The barricade had already been cleared away, like it was nothing more than a child's toy, but blood still lined the gutters. Enjolras tried to not think about it splashing against his shoes but thoughts were impossible to ignore and they crowded him. Under the watch of the sign outside the Musain, he leaned against a filthy wall and was thankful for the quiet of the street.

His vision disappeared and the next he knew he was gripping his knees, staring at the bloodied ground through spots that flashed across his eyes. The blood seemed to boil and reach for him and he coughed, heaving up the wine from his otherwise empty stomach. It burned his throat and made his mouth feel like it had been flayed and did nothing to stop the thundering in his head.

Maybe this had been a bad idea.

The air was as clear as a normal summer's day but, to Enjolras, still stank heavily with the smells of gunpowder and desperate men He could smell burning flesh and smoking bullets and the sheer panic –

He coughed again but came up dry, his breathing rasping through his lungs and throat. He had to get a grip. Raising his eyes again, he could see the sign of the Musain and the window into the room he and his friends had so often sat in.

This was not the conclusion he'd expected.

He stumbled forward again on shaking knees, barely breathing. He could smell the blood.

Inside the Musain was a completely different world. The owners had quickly patched up the damage done by the fighting and had made it somewhat presentable. Still, there was an eerie silence to the place. He climbed the creaking stairs carefully, minding the missing steps, and reached the familiar room.

It should have had tables and chairs filling the whole floor. These had all been thrown onto the barricade and only a few chairs had been salvaged – one of which had been pulled towards the front window and claimed by a man who Enjolras knew too well and hardly at all.

"I knew you were incapable of dying," he said, voice a lot hoarser than he'd expected.

The man turned suddenly to look at him, gripping to the back of the chair with the hand that wasn't clasped around a bottle. Grantaire's eyes grew and grew and, for a moment, he thought maybe he had died.

"It's the leader in red back to try again," he muttered, turning his whole body to face Enjolras. "Why are you here?"

"To find you."

"Why?"

"To – To prove to myself that you didn't die for something you didn't believe in," Enjolras heard himself mutter, taking a chair and sitting near the opposite wall. Grantaire frowned at him.

"I do believe in it."

"I saw Jean Prouvaire," Enjolras sighed, not sure why he was back in this place. The floorboards squeaked with the echoes of their many conversations. "No one died."

"I know."

Silence.

"What are you to do now, Enjolras?" Grantaire asked, impossibly softly. His head was spinning – the beautiful man looked so forlorn and defeated that maybe it would have been better if they had all died. The bandage around his head barely hid the gash across his forehead.

He didn't answer for a long time. And then he sighed and lifted his eyes to look at the man who, despite everything, was still there.

"Drink," he muttered, frowning deeply and accepting the bottle when it was handed to him. "Tell me everything you know."

"I know nothing," Grantaire laughed, resting his head in one of his palms. "I know nothing but love and drink and despair."

"Then tell me of despair. Tell me of this place and what we dreamed of and what we've been handed."

Grantaire sighed and, when he spoke, he felt like he'd never had a more important conversation in his life. "This place was doomed," he whispered. "You all cared for the people but the people did not care for you. You were on your own – you always were. I had hoped to die with you all." This made Enjolras's stomach jump again and he struggled to keep this new wine down. "But fate refused me. It refused you all and we are here now to continue with our sorry lives as if this past week had never happened."

"What am I to do, Grantaire?" Enjolras whispered, giving him the bottle back. It was considerably lighter than when he'd received it. "The last few years for me have led to this. I never planned on continuing – not in a world so unchanged."

"You still have chance to change it, if that's what you wish."

"What do you mean, if?"

"If you still think it's worth your friends' lives," Grantaire muttered, drinking again. "Is it?"

"I – I do not know," Enjolras moved his chair a little closer. "Grantaire, I'm asking you to help me."

"With what?"

"I am lost."

"You are asking for directions from a blind man."

"Better to have a blind friend than no friend," Enjolras whispered, hoping very much that, despite everything, he could count this man as his friend. He didn't answer straight away; he stared down at the floor and drank again.

"In that case," Grantaire whispered, "Let this blind friend take you for a walk. I have had enough of this place. It stinks of failure and reminds me of myself."

"You are not a failure, Grantaire," Enjolras sighed, getting unsteadily to his feet. "Despite what I've said to you."

"I'm hardly a success, mon ami," Grantaire muttered and walked slowly ahead of Enjolras. At the foot of the stairs he swapped his bottle for a full one – no one seemed to be watching the stock. "How is Combeferre?"

"I do not know," Enjolras sighed, trailing after him. "Prouvaire said he will live."

"Good."

"But he may lose his leg."

