Chapter 1

A/N: Well I've been meaning to write this for a time… and this is only a short bit which is whats been written so far. Uhm I promise bad grammar and everything else? Caution major hint at E/R (Enjolras Grantaire) don't like don't read. Also hints at abusive relationship between J/E in the past (Javert Enjolras). Again don't like don't read. Written with plenty of help from Sparrah ^_^ – who's done most of Grantaires writing.

Enjolras couldn't help his faint gasp of pain as he woke up. Or at least he thought he woke up anyway. His body ached, and he felt himself starting to wretch. The stench of death was near on overwhelming, leaving him even more confused. This was at odds with the darkness. A deep inky black pierced in places by blinding areas of light… like stars but bigger, or smaller. He tried to move to spit out the bile in his mouth, wanting rid of the bitter sweet taste. That was when he became aware of a warm weight on his lower torso – and that he couldn't feel his legs. A low despairing groan escaped as he looked down to see just what it was, breath catching in his throat almost choking him.

"Nicholas…. no…please…not you…" he moaned out lowly his voice cracking in a futile attempt to keep tears back.

So sure that his drunken friend had died was he that he startled when Grantaire gave a drunken snort. Slowly, with great pain he moved a hand to ruffle the tousled hair, freezing as he took in the distorted form. He was almost sure the hand wasn't his. It bore no resemblance to what he remembered his hand last looking like. It was like some… weird unknown thing… that didn't belong to him. No surely this swollen limb couldn't be a hand, painted blacks, purples yellows and greens predominantly of vicious bruises. Reds and rusty browns of crusted dried blood however also showed through.

He gagged as he remembered just what had happened; shaking violently as the pain came crashing back to him. He felt the world go dark vaguely hearing someone calling his name, mixed with the memories of the pain as a booted foot came down on his hand. He'd refused to let him see the plans. Him, who was he? His mind wouldn't let him remember. The barricades. So much death. The people didn't rise, he'd doomed them all. Adrien! Adrien! That voice was there more insistent now. He tried to tell them to let him rest, that he was tired; he vaguely heard what sounded like himself mumble something.

Grantaire shook him by the collar again, bent over him, legs straddling his chest, foreheads pressed together, slurring in a drunken rage, "Adrien, you shtupid bashtard, if y'died, ah'll kill ye twice, shtupid dreamer." At first, Enjolras wasn't sure if the man was some ghost or not. Only when the heady scent of hot breath and the reek of wine reached his nose with it could he tell that yes, Nicholas Grantaire was alive, well, and in need of a good cleaning out of his mouth.

Enjolras couldn't help his low groan trying to push him away "l…lehme…. rest…. please…." he hissed out eyes flickering open briefly relief showing mixed through with pain. "Just….a…short rest Ni…cholas…. make the pain stop" he mumbled barely coherent. "my legs have vanished," he added on dazedly, not having taken stock that they were still there, just lacking feeling. He frowned a bit confused by this, though comforted by Grantaires rage at least. It meant that he was awake and not dreaming. "Have your wounds addled your head? Your legs are here, Adrien." Grantaire looped his arms around the man after a moment–double vision never favored him–and hoisted Enjolras onto his shoulders. Seems this is as close as I'll get to his cock for a good while, he thought to himself as he set off down the shattered remnants of the barricade toward the cobblestones beneath…somewhere.

As he'd been lifted a cry escaped Enjolras' lips. That had hurt, and it had felt almost as if something had been ripped out of him. He was unaware of the wound that was bleeding where part of the barricade had sliced into him. This pained cry hadn't gone unnoticed. From the shadows a sallow faced individual watched, eyes mere slits as he observed this movement of events with a wolf like interest. There was no kindness in his eyes, nor in his face, indeed he gave off a cold callous aura to his being. There was a slight sneer on his face as he started to move on. So, the leader had survived. This should prove of interest to him. It might even grant him some further enjoyment. The drunkard was unimportant and too stupid to be a threat. The leader was his target now; it would grant him some amusement between hunting for Valjean. Silently he stalked off once the two were out of sight to start his planning.

The drunkard stumbled on; sober enough to keep to his feet, driven by the adrenaline thudding in his brain now that he felt blood on his shirt. He muttered under his breath–just what, he wasn't sure–as he made his way toward his home. All he knew was that he was speaking to the limp figure borne on his shoudlers. Grantaire shook his head, more in disbelief at their still being alive than the sad events of the last few hours. Little Gavrouche filled full of shot, his body lying broken before the barricade. All their allies, their comrades in arms, the ones his Apollo had led to their deaths… Well, they'll never make fun of Nicholas Grantaire again, will they? he thought to himself, a slice of malice creeping into his wonderings. Setting those feeling aside, he mounted the stairs and found his way to his bed, placing Enjolras upon it.

