"So it's over, eh?"

They were sitting on a roof of a church, managing to get up there through the stairs through the tower, Grantaire holding onto the tiles for dear life in fear he would fall. He had never liked heights too much but this wasn't as bad as it could have been. Enjolras seemed more at ease up there, even though his face was hard, saddened by the loss that he knew he had suffered. Grantaire knew that Enjolras was beating himself up for letting everyone die, even though all of them were prepared for it. Probably not mass slaughter in the way that they had been, but they were all prepared. It was like the young soldier that he had killed. Guilt had raced Enjolras for that, even as he tried to justify it. They all knew that they couldn't justify it; at the end of the day, Enjolras had killed somebody. He couldn't take that back.

Grantaire shrugged. "For us, it's over. For the rest, it's over. For France... I don't think so, no. More people will rise up again, it's the only thing that makes sense." He laughed suddenly then; chuckling with mirth that wasn't often heard. "Goddamn, I need a drink. I'm starting to sound like a damn philosopher." His fingers tapped against the roof of the holy building incessantly. Grantaire didn't know what was going on, not really. Why they were here, what the purpose was. Where was everyone else? Where was Joly, Feuilly, Bahorel, Combeferre, Courfeyrac? Young Gavroche, the little squirt that Grantaire had become fond of despite himself? Where were they all? Why did Grantaire have to be here, dealing with the emotions that he never wanted to embrace?

It was odd, the way he looked at Enjolras now. Grantaire wished that he had some kind of artist's utensils, something that he could use to draw the young man sitting next to him at that moment. The soft lines of Enjolras' almost feminine face, the curls of his hair. Hell, he could even add some sparkles for it from the way that the sun hit his silhouette. But as Grantaire watched Enjolras considering what he had said, he had to wonder; was he the one staying optimistic while Enjolras was the one who was giving up? It didn't make sense anymore, not after all that they had been through. After they had died, Grantaire didn't expect Enjolras to be like this.

"Oi," Grantaire said, nudging Enjolras gently – oh God, he was still in that red coat that he always wore, couldn't he just have been in something normal for once – with an almost reassuring smile. "You can't give up just yet, you idiot. Not after all the crap you put us through with your sleepless nights planning and all those bloody speeches. How many of them did I have to sit through? That was torture, you know. Why did you have to put me through that, of all things?" He was being an idiot, trying to invoke some sort of smile from the other male, but he got nothing.

"They're all dead, Grantaire. Can't you see that?"

That was the answer that came: soft, whispered, almost a half-sob. Part of Grantaire wanted to shove him away and get off the roof as fast as possible, but another part of him just wanted to wrap him into a hug. Grantaire hadn't hugged anybody for a long time, he never found the need or want to. At least, he'd never found that until round about now. His fingers clenched together, nails biting into his palms as he considered Enjolras' own answer. He didn't want to admit it, but now, when he finally thought about it for real, they were all dead. They were all dead. Dead. Dead, dead, dead, losses of life that didn't deserve to be lost. They were all young and free, they were young and rash, they were young and they were all dreamers. It was horrible to think of it, and yet that was all he could do. He lifted himself up, holding onto the spire of the church, before looking down at Enjolras with an almost softened look.

"That's right. They're all dead. Like I said we would be. We're all dead men now, and there's nothing we can do about it. We're all dead men. That was how it was always going to end, you bloody idiot. We were all going to die, just like I said we would. Do our lives mean anything at all? That's a question we're never going to be able to answer, because we'll never find out. All we can do is wait and see, wait to see what will happen in France now. Whether the people will take what we did into their stride – oh, I'm sorry, what you did," he laughed, coughing a little as he did so. "You did it all, Apollo. You're the wonderful leader of the revolution. I'm just the dead weight that no one's going to remember."

The words started to come tumbling out of his mouth again; today he just couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut from letting everything he had ever thought come pouring out. "You're the one I stayed there for, you beautiful, ethereal idiot. You're the one I believed in, not the revolution. I didn't believe for one damn minute that it would work. I said what I did with the hope that you would actually see sense and stop it, because I knew you were going to die. Why else would I stand beside you at the end? I wasn't going to stay alive when you weren't around. What was I going to live for, then? Everything just attached to you, because I couldn't leave you alone, could I? I was an annoying bastard, I know. But at the end of the day, look at us now. Dead men. Dead men, with one of them fallen for the other."

He chewed his lip, before sliding down to the edge of the church and considering whether he could jump down. "Happy?" he finally asked bitterly.

Hey, here's the next chapter for you guys! What did you think? Was it good enough? Please review and leave criticism, constructive would be nice though. Thanks!

-Hanny