love that belonged to Combeferre.
Courfeyrac, such a young boy, full of laughter and a joke at the tip of his tongue despite the dark world that they lived in. He could still hear the teasing tone right next to his ear, smell the wine-filled breath as his friend begged him to loosen up and enjoy, to take a drink with them. A drink for days gone by, such as Grantaire had sung the night before. He would never feel the laughter bubbling in his own chest when Courfeyrac ended up with yet another woman in his arms, his charming persona and successful flirting going a long way into helping his romantic life.
Feuilly wouldn't have anyone to remember him, the fan-maker having no family except for the boys that he died with. In a way, it was a good thing. Feuilly wouldn't have to go through losing his beloved family again. To have it ripped from him so brutally, it was an action only for those of a cold heart.
Bossuet and Joly, never separated, not even in death. One with the worst luck, yet still with a smile always present on his face, and the other the worst hypochondriac he had ever seen. They even called him the malade imaginaire, an ongoing joke that the doctor never seemed to be bothered with. Even though he imagined diseases in every corner of the world, and was convinced that he was chronically ill, there was no mistaking his caring persona, being the first one by your bedside whenever someone from the Les Amis fell sick. Bossuet, ever the eagle, was the only one to calm Joly when he went into one of his panic attacks, fear taking over him like it did over all of them. They made a cute couple, and it was obvious one would not live without the other. His heart squeezed the thought of Musichetta having to grief for both of them.
He could still feel Bahorel's blood caking his arms from where he had pressed against the man's wound, attempting to save him. The well-spirited gentleman had died in his arms, and the last whisper of a breath seemed to still echo in his ears. Bahorel's humour and boldness contrasted, producing an enigma that nobody could solve for a while, yet they had all greeted him with open arms, welcoming yet another friend in their midst. Loyal till the very end, everyone was sad to see that he was one of the first to go.
Last but not least, sweet, innocent Jehan. Jean Prouvaire was the one that starkly reminded all of the Les Amis that despite their age, they were still boys at heart, filled with hopes and dreams for a better future. He was an anchor to them all, giving them a reason to fight for, giving them a cause, so they would not be just a random group fighting to try and reach the future that they all dreamed of. He was the one that joined them all together. His poetry would remain forever hidden, never to be shown to the outside world. His shyness had always prevented him from seeking a publisher. It was clear that Jehan cherished them all, his love showing by the random flowers that they found in their books, and nobody could deny that sometimes, his talent on the flute was a welcoming sound, as it soothed all of them into sleep.
He didn't cry, yet his features were forever morphed into an expression of despair, the heart-wrenching agony forever coursing through his veins. Not in his wildest dreams had he ever thought this would happen. He had lost all of them. Every single one. The images were forever ingrained in his mind. Their deadly still bodies covered with blood, some their own, some splatters from whoever was next to them, a sure sign of the massacre that reigned in the quiet streets. He could still see the horror, the shock, the pain, forever sealed in faces that were never meant to express anything ever again. He had closed their eyes, paying only a few seconds of respect before he ran on, even though his heart was not in it. He never wanted to escape. Death would be better than living in this cold world. A martyr for his cause. A good way to leave. His friends would surely object, yet they were not here, so he was free to do as he wished. He was free to join them.
It then occurred to him that he had not seen Marius. He was sure that the boy had been injured, shot in the stomach when he ventured out of hiding, yet he was for sure gone, along with the other man who had come to help them. He hoped that the Pontmercy boy had found a way out, a way to be re-joined with Cosette. Despite his tough words before, he did care about Marius' life, and to see that he was living it was something that made happiness swell in his heart once again.
He had not seen Grantaire either, the drunkard having apparently escaped. At least one of them would live. Ironically, it had to be the one that didn't believe, that seemingly came to the meetings only to share a drink with friends. Yet he still came, he still showed his loyalty even if he frustrated the leader to no end. And for that, he was glad. He had known all along that Grantaire believed in him, and even though the leader could not fathom why he could not believe in his cause, he had accepted the cynical into their circle, tightening the knot of friendship when the drunkard seemed to blend right in.
Now, as he stared down the barrel of the gun pointed at him, defiance filled him to the very brim, his passion showing even if he didn't speak a word. He would not surrender, obviously, his cause was too important to be a coward now. He would face death like he faced his protests, with his head held high and that challenging gleam in his blue eyes. The red flag was held tight in his hands, a stark reminder of why all if this had happened.
Grantaire's appearance was a shock in itself, yet Enjolras could not deny his friend his only wish. To die alongside his friends. They agreed on something at last. Neither would live while their friends were dead. Or rather, Grantaire would not live while Enjolras was dead. A smile graced his chapped lips, and the leader reached out a hand, soft palm entangling around rough fingers. He only remembered the warmth in Grantaire's eyes before the high sound of the gun echoed in his ears.
Enjolras never felt the bullets pierce him.
Their hands never separated.
Although defiant till the very end, his head bowed as the blond revolutionary, killed way before his time along with all his friends, welcomed death with open arms just as he had welcomed everything else.
I kinda woke up inspired and this demanded to be written c= And hell, I'm currently obsessed on Les Mis, haven't read the book yet tho =/
This is more of a drabble than a fic, just a bit from Enjolras' point of view having to experience all of that before facing his own death.. I hope it wasn't OoC, still getting used to the characters because I'm writing a much longer one shot, one with an actual plot XD
Anyway, feel free to leave comments or such c=
-Chrisii