"I thought so," Grantaire sighed and considered the blood at his feet. "There is no way of knowing whose this is," he mused. "It could be yours and it could be mine – it could be the traitor, Javert's, or it could be the King's. How peculiar the methods of the world are."

"It could not be the King's," Enjolras muttered. "He would not bleed for the citizens of Paris."

"There," Grantaire, impossibly, laughed. It was a sound that filled the street and bounced from the walls. "You sound like yourself again. Are you to shout at me now?"

"What?"

"When you are truly the Enjolras I know and admire," he said, still chuckling, "You will call me base and shout at me."

"Grantaire, I –"

"It's fine," he said with a wave of his hand. "I understand you then. And I will know that you're well. I'd ask if you'd taken a blow to your head, but," he nodded at the bandage, "That much is clear."

"I don't know how that happened," Enjolras muttered. "I barely remember any of it."

"I find it's best to not remember many things."

"I may try your philosophy."

"It is a good one," Grantaire laughed again but it was less free. "Drink and forget, but never forget to drink. Or to make time to laugh with your friends."

It hit Enjolras quite suddenly and he bit his lip, not wishing to cry in front of this man. "I nearly got them all killed."

"No."

"It was me who started this – me who brought them to this wretched place. They would have died."

"It was their choice."

"Are you saying you would not blame me if Joly had been killed?"

"No. I'm saying I would not blame you because I, too, would be dead."

"Grantaire, I'm being serious."

"As am I."

Enjolras stopped them walking and wobbled worryingly. Grantaire nearly reached for him.

"Grantaire, how am I to face them all when it's my fault?"

"They won't blame you."

"If Combeferre – "

"He was as bad for this as you," Grantaire said with a reassuring chuckle. "He would have got himself into this situation without your help."

"You – you were captured," Enjolras muttered, squinting at the horrible marks across this man's face and hands. "What happened?"

Grantaire frowned. He didn't want to talk about this. "The fighting had come to an end and it was quiet. I assumed you were dead. I stumbled into the soldiers, told them who and what I was and awaited death."

"But Montparnasse saved you?"

"I'm not sure if 'saved' is how I would describe it," he sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "But he stopped them from killing me."

"What did you tell them you are?"

"A man who believes in freedom for the citizens of the world," Grantaire sighed. "One of the revolutionaries. One of the men who was trying to change the world."

"But you don't."

"I do," He sighed loudly and started walking again. "You believed in it and I believe in you. That's all I needed."

"You were prepared to die for us?"

"With you, yes."

"But, Grantaire, you slept when we needed you."

He glared at the floor. "I know. I will not forgive myself for that. I should have been with you."

"You should," Enjolras agreed, not sure what he was saying. "I would have appreciated the company."

"Be serious, Enjolras."

"I am."

"Don't tease me like that. I know you dislike me and you know I adore you."

He sighed sharply. "You can't adore me," Enjolras growled. "I am almost as flawed as this country."

"You love your country. By that logic I should love you."

"My love for my country nearly got all of your friends killed," Enjolras snapped. "For a place where no one cares."

"Enjolras, stop," Grantaire sighed, stopping walking again. He was trying to guide him back to the monastery. "You are determined to always be right. Admit that, sometimes, you make mistakes," Grantaire kept his arms very firmly crossed. "And, in this case, you mistake me."

"I do not comprehend you."

"Don't try," Grantaire shrugged and started walking again. "Not everything makes sense."

Enjolras tried to keep up with him. "I need you to be a friend to me, Grantaire."

"I always was."

"Was?"

"Am. Will be. Anything you wish, I'll do it."

"Help me fix what I've done wrong," Enjolras whispered, wanting to reach for him to make him stop. "Help me make it up to our friends."

"Of course," Grantaire sighed. "That may be the easiest thing anyone's asked of me."

"What?"

"You have nothing to fix. They love you and always will. They would follow you to death as easily as breathing."

"I don't want them to," Enjolras muttered He realised where they were going and he was not pleased. "I want you all to rebuild your lives and start again somewhere."

"Well," Grantaire said slowly, "I think somewhere is certain. It will have to be away from here. We are too known. But it will have to be somewhere we can all go."

"Why's that?"

"We're a family. You think you could pull me away from Bossuet – or him away from Joly – or Joly away from Prouvaire – or Prouvaire away from Feuilly – or Feuilly away from Courfeyrac – or Courfeyrac away from Combeferre and from you?"

"When you say it like that," Enjolras muttered, "I suppose we are all linked."

"Even more so now you have all fought together."

"I don't deserve to be involved in your happiness."

"Enjolras, you do not know us – or me," Grantaire laughed again. "My happiness is you."

"I never understood you, Grantaire," Enjolras muttered, walking quickly away from the street that would take them to the Monastery. He needed to be outside – for a while longer, anyway. "Sit with me; I cannot walk anymore."

