AN: AU, of course.
July 8, 1832
"Was it worth it?" Grantaire asked, fingers wrapped around the prison bars. His clothes reeked of sweat and alcohol. He had stood up at the right time and the wrong sequence of events had come about afterwards. The firing squad was told to stand down, and they found themselves clapped in chains rather than inundated with bullets.
Enjolras sat on the small cot in the prison cell, his gaze focused on the far wall. He looked at nothing and he hadn't changed expression since the order had been given for their arrest.
Grantaire turned back to face him.
"Was it worth it, Enjolras?"
The sound of his name snapped Enjolras out of his trance and he focused on Grantaire.
"Losing our friends," Grantaire continued, as though Enjolras had spoken to him. "Seeing them all die. And you must have seen them die. Nevermind about that, I got to hear about it all. Bahorel. His body laid out before us like a bad omen. Jehan, giving over his last words to this failed revolution. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, all the rest of them, just toy soldiers to be shot down in the peak of their lives!"
His words got louder. He strode over to the cot and leaned down, hands on either side of it as he looked Enjolras in the eye.
"You speak of the march of progress. You speak of how we must suffer in order to advance the lives of others. Where are those others now? Still in the gutter! And where are our friends? In the gutter along with them, only there's no escape for them! They're dead, Enjolras! Dead!"
Enjolras didn't blink.
"Was it worth it?" Grantaire asked again, pulling back just a bit. "Was it worth their sacrifice?"
Enjolras, knowing full well what Grantaire wanted to hear, saw no reason to deny him. "Yes."
And Grantaire's shoulders unclenched as he knelt down next to the cot and sobbed. "Speak to me," he pleaded.
"You are uninterested in politics, Grantaire. What shall I speak to you about?"
"About whatever is on your mind." Grantaire reached up and grasped hold of Enjolras' hand.
Enjolras moved himself off the cot and placed a friendly arm around Grantaire's shoulders. "Shall I speak to you of how proud you made me in what should have been our final moments? Shall I speak to you of our sacrifices and how the tides will change? Shall I speak to you of the future? It won't be that long, Grantaire. A year goes by in a flash. Five years will be gone when you blink. Ten years, the world will change. Humanity is forever evolving. It used to be that we were just split into two groups. Hunters and gatherers. Look at how far we've come. We have further still to go because it will never end. We will always change, even in the depths of stagnation, we will change and we will grow. Pity those who try to stop the march of progress, Grantaire. Pity those who are truly dead but still walk about thinking that they live. Pity them but do not pity our friends. Unlike so many, they lived their lives. They lived and died in a freedom that so many could only ever dream of. They will be envied in the years to come because things will not improve from here on out. They have only made matters worse for themselves. The blood of our friends is a curse laid upon them now. They have dug their own graves and we sought to grant them a chance out of ignorance, out of this enforced, lingering version of slavery. I feel sorry for them, Grantaire, but I do not feel sorry for us. In here, in this cell, we have our freedom."
Grantaire's tears ceased flowing and he worried that he might bruise Enjolras' hand.
"Speak to me about your Patria then," he said, his voice no longer shaking either with anger or sadness.
"She is still so beautiful, Grantaire. Perhaps one day, you will see her yourself. Once the absinthe has finished running its course through your veins. Once you no longer harbor any delusions that we are the unfortunate ones. Then, you will see her. And to see her is to know her. And to know her is to love her."