The former leader, who'd led them, was a pale wisp of what he used to be, bleeding heavily from the wound to his lower back. His breathing was shallow; his eyes were closed however as if he was just resting. The only sign of his still being among the living besides the slight rise and fall of his chest was a faint frown that marred his brow. Even that was starting to smooth, his skin cool and clammy to the touch as more and more of his lifeblood was lost. His legs had no feeling, though he was aware of having been placed on something warm and soft. He just felt like he was feeling everything from a distance. Hearing everything from that same distance, almost deafened by the roar of his heartbeat. Odd. Heartbeats weren't normally this loud were they? He didn't want to die though. How would Nicholas survive without him? What…. he was struggling to think any more his brain struggling to respond by now.

Grantaire was moving as fast as his stumbling frame would allow, grasping sponges and gauze and bandages, many, many bandages. He stuck a needle into his finger when he grabbed it, swearing at the top of his voice and getting the thread spooled around his hand as well. He set himself to work, pouring some brandy to cleanse the wound. He may not have been a doctor, but he'd seen many a drunkard, himself included, sewn up by the barkeep, and damn it all if some part of his brain didn't understand that it was simple as putting a fresh button on a shirt or darning a hole. He was good at darning holes, so he told himself. He could do this. So he told himself. No, no, no, no, no, I MUST do this! "You'll be here after I'm done," he found himself whispering. "You'll be here, my Apollo, and you'll speak to me. You'll shee me. Your Nic'lash. Then it'll jusht be a matter of getting through th'guard and out to the country. Maybe we can hijack Mariush'sh lover'sh boat or something…" he planned to himself, to his Enjolras, his Apollo, his Adrien.

A smile showed on Adriens face hearing those words no matter how distant they were, half drowned out by the roar of his own heart. He'd not felt the pain of the wound being cleansed, despite the alcohol content of the brandy. Nor had he felt the pain of the the wound been sewn up. He found it easier instead to focus on Nicholas' words that faint frown showing as he focused on what he was saying. He couldn't muster the energy however to respond, staying how he was, slowly colour returning to his skin, his breathing stabilising first. It had taken a week for him to even open his eyes slightly. He was still weak though, trying to move but not posessing the strength. He looked around trying to work out where he was. He tried to lick his dry lips but with little success with his whole mouth also being dry. He blinked trying to get his vision to focus properly, and blinked again. Slowly the focus returned, not that it told him much as to where he was. The surroundings were unfamiliar to him.

A hand appeared in his line of sight, moving up to sweep the sweat-sodden hair from his eyes. "Mon amor." Grantaire smiled, his own wounds tended to. He looked a bit the wounded revolutionary–a bandage over the gash on his head, a few here and there around his arms and belly, one around his leg. Some fool had bayoneted him there, or shot or something. He wasn't sure what. His stomach ached, but he ignored the pangs until he was sure Adrien wanted for nothing. There had been a faint flinch at the hand inititally, until he realised it wasn't going to hurt him. He was trying to take stock still "m….leg….s.." he whispered out his voice cracking and rough from disuse. He looked up at Grantaire confused. He couldn't understand why he couldn't feel them. Enjolras was more than aware of every other area of his body, namely the dull throbbing pain, or the aches and hurts, depending on where abouts he was focusing on. He could also feel that sick feeling, like he wanted to wretch but nothing was there.

"You've lost a lot of blood, Adrien," Grantaire whispered, "and…I'm not sure if you've hurt your back or not…" He looked down at his hands, ashamed. Ashamed at his lack of knowledge, ashamed at not being able to find a doctor to bring to him. The people were frightened, kept locked inside by curfews and constant patrols of the national guard. Enjolras frowned trying to understand "the people….the students?" he asked confused, almost frantically trying to reach for him. He didn't understand what had happened, or his mind was trying to deny the truth. He stared at Nicholas desperate to know. Grantaire leaned his head down, pressing their foreheads together. "Most are dead, Adrien, if not all." He bit his cheek. "The people didn't come to our aid." He shook his head. Enjolras shook his head in denial "please don't joke with me like this Nicholas" he hissed out lowly.

Grantaire licked his lips, then bit them, along with his tongue for a moment. "Adrien, I wish to God I was."