"Are you sure you should be walking at all?" Grantaire asked, letting him take his arm as they picked their way towards a tall wall. It had sheltered the floor there from the rain and, importantly, it was free of blood.

"No," Enjolras sighed, sitting heavily and closing his eyes. Everything swam rather alarmingly and he breathed through his teeth. "But I couldn't sit. I needed to know where you all were."

"Did you see anyone except Prouvaire?"

"No," He shook his head and regretted it, suddenly clasping Grantaire's arm for some support against the nausea that was boiling in him. He just about managed to steady himself.

"Enjolras, are you ill?"

"It's just my head," he muttered, peeling his eyes open and seeing Grantaire was drinking again. "It's throbbing."

"It's all those ideas trying to get out," Grantaire muttered, watching the sky as it started to rain again. It was a soft summer rain and he didn't mind it one bit. "Occupational hazard."

"I think," Enjolras muttered, raising a tentative hand to touch the bandage again, "It's more physical than that."

"The way to avoid that is to do nothing physical except to exist."

"What sort of life would that be?"

"One without the sort of pain you're feeling now," Grantaire pointed out, gesturing with the bottle. Enjolras's hand was still clasped around his arm. "It does, however, come with other pains."

"What pains could you feel?" Enjolras muttered, turning his face to the sky and hoping some drops would cool him. "You feel nothing for anyone."

Grantaire sighed and drank again, wondering how he could possibly say these things. "It's not that I don't feel," he said slowly, "It is that I feel too much. I feel so much that to face a world without my friend was inconceivable. And I could never care as you do so I made sure I only cared about you."

Enjolras, surprisingly, just said, "I don't want to argue this. Today I am glad you live."

"Thank you," Grantaire whispered, not sure if that was meant as a positive or a negative but very aware of the ice it had put into his chest. Enjolras still had his hand around his arm and it was beginning to hurt.

They sat in silence for a while. The floor was uncomfortable but nothing Grantaire wasn't used to so he tolerated it wordlessly, just waiting for Enjolras to speak again.

"I can't see them," Enjolras said eventually, making Grantaire look up and frown.

"Who?"

"Combeferre – Courfeyrac – Feuilly – "

"Why not?"

"Because I nearly killed them all."

Grantaire sighed. "No, you didn't. The national guard did."

"Because I told them to die for something that, ultimately, was not worth their blood."

"They chose to fight with you for something you all care about."

Enjolras bit his lower lip. "They didn't know. They didn't expect this – none of us did. It's not the ending we hoped or feared."

"But is it an ending?"

"What do you mean?"

"Won't you try again when you're all better?"

"No," Enjolras spoke sharply. "I might but that's my choice because I know nothing else. I will not make – let them do this to themselves again. The world needs men like Combeferre alive."

"I'm glad you said most of that," Grantaire sighed. "Except that you might do this again."

"Grantaire – "

"And that you think you'd do it without everyone."

"I could never bring any of them back to a place like this," Enjolras snapped, not sure what Grantaire was implying. "I could never – I'm responsible for the pain they're in now, don't you think that's enough for me?"

"Enjolras, be calm. If Combeferre decided he wanted to try again, do you think you could stop him?"

Enjolras's jaw jumped. "No."

"That's all I'm saying," Grantaire muttered, wishing they could get up and leave. He was unused to having so much time alone with Enjolras and he didn't know what else to say.

Enjolras whispered after a few minutes and made Grantaire's skin glow warm. "Thank you, Grantaire. I haven't appreciated you before today."

Grantaire felt himself smile and drank instead of responding, not sure that he could trust his words.

"Let's go back," Enjolras sighed, finally releasing his arm to push against the floor and wall in an attempt to get to his feet. It was too much; he turned very pale and, if Grantaire hadn't moved quickly to stand and put his arms around him he would have hit the floor.

"Enjolras?"

"Thank you," he gasped, leaning very heavily into him. Grantaire looked around but he couldn't see that anyone was watching. "My head – everything went black."

"We really need to get you back to the monastery," Grantaire sighed, holding onto him for as long as he dared. He seemed impossibly real and thin in his arms. "Enjolras, you can't stay like this."

Wordlessly, Enjolras supported himself and stepped away from Grantaire. He staggered and one hand went to his head to press against the gash, hoping to dull the pain.

Grantaire couldn't watch this.

Ignoring everything that anyone seeing them might think, he abandoned the bottle and put one arm around Enjolras's waist to support him. Impossibly, Enjolras breathed another thanks and put his arm around Grantaire's shoulders.

The man in red was slightly taller than Grantaire but with, his body weak like this, he seemed shorter. He was younger, too – and still full of boyish hope. Maybe the events of the last two days had changed that.