It was summer the first time Grantaire saw Enjolras. Or at least he thought it was, as all the imagery associated with that first glance was summer warmth and light. He was walking with Courfeyrac, the two conversing as they approached where Grantaire stood, passing under the shades and patches of light filtering through overhanging tree branches in the Luxembourg. Courfeyrac he already knew, but it was not his incorrigible, exuberant friend that Grantaire had eyes for. It was the tall, graceful figure at his side. He held something in his hands. Grantaire didn't know what the object was, precisely, for Grantaire's entire attention was fixed on the boy's long, sensitive fingers, turning something over, carefully...examining it, absentmindedly toying with it...it didn't matter. His face was turned down, the brim of his hat and the tendrils of his hair hiding his features – that bright hair that was to forever become part of what "Enjolras" was to Grantaire, part of all the beauty the very word evoked. Like sunlight through translucent leaves on the sunniest days, like the glow of a Botticelli angel.

It was a moment that stood out in all the wastes of memory. How long it was before Courfeyrac caught sight of him and called Grantaire's name, before Grantaire answered and introductions were secured, he could not later have said. Because Enjolras looked up then, and his blue eyes caught Grantaire's own, and that was all that mattered. The moment would expand over the years of recollection, would come to fill all that summer afternoon in Grantaire's imagination, though he could never have remembered precisely what Enjolras had said, or what he himself had answered. Only that the very tenor of Enjolras' voice had set something thrumming in his soul, a vibration or an echo or a recognition.

Now, on a very different summer day, he felt immeasurable relief to see Enjolras again – the cortege was so vast, the crowds assembled to see Lamarque pass so dense, that he had feared they would never find the others. As it was, he never saw the coffin pass or the horseman who was to trigger the start of the rising with the flame of a red flag wielded on a grey day. The rest of the ABC had already coalesced around their leader when the trio found them. They were near the warehouses on the Boulevard Bourdon, surrounded by crowds of working men and students. Courfeyrac and Combeferre, of course. Feuilly – how did Feuilly manage to look so damn competent just standing still and surveying the crowd? And what on earth was that he had in his hand? A sword? Bahorel and Prouvaire had found them, the ever-unlikely companions standing shoulder to shoulder – Prouvaire, he noted absently, had a rather odd idea of what was appropriate to wear to a funeral. Grantaire nudged Bossuet and pointed them out, and Bossuet waved and called "Enjolras!"

All of them turned their heads, Courfeyrac's smile lighting up his face, Combeferre waving a hand in greeting and Enjolras nodding shortly, as if this was just exactly to be expected. Joly took point, and with many "Pardon me's" rendered unintelligible by phlegm, cut his way through the crowd, Bossuet following and Grantaire, suddenly abashed, trailing.

Because what if – what if Enjolras rejected him? Told him he had no place here...or worse, simply turned his back as if Grantaire were nothing to him?

He slowed his steps, shoving someone aside who came between him and the Amis. Enjolras had already taken Joly's chin between thumb and forefinger, turning his face up, and was speaking softly to his friend...no doubt checking on his lieutenant's well being. Whatever Joly said made him smile, and he grasped the medical student's shoulder. He turned to Bossuet, touching his arm, and had a word for him as well.

Grantaire braced himself for the disappointment that was sure to come. The glance lighting on him, the register of surprise or indifference, and then the resumption of quiet conversation with the others, with those he truly trusted. The moment came- Enjolras, pulling away from Bossuet, caught sight of Grantaire. He almost asked "if you permit…?" If the words died before he spoke them, they were still written on his face in naked appeal.

There was, perhaps, just a moment of stillness – it was hard to tell with so many people pressing around them, so much suppressed movement and tension – but it seemed to Grantaire that there was no hesitation or even surprise to be read on Enjolras' face. The bitterly anticipated words, either a question or a repulse, did not come. Enjolras took a step towards him, and then there was a hand that reached out to grasp his own and eyes that met his evenly.

Then Courfeyrac was slapping Grantaire on the back and his sweet, rilling laughter – so utterly wrong in this time and place and so completely Courfeyrac – was in his ear, and Bahorel was giving him a friendly cuff on the ear, and then he was borne away with all of them, their attention directed to the dragoons that approached, and the shouts and cries that were beginning to come from further along the procession.

Grantaire wished he were more sober – did Enjolras smell the sourness of the wine on him? Of course he must – because this was all too confusing...a whirl of sound and people pressing against him, of figures coming between him and Enjolras, and...and what had that touch meant?

And the Dragoons charged – had something triggered it? Had there been a shot? From whence had it come, which side? - And the storm erupted, coming down upon them in unmitigated fury.

The next few hours were a jumble of confused fragments. He had been in danger of sobering up, but as they ran through the streets, crying of building barricades, he had dropped into a wineshop whose owner hadn't been quick enough to bar his doors from the mob. Seizing up a bottle (later to be shared surreptitiously with Bahorel), he told them to charge the brandy to the Republic.

Barricades were going up, the fire catching hold, the conflagration in his brain as well as the streets. He was there, he was one of them – he sang songs with Prouvaire, he doled out ammunition with Combeferre, he took messages from Enjolras to Feuilly in the upper story of the Cafe they had commandeered near the site of their hastily assembled barricade.

It all swirled to madness in the early hours of the following morning – Enjolras his only beacon as the fighting went hand to hand, Enjolras at his side, thrusting a sword into his grip, knowing his expertise in singlesticks, and the two of them, side by side...where? Some dim awareness – the Hôtel de Ville – and he could see Courfeyrac with his hair flying back, reckless, Feuilly with his cap pulled down tight over his eyes, cool and guarding himself, Combeferre with the air of a bemused professor, firing deliberately if not terribly effectively...and he felt an overwhelming surge of boundless love for all of them, his wayward, adored friends.

Most overwhelmingly of all there was a surpassing love and veneration for the man who stood at his shoulder, the beautiful creature that looked as if he had descended from heaven itself, clothed in flame and sparking lightening from his eyes...but whose hands were black with powder, and who had a fine sheen of sweat on his upper lip and whose shirt clung damply under his arms with perspiration. The impossible reconciled, the improbable incarnate before him. The ideal rendered very real and human enough to touch.

Grantaire felt the ecstasy of the moment swell within him, as if it must spill from his very fingertips. The cry came from his throat, encompassing all of them – "Vive la République! I am one of them!"
And Enjolras turned to him. What Grantaire saw in his eyes, the answering joy, untainted by any doubt or cynicism, could have made him forget to breath. Enjolras gestured towards him, as if he would stretch out those beautiful, elegant fingers to grasp Grantaire's own, but then there was another surge from the National Guard, and their attention returned to the battle.

They won.

It hardly seemed possible – Grantaire had not been there in July 1830, but he remembered their descriptions of it. The National Guard units turning, the people hurling paving stones from the windows – it was all familiar, in a strange way. Then there were cheers ringing out, and Enjolras was calling out names – checking to see that they were all there. They'd lost some along the way – Marius had been taken in hand by that odd old chap back at the barricades when he'd fallen injured (Grantaire had been astonished by his recklessness – who would have thought dreamy Marius had it in him?) and Bahorel had been left back with the wounded. But gradually the lieutenants of the society filtered through the crowds, making their way back to Enjolras. The beacon for all of them, their leader and their touchstone. Joly was bandaging up Courfeyrac's arm, tsking over his wounds, while Bossuet seemed to be making some complicated joke about his luck changing. Grantaire was trying to think of something to say suitable to the occasion, but then he realized Combeferre and someone who had been pointed out to him as a leader of the of the Amis du Peuple were speaking urgently to Enjolras about the Tuileries and Enjolras was nodding gravely in response. Confused, he hesitated. Then they were embracing each other, Courfeyrac hardly seeming to know whether to throw himself on Enjolras or Combeferre first, and settling for sweeping them both up in his arms, squeezing them fiercely, then turning his attention to an already hugging Joly and Bossuet.

Distracted, he realized someone was at his side. This time Enjolras did touch Grantaire's hand – enveloped it in his own. There was no shadow in his smile, and the warmth touched his eyes, all the more blue against the grey skies, though in that moment it seemed to Grantaire as if the sun had risen and must be illuminating the world.

But then other hands were plucking at Enjolras, and they were talking again about the Tuileries, and he heard mention of the men of St Mery and what was to be done next. Lafayette and Orléans and fierce declarations that this time it would be different, and their victory would not be stolen from them.

Immediately, Enjolras was himself again - distant and inviolate, walking away from Grantaire surrounded by a crowd of people who were clamoring for his attention. He looked behind once, but already there was a sea of people between them, and it could not be he whom Enjolras looked for in all that crowd.

He was soon lost to sight, and Grantaire let the sword in his hand fall to the ground.

The Republic had just reclaimed Enjolras. In their victory, Grantaire feared he had lost him forever.